In Sight of Stars(19)
*
Sarah is waiting near the stationhouse when I get there. I let out a sigh of relief. I was afraid she’d blow me off. But, there she is, looking incredible. Ripped jeans, a white T-shirt, some sort of crocheted green sweater that has holes so you see her skin. Her long black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. She waves as I pull in, dangling a pair of rainbow-colored Vans in her hands.
October and she’s outside with bare feet. A smile forms at the edge of my lips.
I park and get out as the train pulls into the station.
“Hey,” I say heading over, the smile on my face so big now I must look like the Joker from Batman. I nod at the train. “I don’t think they’ll let you on without shoes.”
“Fuck ’em,” she says, batting her eyelashes, and we head up to the platform together.
The train is empty, so we have our choice of seats. I slide into a window seat halfway down the aisle, and Sarah slips in next to me and slouches, knees bent up and pressed against the seat in front of us. She smells spicy, like cinnamon, and suddenly all I can think about is kissing her.
“You got something against shoes?” I ask, trying to distract myself with something, anything, else. “The floors aren’t particularly clean in here, I’m guessing.”
“I like to live dangerously,” she says.
Her toenails are painted a deep Prussian blue. This, too, makes me want to kiss her.
I focus on her jeans instead. There are holes in the knees, and she’s drawn flowers on the skin of each in blue ink. I reach out and trace one, and she smiles down at the floor.
Is this a date? I’m not quite sure what it is.
It’s weird how awkward I feel around Sarah. It’s not like I’ve never dated before. More than date, actually. I haven’t been a virgin since summer before junior year. But since my father died, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything with anyone.
But, now, here, with Sarah, I feel different. Or maybe I’m kidding myself. I don’t really know her. At all. And from what I’ve seen, she’s not my usual type. The way she hangs out with the popular kids and the football players. The Keith Abbotts and Scott Dunns of the world. Not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. At first, I thought the blond one, Abbott, was her boyfriend. He’s always hanging around her, like some sort of lumbering, lost dog.
I turn and stare out the window as the train pulls out of the station, wondering if I’ve made a mistake even bothering.
“Where’d you go, Alden? You disappeared on me.” Sarah sits up straight and bumps her knee against mine. “Have you gone all broody on me again?”
“No. Not at all. Sorry. I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Could have fooled me.” She slips her Vans on as the conductor makes his way down the aisle, and says, “Here, I’ll be good and follow the rules.” She’s quiet while he checks her ticket. “So, is this a date?” she asks when he’s gone, and flutters her eyelashes.
“I don’t know. You tell me … I wasn’t sure if maybe you were with someone already.”
“I’m not. So is that why all the brooding? Because seriously, what is with that, anyway?”
“With what?”
She gives me a look. “You know, the whole dark and mysterious dude from the city thing. The whole—I don’t know—emo artist thing. Is that for real, or put on?”
“Emo? I am so not emo,” I say, offended.
“I wasn’t being mean. I guess I figured maybe it was protective, or something. Because that I would get.” Heat rushes my ears, spreading down my cheeks to my neck. “I’m just saying, super cute guy sweeps in senior year, all artsy and shit. Talks to no one. So, I’m just wondering?”
Now I look at her. Maybe it’s the word “cute,” or maybe it’s the half smile on her face, like she wants me to know she’s partly egging me on. But I want to set her straight, too, make it clear that I’m not emo. I’m not anything. I’m just your typical kid who’s been through hell, who didn’t want to be here, didn’t ask to be here. I’m just trying to get through the days.
Instead, I say, “Do people do that around here? Put things on for effect? Abbott, and those guys? Act one way when they’re really another?”
“Aw, don’t make this about them. Abbott is a decent guy, really. Maybe not a brain surgeon, okay. But, we’ve been friends for a long time, since we were little. He sticks up for me … he doesn’t ask anything of me. Unlike…” She closes her eyes, exhales, then says, “Well, unlike everyone else. Trust me. I’m just saying, they’re not like you think they are.”
Our eyes meet, and I want to be sarcastic, but there’s something in the way she looks at me that tells me she needs me to let it go. She wants to be here with me, and I’m acting like a jerk. Getting defensive. Of course she has a right to know what my deal is.
“Seriously,” I say, “I’m just trying to be me. You have no idea. It’s been a fucking rough year.”
“So, tell me, then.”
I swallow hard, choosing what information to give. It’s not really something you want to share with a girl you barely know and are trying to impress. That your father killed himself, that you don’t even matter enough for your own dad to want to stick around.