Made You Up(61)

“Like what?”

“When did it take place?”

“1789 to 1799.”

“June twentieth, 1789 was the . . . ?”

“Tennis Court Oath.”

“1793 to 1794 was the time period for the . . . ?”

“Reign of Terror,” Miles answered, rubbing his neck.

“And Robespierre’s full name was . . . ?”

“Maximilien Fran?ois Marie Isidore de Robespierre.”

“Well done, sir!” Dad grinned. “I like him, Lexi. Can we eat now?”

I filled Miles’s plate for him, since he seemed to be paralyzed from the eyes down. Dad peppered him with history questions until they made it to World War II, and then they moved into an analytical discussion of wartime tactics.

Charlie didn’t come out the entire time Miles was there, even though my mother had set a place for her. I’d been looking forward to introducing her to Miles—I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind fueling her Word of the Week a thousand times over.

When the meal was left in scraps and ruins, Miles checked his watch and straightened up. “We’d better go. It’s already nine.”

I got dressed, and then we moved to the entryway to pull on coats and shoes.

“Oh, Alex, wait. Don’t forget to take these.” My mother sorted through a pile on the hall table. “The cell phone . . . your gloves . . . and here’s some money if you stop for food on the way back.”

I shoved all of it into my pockets and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.” I turned back toward the kitchen. “Bye, Dad!”

“Bye, Lexi,” Dad called back.

Miles stepped out the front door right before Charlie came barreling out of the kitchen, aiming for me.

She slammed into my legs. “When are you going to let me come with you?”

“Someday,” I said. “Someday I’m going to travel the world, and you can come with me, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbled. But her eyes snapped up, and she jabbed a finger at me. “But I’m holding you to it!”

“I won’t let you down, Charlemagne.”





Chapter Thirty-one




I wondered how Miles made this trip every month without losing it. There was no music, no stereo, just an endless stretch of US-31 between Indianapolis and Goshen.

My delusion detector went off less and less while I was around Miles. Had his offer to meet his mother come any earlier this year, there wasn’t an ice cube’s chance in hell I would’ve taken him up on it. I would’ve gone nuts trying to figure out if he was lying, if it was some elaborate plan, or if he was just going to leave me in the middle of nowhere and laugh all the way home. But his presence didn’t set me on edge anymore. The opposite, actually—since Tucker and I were no longer on speaking terms, Miles was the easiest person to be around. Maybe better than Tucker, even, because Miles knew. He knew, and he didn’t care.

And he didn’t seem to mind being around me, either.

“So what’s your mom like?” I asked when we got off 465.

“I don’t know,” said Miles.

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? She’s your mom.”

“I don’t know—I’ve never had to explain her to anyone before.”

“Well . . . what does she look like?”

“Like me.”

I rolled my eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Juniper,” he said. “But she prefers June.”

“I like it.”

“She was a teacher. She’s smart.”

“Smart like you?”

“No one is smart like me.”

“I’ve got a question,” I said. “If you’re such a brainiac, how come you never skipped grades?”

“Mom didn’t want me to,” he said. “She didn’t want me to go through the things she went through when she skipped grades. She was always excluded from groups, people made fun of her. . . .”

“Oh.”

“She probably won’t stop smiling the entire time we’re there. And don’t mention anything about my dad or where I live. I don’t like to worry her with stuff like that.”

I nodded, thinking about Miles slinking across his rooftop and dropping down onto the demon dog’s roof.

“That, um, that dog . . .”