A List of Cages(47)

“And what?”

“You fall down a lot. Even…even during normal walking.”

If anyone else said that, I’d think they were being a smart-ass. Coming from Julian, it’s totally sincere concern. I gauge the distance, and really it’s only a couple feet.

“I think I’ve got this.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he steps back enough to let me jump through the narrow passageway. When I make it, Julian’s wearing this hopeful smile, so I say, “This is cool.” But it’s not cool. It’s practically a closet, one that was burned and rebuilt but still smells like it’s rotting. “You eat lunch here every day?”

He nods.

That’s even more depressing than this room. We’ve been up here for less than two minutes, but already I’m feeling bored and caged. I pace the floors, look out the little window, then pace some more and end up stubbing my foot on something—a stack of composition notebooks stuffed into the corner.

“What’s this?” I say, crouching down to pick one up.

“Oh…nothing…well, just…”

I open it and find Julian’s hieroglyphic-style handwriting, but it’s neater than it used to be and not that hard to read if you try.

Walking toward the little round window, I start to read. Then, even though this room’s too dim and way too cramped, I find myself sitting on the floor and turning page after page.

When I glance up, Julian’s watching me, chewing on his thumb.

“How do you do it?” I ask.

He gives me a worried look. “Do what?”

“Write stuff like this. How do you think of it?” Reading his story—it’s like how I used to feel when I read Elian Mariner books. How much I loved them, and how it felt to suddenly find myself in another world. Julian’s looking even more worried, so I realize I need to clarify. “It’s good, Julian. Really, really good.”

For a minute his face freezes completely, and then he smiles a wide smile.

I stand and hand the notebook to him.

The bell rings, a much more distant sound than usual. “Are you hungry?” I ask, struck again with the image of Julian having lunch up here in the shadows.

“Yes.”

“You should eat in the cafeteria. I mean, why eat alone when you have friends?”




I feel the curious eyes of my classmates as I enter the cafeteria for the first time.

The giant room is full of people and Adam is walking so quickly, I’m afraid I might lose him in the crowd. I jog to keep up.

When we get to his table, it’s awkward trying to find a seat where there isn’t really room, and right away he starts talking with Emerald, so I’m not talking to anyone.

Then Jesse asks me if I want to listen to his iPod. Without waiting for an answer, he pushes his headphones against my ear.

“It’s nice,” I say.

While we’re talking about our favorite music, Adam tells me to drink half his green juice. Camila tells him to leave me alone, but I drink it anyway, then Adam says something funny and I laugh along with everyone else, and it feels just like dancing at Emerald’s party—the same electric connection.

That feeling follows me all day, and I imagine I can see it the way you can see the golden glow that surrounds angels in paintings. It’s still there when I enter the house after school, a safety net, a trail of gold, happiness.

It takes a moment to register him. Russell. Standing in the corner of the kitchen, dark as a shadow and statue-still except for the insect pulse in his throat.





“IT LOOKS LIKE the bus got you here early today,” Russell says.

“Yes.”

He stares at me like if he looks hard enough he can see the truth written there. “What are you wearing?”

“What?”

“What part of that question was confusing to you?”

“Nothing, I just…it’s just a shirt.”

“I know it’s a shirt.” He smiles. “Where did it come from?”

“A friend from school.”

“A friend?” A small, disbelieving laugh. “And by friend, you mean Adam?”

“…Yes.”

“So first he’s coming into my house, and now he’s dressing you in his clothes?”

“He hasn’t been coming to the house.”

“He’s never been in this house?”

“I just meant he only came inside that one time. He hasn’t come back.”

“Why would this boy give you clothes?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you giving him?”

“I haven’t given him anything.”

There’s a frightening blip in the vein in Russell’s neck, like on the night he broke the shell. “That’s a lie.”

I take a step back.

“What are you doing for him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

“I mean I haven’t been doing anything.”

“You must be doing something. People don’t just give you things for no reason.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not an answer.”