He scratches his jaw, embarrassed. “A lady was watching out her window. She looked suspicious of me.”
“Crouching in her blackberries won’t help.”
“It’s creepier when I’m solo! Women don’t wanna see some guy sneaking around their driveway. Having you with me sets them at ease. It’s less like ‘Oh, this guy is probably a murderer’ and more like ‘Hey, look at those two weirdos, I hope they don’t smudge my lawn.’ ”
I stop short. “I’ve never thought about that.”
He half-heartedly grumbles. “That’s your privilege. Women never have to worry about these things, they’re able to move freely through society without concern.”
I playfully tug a lock of his hair, and his mouth trips into a surprised half smile.
“I think it must be close,” I tell him. “Blegh, I wish I’d kepttrack of which house it was. They all look the same. Wait! Right there! Twenty-seven. I remember that hummingbird feeder.”
Morgan follows my line of sight. “I don’t see a cat.”
We attempt to hide behind a telephone pole as we scope out 27 Bear Run, my backpack shoving into Morgan. It’s pushing a hundred degrees out here and having heaps of hair never helps; I can’t pile it up into a bun or I get a headache, so I’m left with a braid that’s frizzing so bad, you wouldn’t be able to tell it isn’t a ponytail.
Yesterday, while driving this way to get to the library, I saw an animal that resembled Snapdragon. True, I was preoccupied (focusing on the road and all that) and managed only a brief glimpse before it slunk beneath a gap in a fence. I thought about nothing else all night and decided to come have another look today, staking out for as long as necessary. I wasn’t going to tell Morgan, because I was worried he’d scare off any paranimals, but he smelled the bacon sandwich in my backpack and followed me anyway.
“This feels very FBI,” Morgan whispers. “We need code names.”
“What for?”
“In case we’re interrogated.”
“By who? And precisely how would code names help in that situation?”
He ignores this. “Call me Hot Drama.”
“I…why?” I stare at him. “I am not calling you that.”
“What, who, why?”he parrots. “Have you ever considered the life of an ace reporter? It involves a lot of eavesdropping and pseudonyms. I will make you my protégé.” He then tellsme that if he can’t have Hot Drama, then he wants to be Thunder Fox.
There are so many reasons why, in every online quiz in which I have to choose a superpower, I pick invisibility. If I were invisible, I could walk quietly away right now and he’d keep prattling to himself. “How about Asparagus as a code name?” I suggest instead.
Morgan is affronted. “That is the least sexy vegetable, after onions.” He ticks off vegetables on his fingers. “After asparagus, it goes: chard, spinach, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, and peas.” Before I can ask, he explains, “Talented local writer Mariah Abernathy printed a column about it.”
“Stop bouncing around. You’ll draw attention and we’ll get the neighborhood watch after us.”
“Zelda.” He tilts his head, a pitying smile playing at his lips. “Asking me to stop drawing attention is like asking galaktoboureko to stop being tasty. I draw attention everywhere I go. There is nothing I can do to help it.”
I turn back to the house with a long-suffering exhale. “I miss who I was before this conversation.”
“In case you were wondering,” he murmurs in my ear, sidling closer, “the sexiest vegetable is celery.”
I refuse to be sidetracked. I keep my attention glued to the house, scanning for signs of a furry animal with paddled paws and big golden eyes. I am wholly unaware of Morgan’s warm breath and the peppery zing of skin contact where my shoulder touches his arm. I do not think about celery at all. I do not begin to imagine why this man thinks celery is a sensuous vegetable.
My nose twitches, and at last I give in. “Not eggplant?”
Morgan censures me with a look. “Don’t be crass, Zelda.”
“All right, I don’t think anybody’s home, so I’m going over there. You stay here and be the lookout.” I do another visual sweep before scurrying across the road.
“Wait! Why can’t I come? What am I looking out for?”
I hurry off, scrambling from tree to tree for cover, hyperaware of how silly I must look to the casual observer. At least I am not the silliest person here. Morgan is circling his hands around his eyes as if they’re binoculars and this pose will somehow enhance his vision.
I am an explorer once again, neck-deep in a top secret mission to uncover wonders of the universe. As I sneak around brambles to the front porch, I see myself from the aerial view of aNational Geographichelicopter filming my travels. Any moment now, a majestic beast is going to appear.
