Reagan
My knees are still wobbly when I get to the house. I go in the kitchen door and find my parents sitting at the table with cups of coffee. They’re talking quietly.
“Have fun?” my mom asks. She stares at me over the rim of her coffee cup. She looks a lot like me, with her dark-blond hair and her sun-kissed skin. My dad says she looked just like me when they met. Her hair is completely straight like mine, and she’s tall and willowy like me, even after all these years.
I nod in answer to her question. “We were roasting marshmallows.”
She quirks an eyebrow at me. “That’s what they’re calling that now? When I was young, it was just called flirting.”
Heat creeps up my face. “I wasn’t flirting.”
“Mmm hmm,” she hums. But she’s smiling.
“Let her be,” my dad growls playfully.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
I’m purposefully obtuse. “Gonzo.”
My dad snorts. “Gonzo is the fifteen-year-old who was hanging out with Pete, the mentor for the boys from the detention center.”
“Pete, huh?” Mom asks. Mom knows that Pete’s the one who found me. “What’s he like?”
I shrug.
Her eyebrows draw together. “You get any strange vibes from him?”
“Mom,” I warn. “Leave it alone.”
“Pete’s a mentor? Or is he an ex-con?” Mom looks curiously at Dad.
Dad nods. “He’s out of jail on parole.”
Mom inhales quickly. Dad shoots her a look. “He didn’t do anything violent, did he?” Mom asks. My heart stops. It trips over in my chest and then stops completely. I don’t dare to even breathe until I hear the answer.
“I wouldn’t have admitted him if he was violent,” Dad says. He points to a stack of folders by his elbow. “I just finished going through his file again, to see if there’s more I can do to help him.” He jerks his head toward it. “Want me to give you an overview?”
I shake my head. “I don’t need to.” I’d much rather hear it from Pete. “He seems nice.” I glare at Dad. “Even though Dad threatened to chop his nuts off.”
Mom snorts into her coffee.
“Hey, it works,” he says. But he’s grinning.
Mom bumps my elbow. “How are things going with Chase?”
I shake my head. “He’s not my type.”
My dad says in a singsong voice, “But Pete’s her type.”
I pick up the stir stick he discarded on the table and throw it at him, but a grin tugs at my lips. “He was very nice. And I promise not to get pregnant.” I get up quickly while he’s still rolling that around in his head. “Good night,” I chirp as I start up the stairs.
“It’d be hard for him to get you pregnant if I chop his nuts off!” Dad yells to me.
I laugh and shake my head.
I stop at the top of the stairs and listen. “They were awfully close there by the fire,” Mom says. “I was watching out the window.” There’s a quiet pause. “Did she let him touch her?”
“No, but she touched him.” He heaves a sigh. “She didn’t even try to punch him in the throat.”
Fine. I can be a little aggressive. It all started after my attack with some self-defense classes. Then I realized I’m really good at martial arts. I can’t help if it some people make me want to drop-kick them.
“That’s a start,” Mom hums.
I shake my head. I’m not starting anything. He’s just a man that doesn’t make me want to run in the other direction. That’s all he is. He’s nothing more than that.
It’s strange, because if I judged him based solely on his appearance, I’d be running away as fast as I could.
“He’s a good kid, it looks like,” Dad says on a heavy sigh. “He made a stupid mistake.”
“He’s kind of hot with all the tattoos,” Mom says. She giggles, and I hear my dad growl. She shrieks, and I walk away. They don’t need an audience for that part.
I stop by Lincoln’s room on the way to mine and knock on his doorframe. “Enter,” he calls, even though the door is open. He’s sitting on his floor stacking blocks to make a tower. But Link’s towers are not like other towers. They are complicated works of art based on numerical theories and stuff I don’t understand.
“You have fun at camp today?” I ask. We were only there for setup, and camp won’t truly begin until tomorrow, but he got to walk around and look at the people he’ll see in the morning. I step into his room and sit gingerly on the edge of a chair.
He nods. He looks in my direction, but he doesn’t make eye contact. He doesn’t look people in the eye often. When he does, it’s usually a mistake. And often ends in a meltdown.
“Did you meet any nice boys?”
He nods again. He only talks when he wants to.
“I love you,” I say. He looks up, almost meeting my gaze. Instead, his eyes dart toward my ear.
“I love you, too,” he says quietly.