Interim(86)

He shook his head again, but he could not rid his mind of the image of her dancing. It was silly and innocent and all the things he thought his life should have been—all the things any kid’s life should be. He envied what he knew she experienced as a young girl: laughter, play, love of family, friendship, hope. He envied her now—the girl who found herself again. The girl confident in who she was.

Who was he? What was his purpose? He knew it once. Once, a long time ago, he decided to be a hero. He decided to avenge himself and all the other kids who were helpless against abuse. Once, a long time ago, he learned the difference between justice and mercy. He learned when justice was required. He learned when mercy was allowed. Once, a long time ago, he faced himself in the mirror and saw a stranger—a better boy than he could ever be. A boy with a mission. A boy with convictions. And he reached out to take hold of that boy, through the looking-glass, falling into a wonderland where righteousness ruled supreme and evil was destroyed with the pop pop! of a gun. The world made sense to him. Then.

He watched a single snowflake flutter from the sky, swirling and swaying in front of his eyes before disappearing to the ground. It was late October, too early for snow, and he thought he’d imagined it. But another descended from the heavens, dancing in front of his eyes before resting on the tip of his nose. He touched his face. Nothing. The miniscule dot of moisture wasn’t there.

“It’s not snowing,” he said aloud, as more flakes fell.

He placed his rifle gently on the ground and pulled his jacket tighter. He looked up once more and watched the precipitation ballet—the most beautiful dance he’d ever witnessed. Even better than Regan’s. Why? Because this dance was an invitation. He thought of the snowboard that lay tucked away under his bed, waiting patiently to emerge.

“Soon,” he whispered, and RSVPed to the invite inside his heart.

***

Eight odd inches fell—a tiny, freakish pre-winter storm—hardly enough to delay school, much less cancel it. He stood at his locker waiting for Regan. He wondered how she’d act today, fresh off of her school suspension. Her life was still suspended, though. No friends. No one to talk to. No normalcy to her schedule. Like starting at a brand new school—alone and likely desperate for a friend. She carried her soccer bag. Practice, with no permission to play. That had to suck hard.

She turned in his direction and smiled. He jumped.

Fucking idiot, he thought, instantly irritated that his body responded so spastically.

“So I guess it’s safe to talk to you now that I’m one of you,” she said flippantly, approaching him.

He scowled.

“Oh, lighten up,” she laughed, and then rolled her eyes. “Caroline wants to know when you’re coming over again.”

He snorted. “What?”

“I know, right? She’s got it in her head to teach you the ‘We’re All in This Together’ dance.”

He burst out laughing.

“I know, I know. I told her boys don’t do those dances unless they’re Zac Efron or Corbin Bleu.”

“Huh?”

Regan waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, she wants you to come over, and my mom wants you to come over, too.”

“Wha—?”

“She thinks if she keeps feeding you, you won’t have a change of heart about suing us,” Regan said.

“Um . . .”

She winked at him. “I’m kidding. She wants you to come over for dinner because you’re a new friend of mine. And one who happens to have piercings on his face. And a tattoo, though she doesn’t know about that.”

“She wants to make sure I’m not dangerous,” Jeremy said. He puffed up slightly at the implied compliment. She thinks I’m dangerous—that I look badass. That’s kind of f*cking awesome.

“I told her there’s nothing dangerous about you,” he heard Regan say, and immediately deflated. “But whatever. She’s my mom. She said you need this, whatever that means.”

Jeremy remembered his lie—“My parents died”—and realized Mrs. Walters felt sorry for him. He should feel guilty for the fabrication, but the idea that Regan’s mother insisted he spend time with them was enough to erase any qualm. He would gladly have dinner with them again if it meant more time with Regan.

“What did she mean by that?” Regan asked, looking up at him.

He shrugged.

“I hate when people do that,” she muttered. “So not an answer.”