He waves a piece of paper he’s scribbled something on. “While you were talking to the boss, I went through the reservation database. Here’s the name of the guy who killed your parents.”
He hands me a paper and I read the name scribbled on it.
I knew it. I fucking knew it.
Still, it hurts to see the actual proof. I guess I was hoping it wasn’t true.
But there it is, clear as day.
Quill Nelson.
6
Piper
Seventh grade
Ihate my mom.
I knew it when Dad said he had to work overtime. I just knew this would happen.
Mom forgets everything. Or maybe, she just doesn’t care.
Whatever the case, it’s pouring rain and I’m waiting outside the school, alone. I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, hoping she’d show up to pick me up, as she was supposed to. Hoping I wouldn’t have to walk forty-five minutes to the Guest House in the pouring rain, without a raincoat or boots or an umbrella.
There are a few people lingering around, but I know better than to ask anyone for help. No one’s ever helped me, not since I moved here.
I’m so upset as I walk over the muddy grass to the sidewalk that I don’t hear the tinkling of the bicycle bell at first. When I do, I look around, wondering if I’ve accidentally cut off a bike. But no, I don’t see one on the sidewalk.
Then I notice a figure on a bicycle on the opposite side of the street, as if waiting for me. It’s so dark, and it’s raining so hard, and my glasses are so wet and foggy, that I can barely make out whoever it is as I cross the street toward it. Why the heck would Mom be picking me up on a bike?
But no—it’s not Mom.
My heartbeat picks up as I recognize the dark hoodie and the curls, now plastered against the side of their owner’s face from the rain.
“Quill!” I say, surprised.
I’ve barely exchanged three words with him since he stood up for me on the first day of fifth grade. That’s about three words more than I’ve exchanged with anyone else, though, so I guess that’s why all my notebooks are decorated with both our names.
Quill. Quill Nelson. Piper Day. Piper Nelson.
I know it’s just an idle daydream. I would never admit to anyone, least of all Quill, that he has come to occupy a much larger part of my dreams than he does my actual life.
The truth is, he doesn’t occupy any part of my real life.
Especially since he’s at a different middle school. I’ve been anxiously counting down the days until I enter high school, wondering if he’ll go to the same one. I’m not sure if I really do want to see him more often, though. That might break the one-sided relationship I’ve formed with him. Then again, seeing him in person, even when he doesn’t say a word to me, gives me the kind of thrill that no mere dream could.
I know what the girls in my class would say to that. They’d make a face and say I have a crush.
But I’m not sure this is a crush. It’s more like an obsession.
A parasocial relationship, I heard a teacher say when describing some of the girls’ love of Taylor Swift.
In my case, I don’t give a crap about Taylor Swift. Only about Quill Nelson.
I halt in front of him, gulping nervously. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, which seems to be his default mode of expression. “Figured you needed a ride.”
