More Than Good Enough(39)

We hugged for the longest time. It was the kind of hug that belongs in its own category. I didn’t want it to end. Then she pulled away and we were sitting in the car again, doing nothing.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ve got school tomorrow.” The lamest of excuses.

“Right. Except tomorrow is already today.”

I was still thinking about Pippa’s hit-and-run guy. He’d left damage without actually touching her or anything. Call it psychological warfare.

“I’m guessing you’re suspended? I mean, are you ever coming back?” she asked, breaking my trance.

School was another dimension. How was it supposed to prepare you for real life? It sure as hell wasn’t helping me. Then I remembered the stupid film project we were supposed to finish together. I couldn’t leave her stuck like that.

“Yeah, I have to stay home til Friday,” I told her. “It’s kind of idiotic, if you think about it. They won’t let me go to class because … I didn’t go to class. Don’t worry, though. I’ll be back,” I said in my fakest Austrian accent.

She busted out another giggle. I loved that she cracked up so easily (whether my jokes were actually funny or not). There were no games with Pippa. That’s what slayed me. We always laughed at the same things. When I was little, I used to think girls were special. Now I knew the truth—they were just as messed up as the rest of us.

I was aching to kiss her again, unzip that baggy sweatshirt along with her jeans (in that order). Instead, I was opening the door, helping her out of the Yeti. Maybe out of my life, depending on whether she’d talk to me again. Yeah, it was that awkward.

“Will you text me later?” she asked. “My phone is officially ungrounded now.”

“Sure. No problem.” God, I sounded like a caveman.

I would chisel pictographs into my body, if that’s what it took to communicate with you …

As I walked her across the lawn, our hands swayed and brushed against each other. It took superpowers not to close my fingers around hers. I still couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Were we friends? More than friends? I couldn’t risk losing her trust again.

“I’m giving you a shout-out on Power 96 tonight,” I told her.

“Like, on the radio? People still do that?” She pointed at my Converse. “Your shoe’s undone, by the way.”

“Yeah. I’m working on it.”

Pippa crouched on the pavement and tightened my laces. “You’re the one who taught me about knots.”

“What about them?”

She smiled up at me. “They tell stories.”

“And you believed that?”

“Sometimes,” she said, tying a perfect two-loop knot: over, under, around.

“Call me before you go to sleep,” I said, like I was her dad or something. “I’ll send you a text.”

Please don’t go. Can we just sit here and talk about knots until the sun turns supernova and torches the earth? Because that would be okay with me.

When she reached the porch, I couldn’t watch her leave. I looked up at the sky and thought about dark energy. Not everybody believed in it. Some scientists called it a trick. A miscalculation. One day, the universe will run out of time.

Good thing I won’t be there.

The lights on the Rez speared the cypress trees. I pulled off the highway onto Old Tamiami Trail, a tunnel of darkness broken by houses so packed together, I couldn’t tell where one ended and another started. If you kept going down Loop Road, you’d find swimming holes, ranger huts, and trailer park refugees—old biker dudes selling car parts and chicken eggs on their back porches.

The longer I stayed in the Glades, the more I realized that “home” was a place inside my mind. I didn’t need a fence or a yard. I was still pissed at Mom for selling the house, but what could I do about it? Jack shit. That’s what.

I swerved around the skate park. Kids were hanging out practicing, even this late at night. I wanted to join them on the ramps, but I didn’t belong there. Guess I was still trying to figure out where I belonged.

As I rolled past the school, I spotted this kid thumping a basketball against the coral rock walls. He wore a trapper hat, the flaps bouncing as he slammed the ball up and over. I buzzed my window down and shouted at him.

“Nice hat.”

He saluted me. “Thanks, Trent.”

The kid actually remembered my name. “Can I have it back?” I asked.

“Maybe later.”

“How much later?”

“Later.”

Little jerk. I was starting to like him.

Back at the house, all the lights were off. I figured Dad was out, but his Kawasaki was parked under the chickee hut. A bunch of tools were scattered like medieval weapons on the lawn. Another “project” he never finished.

The front door was unlocked. Pretty typical for the Rez. Yet I still couldn’t shake the creeped-out vibes. I stumbled inside, flipped the light switch, and blinked at the mess in the kitchen: a puddle of yellow grease slicking the counter. Breakfast of Champions. Fried eggs and beer.

Wasn’t Dad supposed to be in charge?

Let him clean his own garbage.

I helped myself to a beer, flopped onto the couch, and pried off my kicks. Pippa had laced them so tight I’d lost circulation. What was she doing right now? I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d told me. If I ever met the guy who’d hurt her, I’d smash his brains out.