"And one time," she adds, "when your friend said something really loud and dumb, Rava laughed, but then he looked at you to see if you were laughing too."
I go still. That one gets me.
Because I know that look. I’vedonethat look.
"And," she says, "he always puts his arm likethiswhen you sit near him." She makes a crooked shape with her elbow in the air. "Like a little shield. Like he’s saving a space foryou."
I stare at her.
"See?" she says. "He loves you too!"
I don’t know what to say. I just sit there, looking down at my hands. A six-year-old just told me more about my own life than I’ve let myself believe in months. I stare at her. I don’t even know what to say. She’s not wrong. And that makes it worse.
"He’s going to Canada."
She stops. "Where’s that?"
"Far," I say. "Really far."
She thinks. "Why doesn’t he stay here?"
"Because…" I swallow. "He wants to be a teacher. He’s doing school there."
She frowns again. "That’s dumb. Why can’t he study here?" "Because sometimes people need to leave to get where they’re going. Better education, more job opportunities…you’re too small to understand."
She picks up a shell. "Do you live with your mommy and daddy?"
I smile. "No. I live alone. With my cat."
She looks up, surprised. "Why?"
"Cause I want space."
She stares for a second, then looks down. "Oh." Her voice is really soft now. "My teacher yells a lot. I wish he was like your friend. He looks like he’s nice. And he has that kind face. Not like Mr. Bruno." I raise an eyebrow. "Mr. Bruno?"
She groans. "He’s always so sweaty. And his nose makes a weird noise when he breathes."
I laugh again. "Hey, that’s not very nice." She looks up at me, shocked. "Are you being nice right now?"
I shrug. "Maybe."
She smiles. "You should tell him."
"Tell him what?"
She rolls her eyes like it’s obvious.
"That you love him. Before he leaves. Otherwise your heart will explode. My friend says that happened to her aunt."
I grin. "Your friend is full of stories."
She nods. "She’s in third grade. She knowseverything. She’s so cool."
I look out at the water, hear the others laughing somewhere in the distance. I stand up, brush some sand off my legs, and glance down at the tattoo on my calf. Still holding up. Not red, not peeling, not looking like it’s gonna fall off my body.
Cool. Guess I won’t die. The sun is roasting my back like I’m a rotisserie chicken. "Alright, I’m going in," I say to the kid. "My whole spine is melting."
She looks up from where she’s adding shells to the castle gate. "Don’t drown."
