He blinks in astonishment, then taps my nose, dusting it with flour. That half smile is back, which warms my heart.You’re back on track, it says. “All right, Robin Hood, you’ve got yourself a compromise. Let’s do just alittlebit of crime before bed.”
“Really?”
“Stealing from the one percent isn’t stealing, according to the legislation.”
Relieved that he’s no longer staring at me as if I’ve fallen short of his hopes, I hop down and press a brief kiss to Hall’s cheek. It lasts only for the space of a heartbeat. When I withdraw, I’m arrested by the bands of brown ringing his pupils. There are striations now where there weren’t before, adding depth, a dimension of colors. He holds his palm to the spot where I kissed him.
The doorknob rattles. “Is this locked?” Mom calls from the other side. “Who’s in there?”
Hall’s eyes widen, the lock clicks, and Mom enters, sniffing the air suspiciously.
“I knew I smelled pie!” She frowns at Hall. “You’ve been baking without me.”
“I’ve never seen these pies before in my life,” he insists, taking me by the shoulders and positioning me in front of him like a human shield. “They’re Bettie’s, I swear.”
She laughs, he tosses her an apron, and as I seat myself on a counter bar stool to watch them have their fun, Hall turns and throws me a quick wink. I love my mom to pieces, but I wasn’t ready to share Hall just yet.
Which gives me serious pause.
What ishappening? I brought him here to help me impress my family. Now I just want to impress him.
*
It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I watch the silhouettes of snowflakes tumbling down, dark spots against the frosted-silver glass and the moon through the window. My mind won’t quiet, functioning on high alert as if there’s an occasion I’ve forgotten, something important I need to do, and I need Hall. I roll, leaning over the railing to peer down at his form on the bottom bunk. His eyes are closed, long lashes fanning shadows over his freckles; he fell asleep with one hand cradled to his cheek as if to hold my kiss in place. “Hey,” I whisper.
Eyes still closed, he mumbles, “I should have tried the corn bread.”
“Huh?”
He blinks groggily, snatching his hand away, burying it under the covers. “What?”
I wait a few seconds for him to fully wake up, then climb downthe ladder and perch on the edge of his mattress. “Want to go to the movies?”
He runs a hand through his hair, sticking it up in the back. “It’s one in the morning.”
“I want to go to the movie theater with you. It’s on your bucket list, remember?”
This snaps him the rest of the way awake. “Is Moonlit Cinema open this late?”
“No.” I smile. “But you can bring the movie theater to us, can’t you?”
He grins back. Drinks in the sight of me slowly. I can tell he’s pleased that I’m taking initiative, inviting him on an unexpected adventure when he’s usually the one filling that role. “Yes. I think I could do that.”
Hall gives me a twirl. When I come to a stop, my outfit has transformed into a tea-length black dress embroidered with tiny gold beads, the hem of which he catches between two fingers as it flares. We both look at his hand, and he quickly lets the fabric go.
I admire his black suit, with a gold waistcoat and silver holly cuff links. “Nice,” I say with an appreciative whistle.
He bows at the waist. “I’ve got flair.”
The bedroom expands, ceiling pushing up, shape-shifting into a cavernous theater. He keeps on holding my hand as the room moves around us, every part of it in motion, window stretching until it’s swelled into a giant white screen between two deep red velvet curtains. A carpeted slope leads the way down aisles between chairs. Each light is the size of my fist, and upon a closer look, they’re each small white-blue moons. He miniaturized the moon, then copy-pasted it.
I scan the faraway ceiling, the film-projector window. A second Hall stands ready to operate it, waving down at us.
“Popcorn?” the Hall beside me asks, proffering an old-fashioned red-and-white striped bag.
“Please and thank you.”
We have the entire theater, of course, but after we treat ourselves to the seats in the center of the room, shadows begin to appear around us. Figures, setting the scene. When I watch them for too long, I notice that they ripple or glitch, features on some too murky to make out, while others are dim, grainy projections. Gregory Peck is seated next to Rita Hayworth. I hear Lucille Ball’s laugh. They’re suddenly everywhere, each one popping into being, milling about, settling in with coats and handbags. These are the same faces that hang on walls throughout the house with their names autographed in black slashes: Sidney Poitier, Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, Paul Newman, Rock Hudson, Sophia Loren. Grandma’s personal idols, silver-screen legends of old, larger than life, inspiring my awe since I was small.
