I glance up at him again and this time he’s not where I’m expecting him. He’s moved. He’s standing now at the corner of the balcony. He leans over the black metal railing, cigarette at the corner of his lips.
And looking right at me.
Right. At. Me.
I dive under the shrub.
“Hey,” he calls.
I hug my knees to my chest, try to curl into a ball, but I’m too tall and my feet stick out.
“Hey, kid. I can see you.” His voice is smooth, even. “Come on out.”
My face burns. It burns for being caught, for being called “kid,” and for hearing his voice for the very first time.
“Hey,” he calls again.
I peek out from under the shrub and he’s staring down at me, his eyes sharp and his expression unreadable.
“Come here,” he says.
I swallow. “Huh?” My voice cracks.
“2B.” He nods to the front of the building.
My heart races like a prized horse at the derby. Half of me wants to pretend I didn’t hear him, and the other half is ready to scramble over the fence like a spider and sprint to his door. I hesitate.
“Just come on.”
“I’m - I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” I say, shaking my head.
He rolls his eyes, puts out his cigarette. “I’ll meet you at the door.” Then he goes inside and the sliding door clicks.
It echoes in my ears for a handful of seconds. And then I get up, brush grass off my pants, and leave my discovered spot. I find the gate, open it, close it, and make my way across the alley, right to Blue’s front door.
CHAPTER TWO
Asher
WHAT IN THEhell am I supposed to do with this kid?
I don’t have time for this. Whateverthisis, I don’t have time for it, but I need to put a stop to it, so I open the door, ready with a remark, something good, something lecturing, when I see he’s not really a kid after all. Definitely younger than me, but not a kid.
He’s tall, thin, with light stubble on his chin. Behind black-framed glasses, wide mossy-green eyes look up sorrowfully at me. It puts me off for a moment, my bravado almost draining like a tub. He’s dressed directly from the Sears Roebuck, with a collared shirt, ironed and smooth, tucked neatly into his slacks, also ironed and smooth. For a second there, I want to laugh at this junior square.
His thick curly hair, clipped above his ears, is what I saw all those times I guess he thought he was hiding from me. Did he seriously think I couldn’t see him? Weeks ago, I saw him puttering around in my neighbor’s yard and then later that evening reading in a lawn chair. Two days after that, I saw someone moving in a shrub by the fence and realized they were the same person. Watching me. Spying.
It gets me irritated all over again, and I open my mouth to say so, but he opens his instead.
“I’m really,reallysorry.” He looks down and pushes up his glasses. “I was just bored and being stupid. I’m so sorry.” His shoulders slump. “Please don’t tell my aunt.”
I don’t know what to say for a second. The irritation fades as a flush of sheer embarrassment blooms on his cheeks. There’s just something about him right then, as he looks at me with big puppy eyes. Something that makes me want to just shrug this off, warn him not to do it again, but maybe not say anything else if he does. I can tell that I’m not the first man he’s had to apologize to. Maybe he’s done this before. It makes me curious, rather than angry.
Pushing my door all the way open, I gesture for him to come in.
His cheeks flush deeper and he hesitates.
“It’s cool.” I gesture again. “Just come in for a minute.”
