Origins: The Fire (MILA 2.0, #0.5)(8)

“Mila’s quiet. She notices things,” Kaylee said, taking the sting out of Parker’s words. And then she laughed. “But maybe she does have some high-tech hearing aid stashed away in there.” Her fingers reached out to yank playfully at my earlobe, and the sensation triggered a series of images.

White walls. A blurred image of a man in a white lab coat. His fingers reaching out, jabbing deep into my ear.

In my lunge to escape, I jolted the table and knocked over my Blizzard cup. I was out of the booth and on my feet before I even realized I’d moved.

“Jesus, Mila. Don’t be such a spaz,” Parker snapped. “Seriously, someone tell me why we hang out with her?”

“Shut up, Parker—she’s cool. I mean, at least she’s lived somewhere besides this godforsaken place. Where were you born again? Oh, that’s right—Clearwater.”

I stood by our table, dazed. For once, Parker was right—I was acting like a spaz. Based on the stares and giggles from around the restaurant, everyone else thought so, too. Including the new boy. Up by the cashier, he studied me with blue eyes so pale, they looked almost translucent.

A crease formed over Kaylee’s nose as she waved her hands at me, palms out. “I swear, I had no idea you were an ear-o-phobe. No more ear touching, promise—but try not to make us look lame in front of cute boys, okay?”

Forcing a smile, I sank back into the booth. Even if I wanted to explain what had happened, I couldn’t, because I didn’t have the faintest clue. Unless this had something to do with the hospital, post fire. Maybe the doctors had performed a procedure on my ears?

Ella’s giggle rescued me. “Hey, the new guy’s still looking this way.”

“Thanks to Mila, everyone’s still looking this way,” Parker muttered. But of course our heads swiveled toward him.

Old denim, I decided. His eyes were the color of old denim.

His long-sleeved white tee was paired with slim gray pants. And on his feet—checkered gray-and-black Vans.

“No work boots,” I pointed out, for Kaylee’s benefit.

“Duh. That’s the first thing I noticed.”

I bit back a smile. Of course it was. Me, I’d noticed lots of things—as always. The gray along his jawline that hinted at five o’clock shadow. The way he leaned against the counter, poised but standoffish, his hunched shoulders not inviting anyone to chat. The way the left side of his upper lip was slightly higher than the other, saving his mouth from perfection in an intriguing way.

And then a worker handed him a drink, and he was out the door.

Kaylee broke the silence by banging her fist on the table, making our collection of cups jump. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly the kind of fresh blood we need at Clearwater.”



“Too bad Mila scared him off with her booth dive,” Parker sniped.

Kaylee jumped in, pointing out that any attention was better than none at all. While the girls’ chatter went from mystery boys to favorite actors, I burrowed into Dad’s shirt. My gaze found the window, but instead of pastureland, I summoned more memories, pored through images of Mom and Dad smiling and dabbing my nose with tomato sauce while we assembled a homemade pizza. Images of all three of us, curled up on our navy-blue sofa, playing a game of gin rummy.

Kaylee’s fake swoon into my shoulder stole them away. “Oh my god, he was hot in that werewolf movie. But I still liked him better in Tristan James, Underage Soldier.”

I stood up. On purpose, this time.

“I’ve gotta go,” I said. Knowing Mom would probably be upset that I was breaking the rule by walking, and not really caring.

I took off before Kaylee could even finish her startled good-bye or Parker her second eye roll. And then I was outside. Alone. Away from the girls, from the fried food smells, from the strangers and plastic booths and everything that wasn’t Philly.

Away from any interruptions to the memories I continued to parade through my head.





THREE


Kaylee burst into homeroom the next morning in a bigger frenzy than usual, her brown hair fluttering behind her as she practically sprinted over to my desk. Only after she had smoothed down her homemade black dress—the girl could sew like anyone’s business—adjusted her sparkling aqua tights, and rubbed her index finger across her top teeth to erase phantom lipstick did she collapse into her spot next to me.

“Have you seen him yet?” she hissed, craning her head to check out every corner of the room.

“Him who?”

When I performed my own room inspection, I didn’t see anyone—or anything—out of the ordinary. Same chalkboard spanning the opposite wall, same bulletin board full of colorful flyers advertising SWIM TEAM TRYOUTS! and FREE TUTORS! and YOUTH GROUP CAMPING TRIP TO AJ ACRES! Same twenty desks, lined up in four rows of five across the industrial green carpeting, the color supposedly picked in an administrative spurt of school spirit. Same group of students settling into those desks. Same ammonia-mixed-with-sweaty-feet smell.

Same sense of being stranded in a room filled with strangers. Kaylee assured me that Clearwater High was small compared to tons of schools, but since I’d been homeschooled back in Philly, the words did little to soothe me.

“No fair.” She sighed, letting her backpack slip from her fingers and smack the floor.