Made You Up(65)

June nodded again. “I don’t know if you can answer this last one, but . . . .” She took a deep breath, much the same way Miles had before asking me if I wanted to come here. “Is he happy?”

That one caught me. Was he happy? Was I qualified to answer that? It seemed that the only person who knew if Miles was happy was Miles.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “Being here today— this is the happiest he’s seemed in a while. But back home, at school . . . I’d say his happiness is probably on the low side.”

June’s face fell. “The only reason I ask is because he tries so hard. When he’s not at school, he’s working, and all he ever does is save money. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him spend a dime on anything he didn’t absolutely need. Even when he was little, he wouldn’t accept things that people tried to buy him.”

June sighed and relaxed back into the couch. “All he ever seemed to want was knowledge—numbers to crunch, history to learn, information to file away and use later . . .”

“He always carries around a black notebook with him, and he’s writing in it all the time.”

June smiled. “Ah, the notebooks. I got him started on those. Cleveland, his father, never liked the idea that his son was smarter than he was. He would get angry when Miles would correct him. I’ve always been afraid that Cleveland might have beaten that out of him, his love of teaching people. I told him to write what he knew in the notebooks instead of saying it out loud, and if he’s still doing that, then his father hasn’t changed him much at all.”

I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t want to give away the fact that I’d actually read the notebook. A different route, then.

“So what’s he been saying about me?”

June laughed. “All good things. He’s been very worried that you don’t like him.”

“He’s been worried I don’t like him?” I couldn’t imagine Miles caring what anyone thought of him, least of all me. We’d been breaking into arguments all year, teetering on a seesaw of perpetual imbalance, because he was always either one way or the other. Miles the Jerk or Miles the Seven-Year-Old.

Oh God, I thought. What if he told her about the kiss?

He must have.

What did she think?

What did he think?

Better not tell you now.

“He remembers you,” said June, and my stomach gave an odd stunted flop.

“Remembers me?”

“The girl who wanted to set the lobsters free. That was the day we left for Germany. I was shopping for a few last-minute things, and he wanted to talk to you. He liked your hair.”

My throat tightened and my heart swelled painfully in my chest. Please don’t let this be a delusion. Please let this be real. Here it was, finally and for certain, my proof. My first, completely real, not at all imaginary, friend was here. I’d found him, or he’d found me, or something.

He was real, I could touch him, we breathed the same air.

Miles chose that moment to walk back in, looking calmer than he had when he’d left. I tried not to stare as he sunk into his seat, but my brain scrambled to pull together fragments of memory, to put the boy from the lobster tank beside the boy in front of me now.

June said something to him in German, and a reluctant smile took over his face. He might’ve been confused about what he felt for other people, but it was obvious he knew exactly what he felt for his mother.

She was his reason.





It’s him.





Cannot predict now


No, I’m not asking, I’m telling. It’s him. But what if . . .





Yes


What if he doesn’t remember?





Concentrate and ask again


Oh, sorry. I mean . . . it’s like, if a tree falls in a forest but no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? If he doesn’t remember, did it happen? I know June said we were there together, but she wasn’t with us. No one was.





Most likely


So you’re saying it did happen? But . . . but if I’m the only one who remembers the details . . .




If I’m . . .





Chapter Thirty-two




On the drive home, I huddled into my coat, going over everything we’d found out. It would be wrong to assume that something wasn’t going on, that I was blowing all this up in my head. Something really was wrong with McCoy, and if we were the only ones who knew about it, we had to do something. But who would believe me? Who would believe Miles?