“Hey!” Ricky yelled, grabbing me with two rough hands.
In an instant, Myles charged and ripped us apart, knocking Ricky to the ground. Myles pushed him so hard he fell on top of him, gripping the collar of his shirt. “Don’t touch her!”
My heart beat a million miles a second because Myleswas always so patient, but here he was fighting in the middle of the playground.
Ricky managed to roll over, pinning Myles to the ground, and punched him dead center in the eye.
The whistle blew again, sending an awful high-pitched screech through the air. “Break it up, boys!” the teacher yelled.
Despite my exemplary testimony to prove Myles’s innocence, he still managed to get detention.
“Why did you do that?” I asked him later that day after we’d gone home and were lying on the grass outside his house. The warm sun beat down on us, turning our cheeks pink. “I could’ve handled it.”
“I know,” he said. “But just because you can, doesn't mean you have to.”
He closed his eyes and I couldn’t help but notice the swollen purple skin below his brow. My heart raged all over again. “Well, don’t do it again.”
“And why not?”
I rolled over and propped my head up on my arm, staring inches away from his face. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
His eyes opened, and he stared back with the soft expression I was so used to. But then he did something unexpected. He slowly reached over and tucked a lock of my wild hair behind my ear.
My heart exploded, fireworks down my back.
He was always so reserved. I was the one who usually grabbed his hand or attacked him with hugs. He never turned away, but this time he was initiating touch.
His finger lingered, and he came closer.
I froze, and for a brief moment I thought he was going to kiss me.
His face flushed as he whispered, “I’d rather be hurt than see you hurt.”
My mouth dried up in an instant, and my heart raced. There was something so confusing about him in that moment. The same boy who was scared of heights and spiders and had gone out of his way to avoid confrontation our whole childhood was brave for me.
I wanted him to dip even closer, to prove this wasn’t in my head, but then he pulled away.
I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t understand why I was nervous all of a sudden or why he was acting weird. Did he like me? If he liked me, would it change things between us?
I loved him since the first time I saw him in his silly Bermuda shorts, but the possibility of him liking me back made my head spin.
My stomach fluttered, and I sat straight up.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head as I gulped. “Nothing.” But that was obviously a lie, and I was positive I couldn’t tell him about it. Not when I couldn’t describe what was happening. For the first time, I was scared to tell him how I felt. How could I tell him he made my heart race? What did that mean? Would it embarrass him?
I jumped up. “I have to go.”
“Wait!” he yelled, but I was already sprinting across the lawn. I was determined to ignore the weird butterflies swirling around my stomach.
Those feelings are hard to ignore, though, and nobody told me they’d grow so fast. Nobody told me I’d get self-conscious about how my clothes fit or how I’d suddenly be afraid to eat in front of him. I wasn’t warned that I’d be soinsecure when he went off to high school with girls who were all prettier than I was. Girls who knew how to do their makeup and hair.
Sometimes it was easier to not be around him because I didn’t know how to act anymore.
We walk toward Myles’s car—an older silver sedan with black rimmed tires. We stay low, crouching down as much as possible to stay out of view of his living room window. I can’t see anyone, but I’m not about to take any chances.
“You’re going to have to push the car,” he says.
