Except that it is. But maybe Adam is protective of his moms or maybe he felt awkward just throwing it out there. I don’t know, but knowing they’re here... well, it’s a nice feeling.
Adam doubles back to the door and cracks it open before starting the movie, which plays from a projector overhead. The room is so dark that it’s easy to believe we’ve been transported to a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
I’ve sat, curled up with my dad in our little trailer, watching every Star Wars movie in almost every order imaginable. Dad prefers to start with Episode I. He says that trilogy is the worst, so it’s best to get it out of the wayanyhow, but Adam starts with Episode IV:A New Hope, the first movie ever released in the series.
Freddie quietly hums along to the music, and when he catches me smiling at him, he whispers, “What? It’s not like I’ve never heard the theme song.”
On one side of us, Adam mouths every single line, and on our other side Ruth is asleep before Luke accidentally plays R2-D2’s message meant for Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“Why do Leia’s buns make me so hungry?” asks Freddie. “Like, they just make me want cinnamon rolls.”
“Oh my God, shut up,” says Adam.
“And there are literally zero black people in this movie.”
“Bro,” says Adam, “the whiteness is blinding, I get it, but this movie is super old. And at least you end up getting Lando Calrissian.”
“Lando who?” asks Freddie while R2-D2 dukes it out with a gang of Jawas.
“Lando Calrissian,” I say. “And he ends up being a traitor.”
“Who ends up being a good guy,” argues Adam.
“Who still starts out as a traitor,” I say.
“It’s not perfect, okay? Can we just watch the movie?”
Freddie cracks a few jokes about how old everything looks. But still, it doesn’t take long before he is simultaneously riveted by Luke and Leia and laughing at Han Solo’s cockiness.
Because I’ve seen this movie so many times, it’s easy to get caught up in watching Freddie.
He sits with his hand between us, palm facing up. I tellmyself it’s just the way he’s sitting, but it feels too much like an invitation to ignore.
I rest my hand next to his so that all that’s touching is our pinkies. I think I do it to prove to myself that we can be friends. We can touch and it can mean nothing—or well, as much as it means when my hand brushes up against Ruth’s or Adam’s or Saul’s.
But instead what I find is that my heart, my whole heart, has made its way to my pinkie along with all the blood that runs through my veins. My heart pounds in that one little finger as it barely brushes against his.
The light from the screen cascades over Freddie, creating a silhouette, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and his pinkie crosses over mine, like we’re making some kind of promise. A silent pinkie-swear in this great big house as we watch a movie about a fatherless boy who’s searching for his one true home in a great big galaxy.
We sit like that until Adam turns the lights back on as the credits roll. Then the two of us quickly pull our hands away. Ruth slowly wakes up, yawning and stretching. Freddie and I sit with our arms crossed over our chests, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. As my eyes adjust, I realize that Freddie and I are much braver in the dark than in the light.
DECEMBER
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning I’m sluggish as my legs pump the pedals of my bike. Sharing a twin bed with Hattie has turned into a regular occurrence. She’s stopped even bothering to try sleeping in her full-size bed with Tyler.He gets too sweaty,she says,and your room is the first one off the AC vent.It’s true that my room is cooler than my dad’s and Hattie’s, but I keep thinking that’s not the only reason she’s taken up residence in my room.
Having Tyler in our house feels like a stranger’s begun occupying the room next to mine. The thought of him living in our house and eating our food—all free of charge—grates on me more and more every day. I know Dad feels it, too. He’s just too nice to say so.
And truthfully, my head was too full of questions last night for me to ever shut down and fall asleep. The only conclusion I came to was that Freddie and I must do everything we can to stay friends. And friends don’t make a big deal of holding hands—or pinkies?—during movies.
As I fly down the hill to Freddie’s, I kick my legs outand let the pedals spin on their own. The drive home last night was only slightly awkward, and I totally chickened out and asked Freddie to drop me off before Ruth.
When I drop my bike in Freddie’s driveway, Agnes is sitting on the porch, drinking her morning coffee. “Brought your swimsuit?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The front door swings open as Freddie comes walking out with his gym bag hanging from his shoulder.
