“I still don’t know if you can be quiet.” His lips were straight, but I caught a glimmer in his eye. The bad attitude he’d been projecting wasn’t so much an attitude, it was his odd humor—like a dark horse, he preferred to be somber.
Beautifully somber.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “That’s a joke, right?” He didn’t reply. My curiosity was piqued when I said, “I can go now if you want.”
“Sure.” He lowered his lashes, dark and upturned, and I marveled at how there was yet another perfect thing about his eyes.
“Let me grab my sandals.” I crossed the foyer and slipped my feet into my favorite pair of in style-ugly flip-flops. Then I grabbed my backpack—knowing I was hiding his notebook in there but feeling so torn because I wasn’t ready to give it back—and opened the door. “So, what’s wrong with your grandma?”
“She’s at the age where she shouldn’t be living alone, but she is too stubborn to go into assisted living.” He paused while I shut the door, waiting until it latched before he added, “That’s the official answer. Honestly, the truth is I got into trouble, so it was the perfect solution to ship me off for the summer.” He gazed forward, unfocused as if the sun was glaring too brightly.
We headed down the sidewalk to the park, and I perked an eyebrow in his direction. “What kind of trouble?”
He shrugged indifferently, not expanding despite a slight pulling on the tip of his lips. When he finally latched his eyes upto mine, they seemed to penetrate my soul, sucking out all my secrets. I couldn’t be quiet anymore. I hung back as my words floated out softly, “I found your notebook when you were here before. I tried to give it to you, but you had already left.”
He stared at me like I had spoken a foreign language. “What did you say?”
I let my backpack slide down my shoulder. Then I unzipped it, taking out the notebook I had stored in there. “Here.” I handed it to him. “I’m sorry, not sorry. I read it. Every page.”
His eyes flickered to his notebook. “Uh, nobody has ever read my book before.”
I bit down on my bottom lip, feeling a tadishguilty. Apparently, I shouldn’t have read it, but it was too late now. “Your words are beautiful.”
“Thanks.” His lashes dipped again. Maybe it was his way of being humble, but I liked him so much more for not being arrogant like the boys at my school.
“Where’d you learn to write like that?” I paced forward gradually, waiting for him to catch up.
“I don’t know.” He winced as if he was in pain but spoke through it. “I don’t like going home. When school is out, I usually go to the library to read or write or whatever.” He had this crazy way of staring off as if he was disassociating right in the middle of the conversation.
“Huh.” My word wasn’t a question as much as a sign that I had heard him. We had reached the park, and I plopped down in front of the oak tree. I did what I always do when it’s quiet and looked for something to fidget with. I scanned the grass and settled on plucking a nearby seeded dandelion. As I spun it, the seeds scattered like a million butterflies taking flight. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the delicate scent.
When I opened my eyes again, Graham had taken a step closer, lowering his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, sorry.” I nervously plucked another flower. This one had the perfect golden top, and I tied the stem into a knot and grabbed another dandelion to loop through it to create a chain. I continued to twist the weed into another knot and added another flower to that one. “It’s sort of a nervous habit. If I don’t know what to say, I fidget. These dandelions make the best chains. It’s calming when my anxiety is out of control, and I’m trying not to talk too much.”
“So, that’s how I can get you to be quiet?” He dropped down, sitting next to me. “All I have to do is find you some weeds.” I took delight in the sound of his snicker.
“Some see weeds." My lips pulled into a thoughtful smile. "I see a wish.”
A door slammed across the street, and his grandma wobbled to the front of the porch, leaning on her walker. In her gruff smoker’s voice, she hollered over the porch rail, “Time to eat.”
“Be right there!” He obediently stood and brushed off his pants.
I caught sight of his notebook, and quickly picked it up, reaching it out toward him. “Here.”
He shot me a casual sideways glance. “Nah, it’s your turn.”
My brow furrowed together. “For what?”
A daring glint sparkled out of the deepest cobalt of his eyes. “Write something.”
“Um, I’m not a writer.”
“You can find something you want to talk about.” He tilted his head a slight measure closer to me. “I know you know how to talk.” He pointed to the book, tacking on, “There’s a pen in the spine.”
Flashing a coy smile, I hugged the book closer to my chest. “Are you trying to find another way to get me to shut up?”
“Totally.” Then, true to his introverted fashion, Graham pushed his hands in his pockets, offered me a quiet smile, andsulked across the street. I was left sitting by the tree with his notebook and a perfectly weighted fountain pen. But even with my fancy pen, I had a bigger issue. Writing had never been my thing. I was a prolific reader, but I would get itchy when I had to write. If there was ever a word to define how a brain could become instantly uncoordinated by the touch of a pen, that would be my main adjective, but I didn’t want to let him down. I tried.
