Under Rose-Tainted Skies(53)

By the time I crawl out of my thought stream, the credits are rolling on the movie. Worse, Luke is looking at me looking at his hand, which has made its way back on to his leg. My jaw drops.

‘I . . . I . . .’ I want to explain why I’m fixated on his lap, but I can’t remember how to talk. My finger finds skin on my wrist and I start scratching until it stings.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, sitting up straight and sliding to the edge of the couch. ‘I promise. Whatever you’re worried about, you don’t have to be.’

The need to explain myself subsides. I take a deep breath. Breaching the black hole, I edge a little closer to him.

‘Norah Dean, is it possible you’re curious about what it would be like to hold my hand?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I protest, my response slamming into his stomach like a fist. Just for a second, a blink, a flash, I feel like I’m on a diving board and his question is at my back, poking me in the shoulder, trying to make me jump.

‘Wait,’ he says, holding up his hands, more panic than person. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you should be. I mean, I’m not suggesting that you are. I’m sorry—’ He’s all jittery, and it’s my fault. I’m so defensive. I shouldn’t have reacted so quickly.

‘No,’ I interject. ‘Please don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything. I was . . .’ I collect another lungful of air. ‘I was thinking about it.’ My heart gathers speed until it sounds like it’s slamming into my eardrums, and then, without saying another word, I press my hand down on top of his. My fingers slide seamlessly into the spaces between his fingers.

‘Is it okay that I did this?’ I ask him, my eyes unable to meet his. Instead I stare at our hands. Study how perfectly they’re slotted together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

‘I don’t know, is it?’ I note how still he is, wonder if he feels like he’s beside a wild deer and any sudden movement will scare me away.

I nod, but my mind is already starting to race. I’m thinking about all the things a person can touch throughout the day. And then that kid, the one who keeps coughing into his hand on the Monty’s Cough Syrup commercial, is in my head.

We’ve been touching too long, I decide, and let go. My hands suddenly feel sticky, like they’re coated in sugar. I eyeball the bottle of sanitizer on the table but don’t want my OCD to hurt his feelings, so I excuse myself, head for the bathroom to wash my hands. I’m terrified, but I can’t stop smiling.





Luke drops by every night after school for the next week.

We sit on the couch for hours and talk about everything and nothing all at once. Like on Wednesday, we start chatting about French, I quiz him on some Spanish homework, and then, I’m not sure how we make the leap, but we’re talking about cheese. Cheese. We spend the next hour discussing Cheddar as if the survival of humanity was at stake. He tells me his favourite kind is cashew nut cream cheese. I’ve never tried that. Shocker. Maybe I will start making a list of things I’d like to try . . . on second thoughts, that might do more harm than good. I’m not even sure we have enough paper in the house to cover it.

The space on the couch between us stays the same, lingering like a chaperone at junior prom, forever ensuring we don’t get too close. Not that there’s any chance of that. He doesn’t mention the handholding. Neither do I.

It’s Friday morning, and, as per usual, Mom is reading the paper. Not the real paper; they’re still not allowed in the house. This thing is a broadsheet called You and Your Garden Monthly. The scariest thing in there is an article about a successful aphid massacre in Minnesota. I checked. With bated breath, I stir the oatmeal in my bowl. It’s thick and creamy and smells amazing, but I can’t swallow it down yet because something is on my mind.

‘Mom.’

‘Hmm?’ She replies from miles away in her planter’s paradise.

Deepest of breaths. ‘When Luke comes over later, would it be okay if we watched a movie in my bedroom?’

The paper goes down and she eyeballs me from over the top of her wire reading glasses.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, whip my hair into a frenzy.

‘Have you gotten comfortable with him touching you yet?’

‘Sort of . . .’ In retrospect, I could have probably said no.

‘What does that mean? Exactly?’ She folds You and Your Garden Monthly in half, sets it down beside her empty bowl.

‘It means we take all our clothes off, and he turns into a koala, clings to me like a tree while we watch TV.’

Mom chokes on the sip of tea she’s just taken. ‘Norah Jane Dean.’

‘It was a joke.’

‘Obviously,’ she says. ‘I’m just a little shocked you made it.’

Her shock would be less, I’m sure, if she knew how hard I was working to keep a mental image of the aforementioned out of my mind. I take half a second to wonder if Luke would find my quip amusing. It’s a joke at his expense, after all, having an abnormal girlfriend, one he can’t touch.

‘So what is “sort of” comfortable?’ Mom prods.

‘I touched his hand last week, you know, before the fear kicked in.’

Mom pushes her glasses back on top of her head. I foresee a disaster when it comes to pulling them free from her hair later.