“It’s when you make fun of people for liking something. It’s sad and comes off as insecure.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay to read at lunch. It’s okay to enjoy books. Those kids probably have other issues and they’re taking out their frustration on the cool kid.”
Bea gives me a shy smile. “I’m not the cool kid.”
“You like Fleetwood Mac. You are definitely cool.”
She’s trying not to smile too hard and it’s killing me.
“You’ll find friends,” I assure her. “That’s how life works, you find people who have similar interests and then you talk about the things you like and then become friends. And you develop memories and private jokes and they learn what your facial expressions mean and it’s the best. Have you met Dr. Georgia with the team? Big red hair and big smile?”
She nods. “She’s nice.”
“She’s my best friend. We met in school and became roommates and best friends, but we didn’t meet until I was eighteen. It takes time to find your people, but theyareout there. Keep doing things you love, like reading at lunch.”
Bea does that raising her eyebrow, tilting her head thing that reminds me of Tate.
“And don’t waste your time with people who don’t think you’re awesome. Fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em,” Bea repeats, and my eyes go wide.
“No, no, no. Don’t repeat that. I didn’t say that.” She’s giggling. “Oh god. Okay. Don’t need them. Repeat that instead.”
Her smile is impish, like this nine-year-old sees right through me. “Don’t need them.”
“You’ll find your people.Ialready think you’re awesome.”
“You do?”
“You like Fleetwood Mac.” I repeat it like,duh. “So awesome.”
“So awesome.” Her smile is ear to ear.
“Jordan?” she asks later.
She’s lying on the other couch, already in her jammies with her teeth brushed, the cat curled up against her legs.
“Mmm?”
We’re down here listening to music because she didn’t want to go to bed and I didn’t know what to do.
“Do you think playing guitar is cool?”
I pause. “Is that something you’re interested in?”
“Yeah. I want to learn how to play one of these songs.”
“Then, yeah, I think it’s cool.”
The next time I look over, her eyes are closed and she’s breathing softly. I turn the music off, dim the lights, and return to the other couch.
My thoughts go to Tate on his hot date. They’re probably making out in the front seat of his car like horny teenagers.
Oh god. What if he brings her home?
On the other couch, Bea moves in her sleep. I lift my head, studying her. Is she cold? She looks cold.
