Except Delilah. She’d followed him, not turning from the gate like everyone else. And even when Gavin had caught up to her on the sidewalk, she’d looked more embarrassed to have been caught than terrified from having been grabbed by a plant on his fence. She didn’t seem to be scared at all. Did he want her to be?
Gavin had never been particularly good at reading people, and he gave up pretty early on, after inviting a friend over on the weekend and watching him run away screaming that the house was full of ghosts. Gavin had endured questions and looks and taunting for a week afterward, but it stopped abruptly after Delilah beat up the two worst bullies on the playground. She was promptly shipped off to Catholic school eight states away. Gavin had been tall and stringy at eleven, all daddy-longlegs limbs with too-long hair and pale skin, odd even to the kindest eye. But after Delilah—the prettiest and toughest girl at school—had stood up for him, the bullying had stopped. People ignored him, sure, but at least they left him alone. He’d wished he had a way to thank her.
So that night, after she’d walked off and left Gavin a little stunned on the sidewalk, he went back inside and found the dusty box in the back of Closet, where he’d stored his old papers and drawings. Buried in the crumpled mess was the note from six years ago, written in the scrawling hand of the wild and protective Delilah.
I don’t want you to hide. I like you.
Gavin read it over and over, trying to puzzle out what it meant to be liked, and if—even then—she meant it a certain way.
He didn’t sleep well and was up before dawn, eating breakfast in the backyard, where it was quieter and he could think in relative peace. He had plenty of thoughts about girls, about their lips and their necks and their hands and all kinds of other parts. But he had never had such fascination with a mind before, because as tiny as she was, Delilah was ferocious. What a pair they must make standing beside each other. Her fire so huge it spilled out of her and onto the pavement. His entire world so small she couldn’t even see it with him looming over her.
? ? ?
As much as Gavin liked Delilah’s face, he liked sitting behind her in English even more. She didn’t dare turn and look at him the next morning, but he could feel every bit of her attention focused behind her, toward him.
She was so wispy, such a slip of a girl. Gavin imagined laying her on her side on the grass and playing notes up and down her skin.
“Mr. Timothy?”
His eyes blinked to focus, and he realized Mr. Harrington was staring at him. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re covering Poe this week, Gavin. And I’ve asked you which of his works you chose to read and discuss with us. Unless, of course, you were hoping to be able to read and discuss Miss Blue’s thoughts instead?”
Gavin felt a smile spread across his face. “I should be so lucky. But no, I’m happy to discuss ‘The Oval Portrait.’”
Finally Delilah had an excuse to turn around and look at him. Her eyes were wide and burning with curiosity. She wouldn’t follow him home again—he was pretty sure she would listen to what he’d said the day before—but she wasn’t nearly done with him either.
Chapter Five
Her
Delilah strode across the lawn, ignoring the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on her back as she bravely walked over to the loner beneath the tree.
I should be so lucky.
Ever since English class and Gavin’s scandalous comment, her mind had been filling with a hundred different interpretations of what he’d said. Her heart rate seemed to accelerate with every step until she felt like, once she reached him, she might crack open and spill everywhere.
Gavin sat on the grass, leaning against his oak tree, reading.
“What did you mean ‘you should be so lucky’?” Delilah blurted, and then cringed. She’d wanted to walk over, start out with something friendly. A greeting, maybe. Hi. Let’s start over again after yesterday. First question: How is it possible you’re even cuter now after all these years?
Instead she’d cracked and spilled after all.