El throws his arms around my neck. “I love it. Thank you. Gangsta-elf-on-the-run will take pride of place on my dashboard.”
“So,” I say, coughing as he releases me, “did the police figure out who trashed your car?”
“Nah. I didn’t report it.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I sort of feel sorry for them, I suppose. You’ve got to be really unhappy to do something like that.”
He looks away, and I wonder then, just wonder, if he knows who it was.
“Hey, you want to see my room?”
I lead the way upstairs. The heating’s definitely kicking in now. I feel sort of flushed and sweaty anyway.
I open the door, and although my room is more than twice the size of his, I’m suddenly aware of all its lameness and inadequacy. Everything here – the superhero posters on the wall, the historical quotes and mottos painted over my bed, the old toys and action figures on my bookcase – it’s all the work of someone else. I have contributed absolutely nothing to this space. I think back to the individuality and sheer effort that made El’s room so special, and it’s like I’ve been stripped bare and found wanting.
He wanders around, picking stuff up, smiling. I want to tell him how I feel but I can’t put it into words. Then he notices the cards on my desk and stops short.
“Frecks, it’s your birthday? Today?”
I nod.
“And you gotmea present?”
I shrug. “I’ve had my present.” I dig out the IOU from my wallet. “It’s the best thing anyone’s ever given me.”
He doesn’t tell me I’m crazy, just nods. And then he’s tearing out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Hold on, I need something from my bag.”
I drop into my desk chair, swing around, count and recount my cards, get up, throw my dirty underwear into the laundry basket. Then El’s back and flourishing his journal.
“Moodles and Doodles.” I smile.
He takes my chair and pulls a black felt-tip pen from the journal’s elastic band.
“Can I see?” I ask, holding out my hand.
He shakes his head. “Everyone needs a secret corner all to themselves, Frecks.”
I go and sit on the bed. “Even from me?”
His eyes are serious but there’s a kind of laughter there too. “Even from you, sweetheart. You’ll have that corner too. It might not be a book, but there’s some place you keep all to yourself and I won’t be there. Now lean back against the wall and stay still.”
What follows is just about the best fifteen minutes of my life. I cross my legs and put on this stupidly serious expression, until El scolds me and asks for a natural smile. Every so often I steal a glance at him while he works. He’s even more beautiful in these moments. There’s this single deep furrow in his brow and a little twitch that leaps at the side of his mouth and his long dark lashes quiver while his eyes dart over the page. And his fingerssing.That’s the only way I know how to describe it. They sing like the fingers of a conductor stirring and then lulling an orchestra. At last he stands up and brings me my present.
“Sorry. I can never really capture what I want to.” He flops down beside me and scoots in close. “Do you hate it?”
I can’t speak. This isn’t me. It can’t be.
“Why…?” I swallow hard. “Why are you so obsessed with my freckles?”
He leans in close and kisses the speckles that run across my nose. “Because they’re yours.”
This is it. No more retreating. I take my chance before my courage fails.
“Ellis?”
“Yes, Dylan?”
