“Whatever.” Andy’s not buying it.
“Do you think she’s going to hate me?”
“No idea.”
“Andy, please.”
He sighs. “Well, I don’t.”
It’s then I notice the bracelet on my desk. I instinctively grab it, a concrete talisman that Audrey can touch and hold whenever what I’m trying to explain to her seems like a drug trip gone extra wrong.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Andy asks.
“Wellll, the Changers Council can forcibly extricate me from my home and throw me in a compulsory compliance-
training program for the rest of my Cycle—OH, HEY, DAD!”
“What about compliance training?” my dad asks, popping his head into my room.
“Excuse me?” I bluff.
Andy smiles and waves, “Good afternoon, Mr. Miller.”
Dad steps in, glances back and forth between Andy and me, clearly suspicious, then relents. “I’m making a run to Costco for the Council’s regional party, you guys come and help me load, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Andy says.
“I’ve actually got plans,” I say sheepishly.
“Like?”
“Tracy stuff,” I lie.
Dad seems onto me—if not specifically, then generally—but also like he’s not going to get into it in front of Andy, whom he would prefer weren’t even here since it is Bad! Changer! Policy! But Mom worked her psychiatry-guilt mojo on him, making it seem if we turned Andy out he’d become a sad runaway statistic Dad would have to live with for the rest of his Changer days (plus might spill about Changers in a more public way), which was not high on Dad’s to-do list.
“Leaving in five,” he says, yanking the door shut behind him.
“He’s going to grill you in the car,” I whisper.
“I got you,” Andy says, flashing a cheesy thumbs-up. “Now go get that girl.”
* * *
Audrey is outwardly skittish, her voice warbling when she suggests we go for a walk by the water instead of sitting at Starbucks to talk about the incredibly intimate, uh, stuff that’s happened between us.
The Cumberland River is low and dark, the air still, only a handful of mosquitoes buzzing around our faces and nipping the fleshy inside of our elbows.
“It’s nice here,” Audrey says as we tentatively make our way down the bank of the river on the well-worn path, side-stepping roots and slick patches of red clay. “I don’t come here often enough.”
“Oh snap, that was my next line: Do you come here often?”
Audrey gives a weak smile.
“So,” I say after a few more steps.
“So.”
“Soooo,” I say again. “I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
“A very fine place to start,” Audrey sings, then stops, her gaze casting down at the bracelet on my arm. “I’ll never get used to seeing that on your wrist.”
She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a folded-up piece of paper, starts opening it, the creases weathered and soft from folding and unfolding. Before the paper is flattened all the way, I know what it is: the e-mail I sent. The vomiting-up of Changer chunks I wrote that night I was stoned. Uncensored gibberish I never intended to send, but Benedict sent on my behalf, without my knowledge, because Benedict lives in a Victorian comedy of errors where high jinks and heartbreak only mean everything works out in the end.
“I was high when I wrote that!” I exclaim.
“So you’ve said. But is it true?” Audrey asks.
I try to remember exactly what I typed out. “Essentially. I think. Probably.”
“I thought it was some sort of sick prank,” she says. “Cruel and mean.”
“I didn’t send it, a friend did. You can tell—I mean, it’s obvious how it wasn’t finished at the end, right? I mean, you were never meant to see . . .” I start blathering, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like I’m caught in a lie about a lie about a lie about a lie.
Audrey gestures toward a bench facing the river. We walk over, take a seat, sit hip to hip. She hands me the note. “I don’t want to decipher this anymore. I don’t want to be in the dark, feeling stupid and lost. Tell me what this is all about.”
I take the paper from her hand, breathing in so deep it shocks my lungs. I glance over the letter while I try to think about what I’m going to say to her right now.
Dear Audrey,
I know this is going to sound crazy. Wow, how long have I wanted to say that to you? Anyway, so, this is Kim. Kim Cruz, from school. I hope you got home okay last night. That dance kind of went off the rails, huh?
Anyway, I don’t know how else to say this, but, it felt like we had a connection last night. Like we’ve known each other for lifetimes. (Do you believe in that stuff?) I’ve never felt that about anybody before, which I figure is really rare, so why not just nut up and tell you?
The thing is, we kind of have known each other for lifetimes. Maybe not lifetimes. Well, for me they are.
If you’re still reading this, which I would understand if you’re not, but bear with me, because here’s the thing: I’ve been at Central longer than just this year. In fact, I have been in your life over the last two and a half years. I’ve seen you through a lot of ups and downs, a close friendship with a girl who moved away, and then a relationship with a guy who also left school, suddenly, last spring. I know all about Romeo & Juliet. (Boy do I.) Cheerleading. Your brother. Your mother’s cooking.
For two years I feel sort of like I’ve been your invisible protector. (From this guy named Kyle, which is a whole other story.) Anyway, I’ve loved you every step of the way.
I know you didn’t ask for this. It’s just, there are things in the universe we can’t explain. Actual magic that brings people into each other’s lives for a reason. Like I’ve been brought into yours.
Again, I understand if you want nothing to do with me after reading this. It is admittedly cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. But what do I have to lose at this point? I can’t help but feel that you felt this THING last night between us. You sensed that history too.
So if you did, can you let me know? Maybe we could spend some time together. Trust me, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that ever happened.
&(^^%%!%$#*(&**&#$^$%#&)*)*(&)*^&^>???!?!?!!!!?
What am I doing why am I writing this I must be freaking insane in the membrane. She is going to think I’m bonkers and never want to talk to me again don’t press send don’t press send don’t press sendddddddd.
“Well, this is a real shit sandwich,” I acknowledge, stating the obvious. The fun, freeing part of outing myself to Audrey ending; the terrifying, messed-up one about to begin. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
“But what exactly is this?” she demands, loud enough that a couple of runners look our way as they pass behind us on the path. “I feel like I’m in a live version of The Manchurian Candidate.”
I take a controlled breath. Me too,