Curious, I get to my knees, elbows on the desk wedged between our beds, and I peer into the night. The Garcias’ screen door swings back and forth against the frame, and the person responsible for the offending noise—tall and lean—is bathed in the dim whitish glow from the light above the door.
It’s him.
Again.
I’m unable to make out his facial features, but his profile and the way he moves—cool and confident—tells me it’s him. He’s carrying a guitar case.
Jared.
He slinks like a cat, soundless and graceful, along the edge of the house, hugging the shadows. Where’s he going?
Pushing my face into the window screen to get a better look, I watch him sprint across the lawn to a car idling at the curb with its headlights off. The interior light blinks on as he slides into the passenger seat.
There’s a spotlight on the driver. Dark-haired buzzcut and a gleaming white-toothed grin. It’s the guy I’ve seen with Jared many times. He isn’t one of the foster boys living next door. And boy isn’t right, he’s more man.
The door shuts and darkness swallows them whole as the car roars to life and drives away.
Who is Jared Grange? He’s in foster care, but what put him there? And why’s he sneaking out at almost two in the morning?
The neighbor’s door slams just outside our window, a sound now as familiar as Bianca’s light snores, and I hop out of bed. It’s the third week of school and well past midnight.
Jared walks along the side of the Garcias’ house, and Ike isn’t waiting at the curb. I whip off my nightgown, a pair of shorts and T-shirt underneath, and throw on my shoes. I’m going to follow him.
Since my birthday, the first night I saw him sneak out, this has become his almost-nightly ritual. I want to know where he goes. If Ike’s waiting, they drive off and I have no way of following. But several nights a week, he’s on his own and then he heads down the street east of the houses, guitar case in hand.
I’ve seen him at school, and when our gazes lock we share a silent understanding but we don’t talk. We run in different circles, and even though he’s only a year ahead of me, he hangs with the seniors.
Tonight is a good night to follow him. Papi and Bianca aren’t home, and my mother is fast asleep. Once outside, I stick to the shadows, following at a safe distance behind the tall lone figure sauntering down the middle of the road.
Head held high, a backpack slung over one shoulder, he has a casual air about him that I envy, comfortable in his own skin.
My fascination with this confident, lonely boy is hard to explain. I feel this mysterious connection, as if I already know him. It’s baffling because that isn’t true and he wants nothing to do with me.
And yet, when I found him in our kitchen, I wasn’t afraid or angry. He felt both familiar—comforting even—and exciting.
He slows at the end of the street where the park is and looks over his shoulder. I freeze, and the warm moisture in the air clings to my already heated skin. My breath builds in my lungs like the pressure in a cooker, and his gaze cautiously sweeps the area.
Hidden by a few parked cars, I wait, and finally he drops onto the seesaw, pulling a cigarette and lighter from the front pocket of his bag. I inch closer, still covered by a car and with an unobstructed view of his profile.
He’s contemplative. An unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth, twitching slightly between his lips. Anticipation arises within me, unsure what he’ll do next. With a flick of his finger, the lighter flames and his face is now aglow, sharp angles and shadows. His eyelids flutter shut with the first inhale.
Still.
His body is still.
He holds his breath and relishes the moment. Then he opens his eyes and mouth and a plume of smoke rushes from his parted lips, clouding his features.
I’ve watched him do this before, across the school grounds. Light a cigarette, inhale, and savor the first drag. For that moment, it’s as if he’s found the elusive thing he’s chasing.
“You can come out.” He draws again on the cigarette.
At first, I don’t move, bewildered, wondering who he’s talking to. He’s alone and can’t possibly be talking to me. I’m well hidden.
“You don’t want me to come for you.”
Nervous, I step from the shadows and his frown deepens. He scrutinizes me from head to toe, and after a beat or two I fidget, feeling more than a little self-conscious.
“Hi.” I offer a weak wave and he growls.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I saw you leaving the Garcias’.”
“So you thought you’d follow me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your problem, thinking you have any right to my business. Stop fucking thinking about me.”
He makes it sound like I have a crush on him and I’m mortified. It could look that way to him.
“It isn’t like that.”
“Go home, kid.” His sharp, dismissive voice cuts through the night.
“My name’s Eva.”
“What?” He flicks the last of his cigarette onto the ground.
“Call me Eva. Not kid.”
“What are we, friends?” He’s filled with so much scorn that I regret tailing him.
“You’re a jerk.” The insult surprises me more than him. I don’t blurt out hurtful things to people, even if I’m thinking it, but he’s pushed me too far. “What’s the big deal? You don’t own the park, and I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Fuck.” A hand runs raggedly through his inky hair and something odd, almost remorseful, washes over his guarded features.
I turn on my heel, not bothering to wait for a response or even an apology.
“Eva, don’t go.” There’s something in his voice that gives me pause.
“Why should I stay, so you can yell at me some more?” I turn, facing him and folding my arms over my chest.
He smirks, shaking his head as he nears me. “I never yelled.”
Towering over me, he’s nearly a full foot taller, and a swarm of butterflies awakens in my stomach. He’s so close, I can smell tobacco, fresh laundry, and a hint of him. A scent all his own.
“You were upset, and don’t deny it.”
“I was, but it has nothing to do with you. I come here to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Because that place is suffocating. Too many guys, too much drama and…”
“And what?” I wait but he doesn’t say anything, only stares. “Is that why you come here all the time?”
“Who says I do?”
His eyebrows rise and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’ve given away too much, and not wanting to piss him off again, I try something else.
“What do you do here?”
“I want to be alone. Either you leave or I do.” His tone is flat, and there’s determination in his amber eyes.
“I’ll go.” I offer a small smile, hoping he didn’t mean it, but no such luck. “Okay. Good night.”
He folds his arms over his chest, and I begrudgingly start the trek to my house. All the while, his stare burns a hole in my back.
I shouldn’t care to know who this boy is. Chances are he’ll be gone by the end of the school year. Most of the boys next door only last about that long, sometimes a calendar year, before they’re gone. Jared likely won’t be any different, and yet I can’t help myself.