by Nicola Yoon
“Take a break?” he asks, still trying not to smile.
I growl at him, lower my head, and push forward again into another somersault. Now he’s definitely laughing.
I remain flat on my back, catching my breath, and then I’m laughing along with him. A few seconds later I crouch back into a squat.
He shakes his head. “Who knew you were this stubborn?”
Not me. I didn’t know I was this stubborn.
He claps his hands together. “OK, let’s try something new. Close your eyes.”
I close them.
“Good. Now, pretend you’re in outer space.”
With my eyes closed he feels closer, as if he’s right next to me instead of across the room. His voice slides up my neck, whispers into my ear. “See the stars? And that asteroid field? And that lonely satellite going by? There’s no gravity. You’re weightless. You can do anything you want with your body. You just have to think it.”
I tilt forward and suddenly I’m upside down. At first I’m not sure I’ve done it. I open and close my eyes a few times, but the world remains inverted. Blood rushes to my head, making me feel heavy and light-headed all at once. Gravity pulls my mouth into a smile and tugs my eyes open. I am wonderfully foreign in my own body. My upper arms begin to wobble. I overtilt from the vertical position and my feet touch the wall. I push off to reverse my direction and fall back into a crouch.
“Awesome,” Olly says, clapping. “You even held it for a few seconds. Pretty soon you won’t need the wall at all.”
“How about now?” I say, wanting more, wanting to see the world the way he does.
He hesitates, about to argue, but then his eyes meet mine. He nods and crouches down to watch.
I squat, shift, and push up. I’m unstable almost immediately and begin to fall backward. Olly’s suddenly right next to me, his hands on the bare skin of my ankles, holding me steady. Every nerve in my body migrates to where he touches. The skin under his hand sparks to life, every cell alight with feeling. I feel as if I’ve never been touched before.
“Down,” I say, and he gently lowers my legs until they’re back on the ground. I wait for him to move back to his corner, but he doesn’t. Before I can think better of it, I stand up and face him. We’re only three feet apart. I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. I move my eyes slowly up to his.
“You OK?” he asks.
I mean to say yes, but I shake my head instead. I should move. He should move. He needs to go back to his side of the world, but he doesn’t, and I can see in his eyes that he won’t. My heart beats so loudly that I’m certain he can hear it.
“Maddy?” My name is a question and my eyes move to his lips.
He reaches out his right hand and grabs my left index finger. His hand is rough, uneven with calluses, and so warm. He rubs his thumb once across my knuckle and then cocoons my finger in the palm of his hand.
I look back down at my hand.
Friends are allowed to touch, right?
I disentangle my finger so that I can entangle all the others until our palms are pressed against each other.
I look back up to his eyes and see my reflection there. “What do you see?” I ask.
“Well, the first thing is those freckles.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“Slightly. It looks like someone sprinkled chocolate across your nose and cheeks.” His eyes travel down to my lips and back up to my eyes. “Your lips are pink and they get pinker when you chew on them. You chew on them more when you’re about to disagree with me. You should do that less. The disagreeing, not the chewing. The chewing is adorable.”
I should say something, stop him, but I can’t speak.
“I’ve never seen anyone with hair as long and poofy and curly as yours is. It looks like a cloud.”
“If clouds were brown,” I say, finally finding my voice, trying to break the spell.
“Yes, curly brown clouds. And then your eyes. I swear they change color. Sometimes they’re almost black. Sometimes they’re brown. I’m trying to find a correlation between the color and your mood, but I don’t have it yet. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Correlation is not causation,” I say, just to have something to say.
He grins and squeezes my hand. “What do you see?”
I want to answer, but I find that I can’t. I shake my head and look back down at our hands.
We remain that way, sliding between certainty and uncertainty and back again until we hear Carla’s approach and are forced to part.
I am made. I am unmade.
SKIN
I READ ONCE that, on average, we replace the majority of our cells every seven years. Even more amazing: We change the upper layers of our skin every two weeks. If all the cells in our body did this, we’d be immortal. But some of our cells, like the ones in our brains, don’t renew. They age, and age us.
In two weeks my skin will have no memory of Olly’s hand on mine, but my brain will remember. We can have immortality or the memory of touch. But we can’t have both.
FRIENDSHIP
Later, 8:16 P.M.
Olly: you’re logged on early
Madeline: I told my mom I had a lot of homework.
Olly: are you all right?
Madeline: Are you asking if I’m sick?
Olly: yes
Madeline: So far, so good.
Olly: are you worried?
Madeline: No. I’m fine.
Madeline: I’m sure I’m fine.
Olly: you are worried
Madeline: A little.
Olly: i shouldn’t have. i’m sorry
Madeline: Please don’t be. I’m not. I wouldn’t trade it.
Olly: still
Olly: are you sure you’re ok?
Madeline: I feel brand-new.
Olly: all from holding hands huh. imagine what a kiss would do
Madeline: …
Madeline: Friends don’t kiss, Olly.
Olly: really good ones can
RESEARCH
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, kissing is all I think about. I see the words imagine what a kiss would do whenever I close my eyes. At some point it occurs to me that I don’t know anything about kissing. Of course, I’ve read about it. I’ve seen enough kissing in movies to get the idea. But I’ve never pictured myself as a kissee, and certainly not a kisser.
Carla says we’re probably OK to see each other again today, but I decide to wait a couple more days. She doesn’t know about the touch on my ankle, the holding hands, the almost-shared breath. I should tell her, but I don’t. I’m afraid she’ll stop our visits. Another lie to add to my growing count. Olly’s now the only person in my life that I haven’t lied to.
Forty-eight hours post-touch and I’m still feeling fine. I sneak peeks at my charts when Carla’s not looking. Blood pressure, pulse, and temperature all seem OK. No early warning signs in sight.
My body goes a little haywire when I imagine kissing Olly, but I’m pretty sure that’s just lovesickness.
LIFE AND DEATH
OLLY’S NOT ON the wall. He’s not even at a far end of the couch. Instead, he’s right in the middle, elbows on knees, stretching and releasing his rubber band.
I hesitate in the doorway. His eyes don’t leave my face. Does he feel the same urge to occupy the same space, to breathe the same air that I do?
I linger at the threshold to the room, uncertain. I could go to his traditional spot next to the wall. I could stay right here in the doorway. I could tell him that we shouldn’t push my luck, but I can’t. More than that, I don’t want to.
“I think orange is your color,” he says finally.
I’m wearing one of my new T-shirts. It’s V-necked and close fitting and, now, my most favorite piece of clothing. I may buy ten more of this exact shirt.
“Thanks.” I lay a hand across my stomach. The butterflies are back and restless.
“Should I move?” He stretches the rubber band taut between his thumb
and index finger.
“I don’t know,” I say.
He nods and begins to rise.
“No, wait,” I say, pressing my other hand to my stomach and walking over to him. I sit, leaving a foot of space between us.
He lets the rubber band snap against his wrist. His shoulders release a tension I didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Next to him, I press my knees together, hunch my shoulders. I make myself as small as possible, as if my size could belie our closeness.
He lifts his arm from his knee, holds his hand out, and wiggles his fingers.
All my hesitation vanishes and I slip my hand into his. Our fingers slide into position as if we’ve been holding hands like this all our lives. I don’t know how the distance between us closes.
Did he move? Did I?
Now we’re next to each other, thighs touching, forearms warm against each other, my shoulder pressing into his upper arm. He rubs his thumb across mine, tracing a path from knuckle to wrist. My skin, each individual cell, lights up. Normal, nonsick people get to do this all the time? How do they survive the sensation? How do they keep from touching all the time?
He tugs my hand just slightly. It’s a question, I know, and I look up from the miracle of our hands to the miracle of his face and eyes and lips moving closer to mine. Did I move? Did he?
His breath is warm and then his lips are brushing butterfly-soft against mine. My eyes close on their own. The romantic comedies are right about this part. You have to close your eyes. He pulls away and my lips are cold. Am I doing it wrong? My eyes fly open and crash into the darkening blue of his. He kisses me like he’s afraid to continue and he’s afraid to stop. I grip the front of his shirt and hold on tight.
My butterflies are rioting.
He squeezes my hand and my lips part and we’re tasting each other. He tastes like salted caramel and sunshine. Or what I think salted caramel and sunshine taste like. He tastes like nothing I’ve ever experienced, like hope and possibility and the future.
I pull away first this time, but only because I need air. If I could, I would kiss him every second of every day for all the days.
He leans his forehead against mine. His breath is warm against my nose and cheeks. It’s slightly sweet. The kind of sweet that makes you want more.
“Is it always like that?” I ask, breathless.
“No,” he says. “It’s never like that.” I hear the wonder in his voice.
And just like that, everything changes.
HONESTLY
Later, 8:03 P.M.
Olly: no movie night with your mom?
Madeline: I canceled. Carla’s going to be upset with me.
Olly: why?
Madeline: I promised her I would spend more time with my mom.
Olly: i’m messing up your life
Madeline: No, please don’t think that.
Olly: what we did today was crazy
Madeline: I know.
Olly: what were we thinking?
Madeline: I don’t know.
Olly: maybe we should take a break?
Madeline: …
Olly: sorry. i’m trying to protect you
Madeline: What if protection is not what I need?
Olly: what does that mean?
Madeline: I don’t know.
Olly: i need you to be safe. i don’t want to lose you
Madeline: You barely have me!
Madeline: Are you sorry?
Olly: for what? for kissing?
Olly: honestly?
Madeline: Of course.
Olly: no
Olly: are you sorry?
Madeline: No.
OWTSYD
THE UNIVERSE AND my subconscious may be conspiring against me. I’m in the den playing Fonetik with my mom. So far in tonight’s game I’ve gotten tiles to play OWTSYD, FRIDUM, and SEEKRITS. That last one nets me a bonus for using all seven letters. She frowns down at the board and I think she’s going to challenge my word, but she doesn’t. She tallies the score and, for the first time ever, I’m actually winning. I’m ahead of her by seven points.
I look down at the score and then back at her. “Are you sure you did that right?” I ask. I don’t want to beat her on top of everything else.
I tally the score to find that she’s right.
Her eyes are on my face, but I keep staring at the scorecard. She’s been like this all night, watchful, as if I’m a puzzle to be worked out. Or maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe it’s the guilt I feel for being so selfish, for wanting to be with Olly even now. Every moment I spend with him I learn something new. I become someone new.
She takes the scorecard from my hands and lifts my chin so that I have to meet her eyes. “What’s going on, honey?”
I’m about to lie to her when there’s a sudden high scream from outside. Another scream follows and then indistinct yelling and a loud slam. We both spin to stare at the window. I start to rise, but my mom presses down on my shoulder, shakes her head. I let her hold me in place, but another scream of “STOP” has both of us running to the window.
The three of them—Olly, his mom, and his dad—are on the porch. Their bodies form a triangle of misery, fear, and anger. Olly’s in fighter stance, fists clenched, feet planted wide and firm. Even from here I can see veins bulging to the surface of his arms, his face. His mom takes a step toward Olly, but he says something to her that makes her retreat.
Olly and his dad face off. His dad is holding a drink in his right hand. He doesn’t take his eyes off Olly as he lifts and finishes it with deep gulps. He holds the empty glass out for Olly’s mom to take. She starts to move, but, again, Olly says something to stop her. His dad turns to look at her then, his hand still rigidly holding the glass. For a moment I think that maybe she won’t go to him.
But her defiance doesn’t last. She takes a step toward him. He grabs at her, all anger and menace. But Olly’s suddenly right there in between them. He swats his dad’s arm away and pushes his mom off to the side.
Even angrier now, his dad lunges again. Olly shoves him backward. He bangs into the wall, but doesn’t fall.
Olly begins dancing lightly on his feet, shaking out his arms and wrists like a boxer preparing for a bout. He’s trying to draw his dad’s attention away from his mom. It works. His dad lunges at him fist first. Olly dodges right and then left. He hops backward down the porch steps just as his dad swings again. His dad misses, and momentum sends him tripping down the steps. He lands in a sprawl on the concrete driveway and doesn’t move.
Olly grows still. His mom claps both hands over her mouth. My mom wraps an arm around my shoulder. I press my forehead to the glass and grip the windowsill. All of our eyes are on his dad. The moment stretches out. Every second he doesn’t move is a terrible relief.
His mom is the first to break. She hurries down the steps, crouches down next to him, runs her hand down his back. Olly gestures for her to get away, but she ignores him. She leans in closer just as his dad flips over onto his back. He snatches her wrist in his big, cruel hands. Face triumphant, he hoists her hand up in the air like it’s a trophy that he’s won. He pulls himself to standing and drags her up with him.
Again, Olly rushes between them, but this time his dad is ready. Quicker than I’ve ever seen him move, he lets go of Olly’s mom, grabs the collar of Olly’s shirt, and punches him in the stomach.
His mom screams. Then I’m screaming, too. He punches him again.
I don’t see what happens next because I pull away from my mom and I’m running. I don’t think; I just move. I fly out of the room and down the hall. I’m through the air lock and out the door in no time at all.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to get to him.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I have to protect him.
I sprint across our grass to the edge of the lawn closest to Olly’s house. His father is lunging for him again when I scream, “STOP!”
They both freeze momentarily in pl
ace and look at me, shocked. His dad’s drunkenness catches up to him. He stumbles back up the steps and into the house. His mom follows.
Olly bends over, holding his stomach.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He looks up at me, his face morphing from pain to confusion to fear.
“Go. Go back,” he says.
My mom grabs my arm and tries to pull me away. I’m vaguely aware that she’s hysterical. She’s stronger than I would’ve thought, but my need to see Olly is stronger.
“Are you all right?” I cry out again, unmoving.
He straightens up slowly, gingerly, like something hurts, but the pain doesn’t show on his face.
“Mads, I’m OK. Go back. Please.” The full weight of our feeling for each other hangs between us.
“I promise I’m OK,” he says again, and I let myself be pulled away.
We’re back in the air lock before I start to recognize what I’ve done. Did I really just go Outside? My mom’s hand is a vise on my upper arm. She forces me to face her.
“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice shrill and confused. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m OK,” I say, answering the question she doesn’t ask. “It was only a minute. Less than a minute.”
She relinquishes my arm and lifts my chin.
“Why would you risk your life for a total stranger?”
I’m not a skillful enough liar to hide my feelings from her. Olly’s in my skin.
She sees the truth. “He’s not a stranger, is he?”
“We’re just friends. Online friends,” I say. I pause. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to make sure he was OK.”
I rub my hands down my forearms. My heart beats so fast it hurts. The enormity of what I’ve done overwhelms me and I’m trembling.
My sudden shaking derails my mom’s questioning and sends her into doctor mode. “Did you touch anything?” she asks, over and over again.