I bite my cheek. “I wish my dad would let me do that. He tells me I have to behave and talk to the grown-ups.”
The boy nods. “Is that why he put you in here? Like, for a time out?”
My stomach drops and my face gets hot all over again. “I’m not five,” I say. “I’m almost ten.”
Ten-year-olds don’t get time outs.
“Well, I definitely still get time outs and I’m almost eleven, so…”
He laughs, so I do, too, feeling a squirmy feeling in my toes.
“Well,” he adds, nudging something with the tow of his black shoe on the carpet. “If you’re not in a time out then that means you can have some cake.”
My ears perk up. “There’s cake?”
“Yeah, in the kitchens. The cooks always give me a piece early if I ask them real nicely.” Before I can ask, he adds, “Like I said, I come here a lot. Wanna go with me and ask? I’ll bet they’ll give us each a piece.”
I bite my lip. I want to, but…
“I shouldn’t. My father would be mad if he came back and I was gone.”
“Oh.” He hesitates, thinking. “Want me to bring you some, then?”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
The boy disappears, shutting the door behind him. I fiddle with my pencil and wait. I’m not sure if he’ll come back. His parents might decide to bring him back to dinner, or maybe he’llfind something better to do than sit with a girl he doesn’t know in this boring room.
But after a few minutes, the door opens and he’s back with a little tray. Not only are there two slices of cake, but two giant glasses of orange soda, a bowl of strawberries, and a small mountain of colorful cookies.
My mouth waters—my father never lets me have so many treats. Dr. Markovic said I can't because of my bad heart. Too much sugar, too much excitement, too muchanythingcould be dangerous.
But just this once, I want to be a normal kid. Just this once, I want to pretend my heart isn't a ticking clock.
“The kitchen staff is really nice,” the boy says, setting down the tray. “I told them I found a friend to share with and look at all this stuff they gave me.”
I can tell by the way he says “kitchen staff” that he’s used to having servants take care of things for him. It’s not too surprising—his family has to be rich if they’re at this party. I grab a little yellow iced cookie and bite into it. It’s rich, crumbly, and so good I want to hide the other three in my little purple bag, but I don’t because it’s not worth my father shouting again.
It will be bad enough if he finds me with this strange boy eating sweets.
I brush the crumbs from my fingers and dress, just in case. Then I can say I didn’t have any, or that I only tried a bite.
“What are you drawing?” the boy asks, pointing at my notebook.
Reflexively, I pull it to my chest. “Nothing.”
He lifts a brow and sucks some orange soda through a straw.
“A horse,” I relent.
“Oh, I like horses,” he says, eyes getting bright. “Can I see it?”
I swallow hard and push my hair back from my face. I don’t usually like to show anyone my drawings. Just my au pair.
But for some reason, I kind of want him to see. My tense grip relaxes and I pass him the notebook, holding my breath.
The boy looks at my first drawing.
He looks at it so long that I start to wonder what he’s thinking.
