Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(3)

I made it all the way to the front door when I remembered I didn’t have my house keys. I could picture them on my desk between my phone and a stack of Sassy magazines. I hadn’t even thought to take them this morning. Why would I? Tiffany was supposed to be with me. Even the gate into the backyard was locked. Dad had been extra diligent about securing the house since construction had started.

I shuffled back down the walkway, sat on the curb, and took out my book. Somehow, I could sense the man watching me. I wanted to look back. I liked his dark eyes, and how he looked scary, but he’d done something nice for me. I read the same paragraph three times and still didn’t know what it said, so I gave in and glanced up. He sat on a brick wall that surrounded the lot, his hand cupped around a lighter as he lit the cigarette between his lips. He wasn’t looking at me.

I realized what was bothering me. I hadn’t thanked him for returning the bracelet, and that was rude. I closed my book and got up. This time, he did watch as I walked back along the street toward him.

“Thanks,” I said from the curb.

“For?”

I put my book under one arm, took out the bracelet, and showed it to him. “You could’ve kept it. I wouldn’t’ve known.”

“What would I do with women’s jewelry?” he asked.

“Give it to your girlfriend.” I pretended to concentrate on getting the bracelet on so he wouldn’t see me blushing. The longer he was silent, the more uncomfortable I got. I had no idea how he’d taken the comment. Unable to help myself, I finally glanced up at him. “Or your mom. Or sister.”

“If I’d kept your bracelet, I would’ve taken it to a pawn shop.”

Heat soared up my chest, right to my cheeks. A porn shop? If he hadn’t seen me blushing before, he definitely did now. I’d never heard of a porn shop. Well, I knew what porn was. Boys at my school bragged about looking at it. My dad got Playboy in the mail. But what kind of things did a shop sell?

“You get locked out?” he asked.

I stepped onto the lot. “My sister has the key.”

He nodded. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Because he was older and bigger, he seemed unapproachable, but I wanted to talk to him anyway. He took a drag of his cigarette. “What’re you reading?”

I gave up trying to get the bracelet on. “The Grapes of Wrath.”

“The one with the farmers?”

“It’s about the Great Depression,” I said.

“Why’d you pick that?”

“Because it was next on the list.”

His forehead wrinkled. “The list?”

I walked a little closer to him, holding my unclasped bracelet in place. “Required summer reading.”

He stubbed out the cigarette he’d just lit. “You want to sit?”

The wall probably only came up to his waist, but for me, it was tall enough that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by trying to get up. “I’ll stand.”

“So this list . . . you just go in order, one by one?” he asked. “What if you’re in the mood for something different?”

Was anyone ever in the mood for the Great Depression? This paperback had taken me longer to read than any other book so far and not just because it was almost five hundred pages. I hadn’t thought to tackle the list any other way. “I guess I could try something else.”

“You’re not enjoying it?”

My mouth went dry just thinking about all the lengthy descriptions—traveling across country, drought, dust. “There’s a lot of . . . information.”

“Put it down for a while. Try something else. Maybe something not on the list.”

“Can’t. School starts in six weeks, and there are more books after this.”

“You could always do what I did and watch the movie.”

I balked. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“That’s cheating.”

“Huh.” The ends of his grease-smudged jeans grazed the bottoms of his worn boots. Where did they carry pants long enough for so much leg? His t-shirt must’ve been through the wash hundreds of times, faded to the point I could barely make out a rainbow streak across it.

I squinted to read it. “What’s Pink Floyd?”

“What?” He glanced at me and then down, pulling the fabric taut with one hand. “It’s a band. You never heard of them?”

I shook my head as my cheeks warmed. I shouldn’t have asked. Tiffany knew all the latest bands, watched all the music videos, and I tried to keep up, but there were so many. Nirvana was the one Tiffany loved most. Why couldn’t he have been wearing a Nirvana shirt? I knew most of their songs—I’d heard them through the wall enough times. “I don’t listen to the radio much.”

“Me, neither. There’s some pretty bad stuff out there.”

I smiled a little. Tiffany was all about her CDs. Saying you didn’t like music was like admitting you weren’t cool. Everybody had something to say about the latest album or some underground band or the ‘song of the summer.’ “I play a little piano,” I said. “But I’ll probably stop.”

“How come?”

“I’m not any good. Anyway, my sister says piano’s for geeks.”