I tossed around my bed for over an hour. The house was infuriatingly quiet. Frustrated, I
flung the covers off and dug some running clothes out of the dirty laundry basket. I threw on
whatever passed the smell test and ran out of the house into the peopled world. It was another
beautiful evening. The days were already getting longer and hotter. A summer sleeping in a
windowless room without air conditioning would be … interesting.
I noticed the absence of my Walkman as soon as I reached the sidewalk but didn’t dwell on it
too long. After being cooped up alone in the library basement all day, it was kind of nice to
listen to the sounds of the city, of life. I made it to the cemetery in pretty good time and
said a quiet hello to Bill as I passed his grave.
When I reached the clearing into the projects, I immediately noticed the boy sitting alone on
top of the picnic table that was nearest to the cemetery. I recognized him by his gray hooded
sweater, the same one he had been wearing the day before when his dog had mowed me down. But he
wasn’t wearing his ball cap this time, and his face in the lowering sun was clearly visible.
When he saw me, he got up and quickly intercepted me at the walkway. He pulled the hood of his
sweater off his head, tousling his brown hair in the process.
Yes, I could definitely see him now, and my already hot flushed cheeks were turning a new shade
of red. He was a handsome boy—man—I couldn’t decide how old he was. Too old for me? His eyes
were striking, almost black. I was immediately aware that I was sweaty and gross. I also
remembered that there was a huge mustard stain on the bottom of my T-shirt.
“Hello,” he said, quietly, his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be a different person today.
I was still trying to catch my breath.
His eyes scanned the grounds and stopped at me. “It’s getting late. I was starting to think
you weren’t going to come today.”
“My bruised knees were slowing me down,” I said—an automatic reaction, always preparing for
battle, expecting rejection or repulsion. When his cheeks picked up a shade of rose, something
he had said suddenly occurred to me. “You were … waiting for me?”
“Yes,” he slowly admitted. “Does this surprise you?”
“You were really mean to me yesterday,” I said. I couldn’t find anything better, less
unintelligent, to say.
Worry inexplicably washed over his face, like this stranger’s words had impaired him somehow.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. What I did, said … It was totally uncalled for.”
“You didn’t hurt me, really. Your dog did, though.”
He glanced around us again. Then a careful smile crept on his face as his eyes made their way
back to mine. “Meatball was sorry too.”
“Meatball?”
He paused, the smile vaporized. “Meatball is my dog’s name.”
His sudden change in demeanor had made me remember the beast whose massive jaw and teeth were
sure signs that I could have easily become his late afternoon snack. I was scanning around us,
expecting to be tackled at any moment.
“No worries, I didn’t bring him,” he told me, reading my mind.
I mustn’t have looked convinced.
“Really, he likes you,” he insisted.
“I don’t think he knows me well enough to make such a crucial split-second decision.” It was
meant as a joke, but his eyes narrowed.
“Right,” he said. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were okay and apologize for yesterday.”
“I’m fine, and apology accepted.”
I tucked an errant hair behind my ear. The minute I touched my head I realized that most of the
hair from my ponytail had fallen out in a sweaty mess. I immediately fingered my crazed hair
back into a snug ponytail.
His lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I swiftly answered, with a grimace. Of course it was a lie. He chuckled lightly and this
time I glanced away from him. The projects were teeming with people again today, but no one
seemed to notice that we even existed, or they were still avoiding us.
“So, do you live around here?” I asked, a veiled attempt at changing the subject.
“Not really,” he answered, his gaze wandering again.
Was that a yes or a no?
“I live a couple of blocks away from here,” I offered, leading by example—this was how normal
people conversed.
His eyes shot back to my face. “You shouldn’t tell people where you live. What if I was some
kind of psycho?”
The features of his face had instantly darkened, and a chill ran down my bare legs.
“Well, are you?” I asked, my voice slightly shaking.
“It’s a little late to be asking me that, isn’t it?” he snapped. His brown eyes searched my
face. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but I pressed my lips together, just in case he
found the spinach salad that I had for lunch still stuck in my teeth. He strained a smile. “You
need to be more careful is all I’m trying to say.”
I shrugged coolly. “I can run pretty fast … and I’ve managed to keep myself out of trouble so
far.”
“This isn’t a good place for you to test your courage. You shouldn’t be coming here. Find
somewhere else to run,” he said, looking away.