“Mac, you cheater.” He laughs, playfully putting his hand to the top of my chest, slowing my pace.
“Now you’re the cheater,” I holler and pull even harder at his sweatshirt, finally breaking his rhythm. One more tug and I zoom past him, my muscles burning, my pounding feet begging for rest, Luke’s long legs nipping at my heels.
My body leans forward, breaking through imaginary finish-line tape, and I pump both fists in the air like I just won the Olympics, the imaginary crowd going wild.
“I win, I win!” I yell, jumping up and down on the pavement while Luke bends over, hands on his knees, smile on his face, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
“You did win,” Luke replies between gasps of air while I dance in celebration. “Look at you. Even if you hadn’t cheated, I think you still would have won.”
“Hey, you cheated first,” I say, my hand on my hip, my finger playfully wagging in his face.
“No way, you started it,” he says, finally standing up straight, the dimples in his cheeks crinkling as he grins.
“That was minuscule compared to your arm bar,” I reply, giving his shoulder a slight shove.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You win, Mac,” Luke concedes, throwing his arm around my neck and pulling me closer. Even after a run, he smells good. A mixture of leaves and body wash and cinnamon gum. I instinctively wrap my arm around his waist and play with the strings on my sweatshirt.
We walk in comfortable silence, amber leaves crunching at our feet. I look up at the tree-lined path, its branches set ablaze for nature’s most beautiful performance art. Fall is the world’s way of begging for one last colorful celebration before the bleakness of winter.
A gust of wind breaks through the stillness of the morning, whipping my hair and sending the tree branches swaying. Luke pulls me closer to him and rubs my shoulders and even though I’m warm, I begin to shiver.
“You too cold? Do you want my sweatshirt?” Luke says, tightening his grip on me with one hand and pulling at his sweatshirt with the other, accidentally pulling up his T-shirt, exposing his defined, athletic stomach.
“No, no, I’m fine.” I wave off his offer, trying to stop my body from shaking but it won’t obey. My blood is pumping and I can feel heat streak across my cheeks.
The rumble of a loud motor spins my body around. A gray van. But is it the same gray van? People in New Albany are always renovating or calling in carpenters or plumbers, so I can’t be sure. As it drives closer, I identify and file away its distinguishing features. Charcoal gray paint job. Ohio plates. No windows on the sides. Early 2000s model. GMC. My eyes strain to get a look at the driver but the sun has yet to climb over the horizon. The van quickly passes beneath a streetlight. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but long enough for me to see a face I don’t recognize staring back at me. Long black hair, a sharp jaw, and dark, probing eyes that make my warm blood run cold. The van picks up speed as it drives past us, turning down Route 62 before I can get a clear shot of the license plate.
“Mac, are you okay?” Luke asks, staring down at me, and I realize I’ve stopped moving. Stopped breathing too. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I say, looking up at him with a forced smile that hurts my cheeks.
“You’re still shaking,” he says, his fingers wrapping tighter around my shoulders.
“I guess I’m cold after all,” I answer and pull out of his grasp. I give the bottom of his sweatshirt a tug. “Come on. Race you home.”
EIGHT
“You don’t know me, but I’m your brother”, I sing along to the record in the bonus room over the Weixels’ four-car garage. I grab one of the remotes off the rustic wood coffee table and pretend it’s a microphone. I hop on an ottoman in the corner and sing the lyrics at the top of my lungs. At the chorus, I leap off my perch like a rock star and point at Luke, stretched out on the rich chocolate-brown leather couch, laughing at me.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” Luke sings along to the record with me.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” I sing the Michael McDonald part, shaking my shoulders to the beat while I jump from side to side.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” he sings, banging on the fake piano on his lap.
“No more need for runnin’,” I sing dramatically into the remote and drop to my knees.
“Takin’ it to the streets,” Luke half sings, half laughs.
“Oh, oh-oh, nah, nah,” I sing from the ground, my eyes closed. When I look back up, Luke is lying down on the deep leather sofa, laughing and clutching his stomach. I love it when he laughs like that. So hard no sound comes out of his mouth and he fights to breathe.
I giggle and take a running jump for the other end of the couch, landing with an ungraceful thud. It’s after midnight on Friday night and we’re on Mountain Dew number four and record number six. Claire is sleeping at her grandma’s house and Colonel and Mrs. Weixel are out of town. So we can be as loud as we want.
“Oh my God,” Luke says, still laughing but trying to catch his breath. He sits up and leans against the arm of the couch. “I love it when you’re silly, Mac.”
I shrug and throw my dark hair over my shoulder. “I guess you bring out my silly side.” Luke smiles and I can tell he likes that.
“Are we the only two seniors in the world sitting around on a Friday night listening to the Doobie Brothers?” he asks.
“Probably. But proud of it.”
Luke and I have the same eclectic music taste. Singers and standards. Top 40 Pop. Jazz. We like it all. But we have a special place in our hearts for the bands of the seventies. Chicago. Doobie Brothers. Steely Dan. We’ve totally confiscated all of Luke’s parents’ old records. Playing air guitar to the Doobie Brothers’ “China Grove” or acting out the scenes from Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” like two total goofballs (Luke does a fabulous man selling ice cream) has become our weekend favorite. I live for these silly moments. When I’m not the chosen Black Angel child. When I’m just Reagan. Or as close to whoever Reagan really is.
Luke shakes his empty pop can on the coffee table and stands up. “Want another one?”
“No thanks,” I answer and nuzzle my warm face up to the cool leather of the couch. “I think I better quit it on the Mountain Dews if I want to fall asleep tonight.”
Luke comes back from the wet bar in the corner of the room and hands me a bottle of water.
“Here you go,” he says and flops back down. I love this couch. It’s so deep, two people could sleep side by side without a problem. I remember when the Weixels bought it last year; the delivery guys spent a good hour trying to figure out some way to get it through the back door, up the back staircase, and into the bonus room. Once it was finally in place, Luke and I volunteered to break it in and spent the entire night listening to music and watching movies. The leather was pristine then; now it’s soft and worn. I run my fingers along the dark creases and wonder which lines were made by us during our many Friday and Saturday nights.
“So when do you find out about West Point?” I ask and open up the bottle of water.
“I find out if I get the Congressional nomination soon. I’m getting kind of nervous,” Luke says and reaches for one of the remotes. He points it at the receiver and turns down Michael McDonald’s voice so we don’t have to yell.
“How will you find out?”
“A letter in the mail will let me know if I got the nomination,” Luke replies and scrunches his face.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just funny to think that a single piece of paper will decide my entire future.”
“You’ll get the nomination,” I reassure him, reaching out to touch the top of his smooth hand. I hold my fingers there an extra beat and feel that familiar rush. I lean forward and put my bottle of water on the coffee table, breaking our connection.
“I hope you’re right,” Luke says, pressing his full lips together. His lips are such a pretty shade of watermelon pink
, they almost don’t look real. They’re the lips you’d expect to see in the pages of GQ or on a movie star, not on an eighteen-year-old army brat.
“They’d be fools not to take you. You were accepted into the Summer Leaders Experience this summer, which makes you a shoo-in,” I say, counting his accomplishments on my fingertips. “You’re the leader of your JROTC class, you’re on your way to being valedictorian—”
“Alongside you,” Luke interrupts me and I wave him off to continue counting.
“You’ve been training with your dad since you were a kid, you know everything there is to know about weapons, and you’re a terrific shot,” I finish. A few months ago, Luke took me to the gun range he and his dad practice in at least twice a week. I of course pretended I had never shot a gun before and had Luke give me a lesson. My first shot was an accidental dead-center bull’s-eye. Another Luke-induced mask slippage. Luke just about lost his mind. Beginner’s luck, I called it. The rest of the clip was all over the place. Pretender mask locked firmly back in place. Luke ripped a massive hole in the bull’s-eye of his paper dummy. I know great training when I see it and Luke’s got the goods.
“Thanks, Mac,” Luke says, placing his hand on my exposed ankle. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. It’s a competitive nomination. I get nervous every time the mail comes. I just want it so … I just hope I get good news soon.”
His sweet face, hopeful and anxious all at once, hits me square in the gut. All those accolades are going to get him into West Point, I know it. But it’s his heart that will make him a high-ranking officer someday. I’ve been envious of his passion for the future; the fact that serving our country, as hard a life as it is, is what he wants to do more than anything. But now I realize he may have exactly what I’ve been missing. And I wish I could ask him for a piece of it.
“How about practicing your interview questions?” Luke says, removing his hand from my ankle. Even with it gone, I can still feel the warmth and weight of his fingers on my skin.
“Yes!” I exclaim, tucking my legs toward me and pulling my spine straighter on the couch. I brush my hair over my shoulders, widen my eyes and my smile, trying to look the part of an interviewee.
“Perfect,” Luke says, sitting up from his lounging position, trying to match my sudden change in posture. “Okay. First question. If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”
I laugh and lean forward. “Really?”
Luke nods. “They ask weird questions during an interview.”
“Gosh … ummm…” I say, pulling my legs closer to my body. “I don’t know. Perhaps a lion. Or a cheetah. Some type of big cat that can run really fast and take down anything in its path. How about you?”
“A zoo animal,” Luke says without missing a beat. A laugh bubbles up my throat. I watch his thick lips curl up into a smile.
“Out of all the animals in the world you’re going to go with a zoo animal.”
“Don’t you think zoo animals have the best lives ever?” Luke says, his pale blue eyes dancing. “If you’re a lion out in the wild, yeah, you’re at the top of the food chain and all, but you have to chase after your own food. You’re constantly worried about some other lion killing you or stealing your lady lions. That’s stressful. A zoo lion, you just hang out all day. People bring you big slabs of meat. It sounds great.”
In between giggles, I weigh in. “I don’t know. I think the life of a house cat is the best animal life ever. Your entire day consists of people petting you, followed by a long nap and then maybe looking out the window or lying in the sunshine.”
“Yeah, but you could get stuck in one of those weird cat families that dress you up in American Girl doll clothes and sing ‘I love you a bushel and a peck’ while they dance around the house with you.”
“That sounds oddly specific,” I say, raising one eyebrow at him. “And like someone speaking from experience.”
Luke casts his face down, his blond hair falling into his eyes, and slowly shakes his head in pity. “Poor, poor Patches.”
“You dressed your cat up in doll clothes,” I exclaim, reaching out to grab his wrist. “What’s the matter with you?”
“And hats,” he adds, which makes me explode in laughter. “Straw hats. Bonnets. Tiny baseball caps. It was mostly Claire, but sometimes I helped. It was not a good life for that poor little thing.”
I’m laughing so hard now, my entire face actually hurts. It’s not just Luke’s delivery and timing that always makes me laugh. It’s his face too. It’s just so cute. Sometimes he’ll say something, not even meaning to be funny, and I’ll start giggling.
“Okay, next question,” Luke announces as we finally get our giggle fit under control. He reaches for an open bag of Lays potato chips sitting on the coffee table. He shoves a handful of chips in his mouth and between bites asks, “If you were a chip, what kind of chip would you be?”
“These questions are ridiculous,” I say and smack my palm to the center of my forehead.
“Hey, I’m just trying to prepare you,” he answers with a shrug and a smile and passes me the bag of chips.
“Okay, what kind of chip would I be?” I say and crunch down on the salty chip, letting the oil coat my tongue while I think. “I’d be Ruffles.”
“Why Ruffles?”
“The ridges mean I’m a little complicated but I’m versatile. You can dip me into different situations, just like a Ruffles chip, and I’m adaptable. Also, I’m just delicious.”
“That’s a very good answer to a very stupid question,” Luke says with a grin and steals back the bag of chips. “Okay, rapid-fire questions. Don’t think. Just answer. Ready?”
“Ready,” I answer, stretching my legs back out and slapping my knees.
“French fries or Tater Tots?”
“Tater Tots.”
“Name three things in your personal hell.”
“‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ on repeat, the constant stench of B.O., and being force-fed meals of tuna balls.”
“You mean meatballs?”
“No, tuna balls,” I say and swallow the gag threatening to rise up my throat. “My Sicilian grandmother makes meatballs out of tuna fish whenever we come and visit because they’re Dad’s favorite, and the thought of them alone makes me want to die.”
“That sounds awful,” Luke says and shakes his head. “Okay, you get one superpower. What is it?”
“Teleportation.”
“Who’s your biggest role model?”
“My mom.”
“What’s your biggest strength?”
“My loyalty.”
“What’s your biggest weakness?”
“My anxiety,” I say without thinking. Luke’s blue eyes flash surprise. My anxiety. I can almost see the words floating away from me, white and fluffy, like they were written by the tiniest skywriting airplane. I immediately wish I could lasso them with my tongue and pull them back.
Luke’s eyes blink and regain their shape. The room is quiet for two long breaths. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” Luke replies, choosing his words carefully. I swallow the nerves climbing up my throat.
“Well … it’s not like a diagnosed problem or anything,” I say, my eyes darting away from Luke’s sweet, concerned face. I stare over his shoulder at the dark window that overlooks my even darker house. “I’m just a worst-case-scenario thinker sometimes. I wish I wasn’t.”
“I get it,” Luke replies. He takes a breath and places his warm hand on my ankle. “I think you try to come off as Miss Carefree. But I can see that mind of yours working overtime.”
“You can?” I ask, my eyebrows rising even though I’m not surprised.
“Yeah,” he answers, his fingers doing figure eights on my skin. “I don’t like it when you pretend you’re someone you’re not. I just want you to be you. Good. Bad. Anxious. I’ll still be here.”
We stare at each other, enveloped by stillness. I hadn’t even noticed that the record was over. I open my mouth to speak,
then close it. I look across the room at the record as it spins and spins in silence.
“Promise?” I ask, my voice soft.
“Promise.” Luke’s fingertips run up and down my smooth skin and my eyes return to his. My entire body buzzes.
I don’t know if it’s Luke’s touch or the fact that he may be the only one who actually knows me but suddenly, every trace of air is drawn from my lungs. He takes his hand off my ankle and my skin begins to throb. I want to tell him to put it back. To keep touching me and never stop touching me. I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length for so long. For his own good, I know. But tonight, my long list of reasons to push him away shrinks and blurs and crumples.
My body begins to shake, just like this morning, and I don’t know why. I pull my arms to my chest and wrap them around my shivering body.
“You cold?” Luke asks.
“I must be,” I say, trying to stop my teeth from chattering.
“Come here.” Luke scoots his body over, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. I crawl down to his side of the couch and place my head on the fluffy pillow, my face pointed at the blank television and still-spinning record player. Luke wraps his strong arms around me, warming my cold, goose-bump-prickled skin. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks,” I say, resting the back of my head against his chest. I feel his body rise and fall with every breath, and my stomach flips onto itself over and over again, like kneaded dough. We need a distraction and fast. “How about a movie?”
Luke reaches for the controller next to him and flips on the TV. “American Beauty is in the DVD player, I think. I know you like it.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say as he pushes the play button. As the opening credits roll, Luke pulls me tighter, resting his chin on the top of my head.
“One more question,” he says. “Favorite moment?”
“In life?” I ask, turning toward him and he nods. I scan my brain. Before New Albany, my life was an endless Groundhog Day of training and school where I was pretty much ignored. We’ve moved so many times, spur of the moment, it was hard to break into a group of friends in the middle of the school year. My parents would always say I was destined for bigger things than being invited to a sleepover or birthday party. But that wasn’t exactly comforting when I’d sit in class listening to everyone else make weekend plans, and silently hope someone would ask me to come along.
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