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MILA 2.0
“Jesus, Mila. Don’t be such a spaz,” Parker snapped. “Seriously, someone tell me why we hang out with her?”
“Shut up, Parker—she’s cool. I mean, at least she’s lived somewhere besides this godforsaken place. Where were you born again? Oh, that’s right—Clearwater.”
I stood by our table, dazed. For once, Parker was right—I was acting like a spaz. Based on the stares and giggles from around the restaurant, everyone else thought so, too. Including the new boy. Up by the cashier, he studied me with blue eyes so pale, they looked almost translucent.
A crease formed over Kaylee’s nose as she waved her hands at me, palms out. “I swear, I had no idea you were an ear-o-phobe. No more ear touching, promise—but try not to make us look lame in front of cute boys, okay?”
Forcing a smile, I sank back into the booth. Even if I wanted to explain what had happened, I couldn’t, because I didn’t have the faintest clue. Unless this had something to do with the hospital, post fire. Maybe the doctors had performed a procedure on my ears?
Ella’s giggle rescued me. “Hey, the new guy’s still looking this way.”
“Thanks to Mila, everyone’s still looking this way,” Parker muttered. But of course our heads swiveled toward him.
Old denim, I decided. His eyes were the color of old denim.
His long-sleeved white tee was paired with slim gray pants. And on his feet—checkered gray-and-black Vans.
“No work boots,” I pointed out, for Kaylee’s benefit.
“Duh. That’s the first thing I noticed.”
I bit back a smile. Of course it was. Me, I’d noticed lots of things—as always. The gray along his jawline that hinted at five o’clock shadow. The way he leaned against the counter, poised but standoffish, his hunched shoulders not inviting anyone to chat. The way the left side of his upper lip was slightly higher than the other, saving his mouth from perfection in an intriguing way.
And then a worker handed him a drink, and he was out the door.
Kaylee broke the silence by banging her fist on the table, making our collection of cups jump. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly the kind of fresh blood we need at Clearwater.”
“Too bad Mila scared him off with her booth dive,” Parker sniped.
Kaylee jumped in, pointing out that any attention was better than none at all. While the girls’ chatter went from mystery boys to favorite actors, I burrowed into Dad’s shirt. My gaze found the window, but instead of pastureland, I summoned more memories, pored through images of Mom and Dad smiling and dabbing my nose with tomato sauce while we assembled a homemade pizza. Images of all three of us, curled up on our navy-blue sofa, playing a game of gin rummy.
Kaylee’s fake swoon into my shoulder stole them away. “Oh my god, he was hot in that werewolf movie. But I still liked him better in Tristan James, Underage Soldier.”
I stood up. On purpose, this time.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said. Knowing Mom would probably be upset that I was breaking the rule by walking, and not really caring.
I took off before Kaylee could even finish her startled good-bye or Parker her second eye roll. And then I was outside. Alone. Away from the girls, from the fried food smells, from the strangers and plastic booths and everything that wasn’t Philly.
Away from any interruptions to the memories I continued to parade through my head.
“Have you seen him yet?” she hissed, craning her head to check out every corner of the room.
“Him who?”
When I performed my own room inspection, I didn’t see anyone—or anything—out of the ordinary. Same chalkboard spanning the opposite wall, same bulletin board full of colorful flyers advertising SWIM TEAM TRYOUTS! and FREE TUTORS! and YOUTH GROUP CAMPING TRIP TO AJ ACRES! Same twenty desks, lined up in four rows of five across the green industrial carpeting, the color supposedly picked in an administrative spurt of school spirit. Same group of students settling into those desks. Same ammonia-mixed-with-sweaty-feet smell.
Same sense of being stranded in a room filled with strangers. Kaylee assured me that Clearwater High was small compared to tons of schools, but since I’d been homeschooled back in Philly, the words did little to soothe me.
“No fair.” She sighed, letting her backpack slip from her fingers and smack the floor.
I ignored the typical Kaylee drama and pulled a pen from my backpack. “Who are you talking about?”
I heard rather than saw Kaylee stiffen. “Oh my god, Mila, look!” she said, knocking my arm as she whirled in her chair. The pen flew out of my hand . . . and headed straight for the instigator of the “oh my god, Mila, look” comment’s chest.
In a reflexive motion, my hand whipped out, snagging the pen-missile midair. Great save, until the hand connected to the gray shirt knocked into mine as it sought to do the same. The pen sprang loose and clattered to the floor.
Shaggy dark hair. Lean face. Faded blue eyes—the color of Kaylee’s favorite old jeans—that widened briefly. I had just enough time to register the images before the boy from Dairy Queen dropped into a crouch behind my chair.
He didn’t say anything as he extended the pen to me. Kaylee cleared her throat in a totally obvious um-hum, but I ignored her. I was too busy shaking my hair forward to hide what had to be a brilliant display of red spreading across my cheeks.
So I was correct—the Dairy Queen boy didn’t go to Annandale. And, in a spectacular display of idiocy equaled only by my booth dive yesterday, I’d just assaulted him with a writing utensil. Well played.
“Here you go,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice.
After accepting the pen and placing it on my desk, I turned around, an apology on my lips. It died as I watched his broad shoulders retreat. Smart choice. All the safer from the weird girl and her incredible flying Bic.
“Okay, now that’s a voice I could totally wake up to in the morning,” Kaylee whispered, staring unabashedly.
“Kaylee!” I said, half appalled, half amused. Even though I tried not to follow in her ogling footsteps, my peripheral vision had other ideas. I caught the slump of the boy’s six-foot frame into a chair on the far side of the room, the top of his head level with the bottom of a baby-blue BOOK FAIR! poster. Only fifteen feet of space to escape us, and he’d utilized every available inch.
Obviously my attempted stabbing hadn’t amused him.
From across the room, I noted how only four wavy strands of hair actually grazed the top of the olive buttondown that flapped loosely at his sides, jacket style. The same way I wore Dad’s flannel. Once again, his slim-fitting pants—black this time—hinted at skater rather than farmhand. Today’s black-and-yellow Vans—Kaylee would be in heaven—pretty much clinched the nonlocal look. Still, there were all types at our school, even in the middle of rural Minnesota, so he wasn’t completely out of place.
The bell rang to mark the beginning of the period, a prolonged, discordant groan inciting the usual snickers from students.
Mrs. Stegmeyer cleared her throat before slapping the attendance file onto her desk and resting her clasped, multi-ringed fingers on top of it. Four of her rings were the same as always, but I noticed she’d traded the thick silver one on her right index finger for three thin gold bands, stacked one on top of the other.
Once the chatter ceased, her syrupy voice filled the room, a thick drawl that suggested southern roots. “All right, y’all. Before we move on to roll call, we have a new student to introduce. Hunter, please stand and say a few words about yourself.”
Hunter scuffed his Vans against the floor. His hunched posture said giving an impromptu monologue was about the last thing he wanted to do. I could relate. I’d had to deliver my own less than a month ago in this very room. Back when everything had been too new and weird and overwhelming.
Come to think of it, things really hadn’t changed all that much.
Hunter swiped at a strand of hair that covered one of his eyes, the wavy fall of his bangs making him bear a passing resemblance to the neighbors’ dog, a shaggy briard that kept their horses company in the front yard.
I’d always thought the briard was cute, too.
He stuffed his hands into tight pockets and rose to his full height, his gaze skimming past everyone without really sticking. I flashed him a sympathetic smile as it slid over me.
“Yeah. Hey. I’m Hunter Lowe from San Diego,” he said.
After one more ineffectual swipe at the dark waves grazing his eyelashes, he slumped back into his chair.
“Is that all?” Even Mrs. Stegmeyer seemed surprised at the brevity of his speech.
He shrugged, a loose-limbed, eloquent gesture that almost made words unnecessary.
Kaylee leaned toward me. “It’s okay—no one expects him to be a genius when he looks like that,” she whispered.
I remembered back to my introduction—I hadn’t said much either. Was that the assumption then, too? That I was lacking in brain cells?
I could feel my smile wilt around the edges when I glanced back over at Hunter. Not that he could tell. He was staring out the window, a view with which I’d become intimately acquainted over the past month. I let my line of sight follow his, wondered if he was doing what I did. If he stared beyond the football field, beyond the slow country street behind it, and wished himself back into another place and time.
Every so often during homeroom, I’d sneak a peek at Hunter. And each time, his head was turned toward that window.
When the bell rang, Kaylee jumped out of her seat like the sound had triggered an electric shock. Her eyes were glued to the spot under the window.
“Mila, hurry!” she said, flapping her hands at me.
“What’s the emergency?” But I shouldered my backpack and stood anyway. She nabbed my arm and plowed us between the rows of desks, almost tripping over Mary Stanley’s purple peace sign backpack and taking out Brad Zanzibar as he stooped over to tie his shoe.
Her trajectory led us straight to Hunter’s desk.
“Hi! I’m Kaylee, and this is Mila.” I tried to fade into the background, but she grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. “We figured you might want some help finding your next class.”
While Kaylee bounced on her toes and beamed, I froze. We figured? Since when?
My head whipped to the side. I hoped to stare her into a spontaneous confession, but she either didn’t notice or deliberately ignored me.
Hunter stood, hoisting his red North Face backpack over his shoulder before shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes flitted from Kaylee to me and back again. He shrugged.
Of course that was all the invitation Kaylee needed. “Perfect!” she said, giving two baby claps. “Follow me.” As she scurried ahead, she used her left hand to inconspicuously flatten down the sides of her hair.
I stood there awkwardly, shifting my weight from foot to foot, wondering who was supposed to follow next, since the row was way too narrow for both of us to fit through together. Hunter glanced at me then, his eyes lingering on my face for three excruciatingly long seconds. Seconds in which I realized that in different light, his eyes lost their translucent quality and looked more opaque. Still that sky blue, but a weightier, more substantial version. “You first,” he finally said.
The combination of deep voice, slight smile, and offhanded invitation had a peculiar effect on my lungs, like I’d suddenly released a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.
I hurried after Kaylee and hoped that breathing in the hallway would prove less of a challenge.
Yeah, not so much. Students streamed both ways along the corridor, some rushing to class, others meandering. All of them varying degrees of loud. And with the exception of the few I exchanged hellos with in class, virtually every one of them was a stranger.
Plus there were no windows in this particular hallway, just rows of chipped forest-green lockers and classroom doors. Between the lack of natural light and the narrow space, it felt like we’d been thrust inside a long, narrow trap.
“Where to?” Kaylee said as Hunter emerged. After he told her where his next class was—Room 132, Mr. Chesky—she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged him along like a reluctant pull toy. I followed on her other side as she navigated us down the hall.
“So, you’re from San Diego? What’s it like there? Awesome, I bet. Do you surf?”
I peeked in front of Kaylee and watched Hunter tug his earlobe before responding.
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “If you don’t surf, you don’t graduate.”
Kaylee’s eyes widened. “No way, really?”
A twitch of his lips gave him away. She squealed. “Oh my gosh, you’re evil! Mila, can you believe this guy? He’s barely here for three seconds and he’s already teasing me!”
And now all of Clearwater High knew about it, since Kaylee’s voice echoed down the corridor.
I coughed to cover my laugh. For all her good grades, Kaylee could really act dim-witted around boys, but they usually never called her on it.
Until now.
In her typical babble-a-thon manner, Kaylee managed to quiz Hunter on everything from whether he owned a pet—no—to his favorite singer—Jack Johnson—before we’d even turned the corner. Of course, his monosyllabic answers gave her plenty of time to talk.
Instead of listening to her, I watched him. He walked gracefully, like an athlete. He had a tiny mole on his left cheek, just where a dimple would be, and whenever Kaylee asked him a question that seemed this side of too personal—like did he get along with his parents—he looked down at the ground before responding.
About five doors away from his drop-off spot, she finally abandoned the one-sided questioning and launched into telling him all about us.
“I’m from here, born and raised. Sad, isn’t it? But Mila’s not. Poor thing moved here from Philly a few weeks ago, when her dad died. We’ve been buds ever since,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder.
“When her dad died . . .”
I stiffened. Great. Unintentional or not, she’d managed to up my pathetic quotient and spew private details of my life, all in a few breezy sentences.
“Right,” I mumbled. Hunter stopped walking, which had a domino effect since Kaylee currently linked the three of us into some kind of crazy human chain. Kaylee jerked to a stop first, then me. I looked up to see Hunter staring at me over the top of her frizzy head.
“Sorry.”
Sorry. That was all he said. It was what he didn’t say that spoke volumes. He didn’t try to change the subject, or make hasty excuses to leave, the way Kaylee’s friends usually did.
For once, I didn’t feel like having a dead parent was contagious. “Thanks.”
The slam of a nearby locker interrupted us.
“Come on, we’re going to be late.” Kaylee’s voice sounded this side of sulky while her hand tugged on us, prompting the human chain back into motion. “Oh, look. There’s Parker and Ella.” If possible, she sounded even less enthusiastic than before, and I watched in surprise as she ducked her head. Too late. The girls saw us.
Hunter’s head whipped up. I had a sudden impression of a deer in the headlights. I guess the idea of two more girls converging on him was too much to bear. Not that I could blame him, I thought, watching Parker flounce over in skinny jeans, while Ella trotted her shorter legs to keep up. It was kind of like watching a pack of piranhas descend on a particularly tasty fish.
“My classroom,” Hunter said before breaking free and loping ahead.
“Hey, will we see you at lunch?” Kaylee called after him.
He mumbled something about “dunno—forms to fill out” before escaping to the sanctuary of Room 132.
The instant he disappeared around the corner, Kaylee turned on the girls with a fierce scowl. “Less obvious next time, okay?”
I blinked. How could they be any more obvious than Kaylee herself?
But I held my tongue as Kaylee launched into a blow-by-blow of our march down the hall, instead following Hunter’s lead and slipping away to my class. Only, unlike with Hunter, I don’t think anyone noticed.
Until Parker pulled away from the group and followed me, a sly smile on her face. While I paused in surprise, she leaned in close, like she wanted to share something special.
Oh, it was special, all right. “See that?” she whispered, wiggling her fingers at someone in greeting. Even when she was talking to me, I didn’t have her full attention. “It’s happening already. Kaylee’s interest in new toys only lasts so long. You got extra mileage because you were from out of town, but now that Hunter’s around . . .”
She straightened, and her smile widened into a careless grin. “Let’s just say I’ll give you a week, tops, before you’re sitting at your own lunch table in the corner. Even less if you keep looking at Hunter like that. Kaylee doesn’t like to share.”
And then, with a satisfied sigh, she whirled and disappeared down the hall.
I shook my head and entered my classroom, wondering for the billionth time what Kaylee saw in her.
I reached the door that led to my escape path, to the lone bench in the completely ignored courtyard. No other kids to deal with there, just a patch of grass, three overgrown trees, and a slightly lopsided rendition of the school’s cartoon lion mascot.
When I pushed open the door, frigid air blasted my cheeks. The news had called for an uncharacteristically dreary fall week, and so far, the weather was cooperating. A bonus for me, since chill and drizzle never bothered me but seemed to lock the rest of the student body inside.
Well, all except for one.
The door clattered shut behind me, a noise that announced my arrival with gunshot subtlety to the lone figure commandeering my spot.
I inspected him from behind drooping tree branches, completely conscious of the curious eyes peering back at me through a kaleidoscope of red-orange-brown. Hunter didn’t sit on the bench like a normal person. Instead he perched on top of the backrest, his feet planted against the blue boards that made up the seat. His jacket hood was pulled up over his head, his elbows balanced on his knees. Cradled between his hands was a battered book. So much for those papers he had to fill out.
Okay . . . now what? I scanned the tiny oval courtyard for potential escape routes, for any other seating destination that wouldn’t make me look like a giant stalker. But there was nothing, unless I fancied sitting on the wet grass or the dirty and equally wet concrete—neither of which were particularly tempting.
Just when I’d decided that waving and then bolting for the door would be my least embarrassing option, Hunter spoke from beneath his black hood.
“Did I steal your spot?”
“Technically, no. I mean, it’s not my spot. It belongs to the school.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. Wow. Okay, so yes, technically my words were true, but that didn’t mean I had to go all dork and say them.
Hunter’s soft laugh floated through the courtyard, loosening the knot in my stomach. A second later, my laugh joined his. “I come out here to get away sometimes, but obviously you were here first, so I’ll just leave,” I said.
He scooted over to the far edge of the bench, leaving a gaping expanse of blue wood on the side closest to me. “Plenty of room.”
I caught my lower lip with my teeth. Tempting. Especially considering the alternative—the sense of isolation that ironically grew more pronounced in a crowd. “You sure?”
He shrugged, a rise and fall of broad shoulders meant to convey disinterest. Only his fingers gave him away. They drummed against his knee, hinting at whatever lurked beneath his seemingly apathetic exterior. That tiny burst of motion—of lean, restless fingers striking worn denim— somehow demoted him from intimidating to approachable.
I remembered the way he’d stared out the window in homeroom, his quiet contemplation a huge contrast to the loud voices that echoed throughout the hallways.
“Okay.” I ducked under the tree branch and followed the brick-lined path to the bench. No big deal. I’d sit on my edge of the bench, he’d stay on his, and we’d ignore each other.
Great idea in theory. Hard to execute in real life. Because as I positioned myself on my half, I was aware of the steady rate of Hunter’s inhalations and exhalations, the way he smelled like laundry detergent and something spicier—sandalwood—and how he tapped his foot on the bench beside me while he read. Twenty-two times per minute.
I snuggled into Dad’s shirt. My plan had been to let the memories roll through my head, but I don’t know. I felt strangely exposed with Hunter sitting next to me. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to count the individual drizzle droplets as they landed, feather soft, on my face.
After an unproductive three minutes, Hunter’s book crinkled. “You’re Maya, right?” he asked.
An unexpected disappointment stabbed me. I opened my eyes. “Close. Mila.”
“Sorry. Mi-la.” The way he carefully drew my name out gave it a mellifluous quality I’d never heard before.
He nodded absently, his fingers drumming away on his left knee. I waited for a follow-up question. Instead, he hunched his shoulders and stopped tapping to turn the page on his comic.
I tried to shift my attention back to the courtyard, my shoes, anything besides Hunter, but the six-foot figure of damp, mussed, and brooding boy proved just a little too potent to ignore. I had a sudden craving to hear him say my name again, with that same melodic tone.
Mi-la.
I stifled a groan. Perfect. Kaylee’s boy-crazy ways must be rubbing off on me.
Hunter tilted his head up to the sky, closing his eyes and letting drizzle dampen his cheeks and eyelashes. Any other guy at our school would have looked silly in that position, like he was posing or something. Hunter just looked . . . peaceful. “The rain doesn’t bother you?” he said, seemingly half asleep.
I glanced up at the drifting mass of gray. The clouds blocked out any trace of brightness, casting the entire school in a haze of blah. “It’s actually a relief.”
He shot me a sideways glance, the curious rise of his eyebrows making me want to retract my words. I’d revealed too much. Any second now, and I’d get the pitying look. Any second now . . .
Instead his mouth softened into a smile. “Yeah” was all he said before closing his eyes again.
Just yeah. Nothing more. But that one yeah hinted at more understanding than a whole hour of lunch-table babble with Kaylee’s friends.
That one yeah unburdened me, like maybe I’d finally stumbled upon someone who could accept me as I was. This post-Philly, post-Dad version of me—not some happy, unfettered, whole version that everyone seemed to want. Including Mom.
