Henry Franks(36)

“Didn’t they tell us in school that they always turn?”

“Pretty much. It’s the elbow effect,” she said, bending her arm to show him. “Hurricanes tend to prefer Florida or South Carolina. Georgia’s protected.”

“Would you want to see a movie or something?”

“Like a date?” She smiled, running her fingers through her hair to tie it up in a ponytail.

“Like a date.”

“Yes,” she said. “Although of course it’ll have to be approved by my parents. But for the record, my answer is yes.”

They were almost inside the school, walking next to each other, when she reached for his hand.





twenty




After school, Justine left Henry at the metal gate that never closed and ran into her house where her mother had watched them walk from the bus stop.

Henry went inside and hadn’t gone more than halfway up the stairs when there was a knock at the door.

“Mom said ‘maybe’ for Friday, which is better than ‘no,’ right?” Justine asked as he opened the door for her. “Looks like movie dates don’t have to wait til senior year after all. But still, we’d have to have company—that all right? Unless we have to evacuate for Erika.”

“Company?”

“Well, the technical term would be ‘chaperone.’” She smiled.

“That’s all right,” he said with a matching smile.



The photographs from the scrapbook were laid out on the bed in as close to chronological order as Henry could make them. The picture with the half-seen T-shirt worn by his father leaned against the monitor on the desk, next to a pushpin sticking out of the wood. Justine sat in the chair as Henry moved some photos over to sit down. She picked up the picture, staring at the shirt.

“Not Stanford, not Oxford.”

“I’ve Googled everything I can think of,” he said, running fingers through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. “Know how many states have cities with ‘ford’ in them? And most of them have high schools. Now add all the other words ending with ‘ORD’ that you came up with.”

“Giving up?”

“Still not sure why I’m even looking,” he said, then pushed the pictures to the ground. “So I learn where he went to college. Doesn’t help me remember my own life. Just his.”

Justine wheeled the chair over, bumping up against the bed, and rested her hands on his shoulders, pulling him toward her. “You shouldn’t give up, Henry.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first off, researching this with me has been fun, right?”

He ran his thumbs over her fingers then rested his forehead against hers. “Right,” he said. “And second?”

“Well,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Still, it’s fun even if we’re looking for something we’ll never find and, really, don’t even have to. Besides, it’ll give us something to talk about on our date.”

“You always have something to talk about, Justine.”

She blew him a kiss and pushed off, rolling back across the floor. On the desk, the pushpin poked her arm. “Ow,” she said. “Why is this even here?”

Henry stood up next to her and pulled the pin out of the wood. He rolled it between his fingers before resting the pointed tip against his left palm, eyes locked on Justine as he pushed it in.

A small red dot of blood welled around the metal shaft, and he smiled.

Her mouth shot open as she reached for him. “Henry!” she said, but he backed away from her, his hair falling in front of his eyes as he pulled the pin out.

“A few months ago, only this finger.” He pointed his discolored index finger at her. “Didn’t feel anything, but the numbness has been spreading recently.”

“Spreading?” she asked.

He poked the pin into his forearm, almost up to his elbow, then again, higher, leaving a trail of red dots up his arm. An inch below his biceps, he stopped.

“That one hurt,” he said with a small frown, pulling it out. “Last week it was below my elbow.”

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged, then stuck the pushpin back in the wall. He slid the pillbox out from behind the monitor and flipped the lids, one at a time, until the entire box was open. “Lots of pills, since the accident. My dad keeps trying different combinations, different dosages. Some give me nightmares. Or make my nose bleed. I’m not sure if the numbness is a side effect or a symptom. Can’t really Google me.”

“I know,” she said.

“You know?”

She handed him some tissues from her purse and helped him wipe the spots of blood off of his skin. When he was done, she traced his scar with her finger. “I Googled you. Didn’t find anything. Thought there might be something about the accident, but I didn’t even know where to look.”

“I’m ungoogleable.”

“Is that a word now?” She smiled.

“Absolutely.”

“Really? What happens if I Google ‘ungoogleable’?” She typed as she spoke. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at almost 8,000 hits, should I?”