Together, Apart

by Erin A. Craig

  The humor in his voice makes me wish I were holding something I could throw it at him.

  “I’m fine. Did you get the ink off your window?”

  “Yeah. Don’t want anyone else cal ing me.”

  He wants me to cal him? I can only be cool on text.

  “You should get back to your lights, I’l see you tonight,” he says.

  I nod but I’m disappointed to cut this short.

  He chuckles as he walks away.

  Okay, you’re fine. I go back to my lights and force myself to focus. I wil not look at him again until tonight. I’m too obvious and he’s loving it. He was the one to give me his number, though.

  Tonight, I get to spend hours with him and his mom. I want my parents to get along with them, too.

  Mission one: make the whole street a happy family.

  Mission two: get the lights up.

  Mission three: act cool around Archer.

  Not in order.

  I look up as I’m about to turn and my mouth parts.

  Written on his chalkboard is one word: Ace.

  Wel , I’m not going to be able to focus on other things I need to do now, am I?

  The rest of the day drags, obviously. We get set up, prep the food, and then I swim in our pool. I read my old ratty copy of Twilight because I need the solidarity Bel a offers with her instant Edward obsession.

  By 5:58, I’m losing my mind and clock watching.

  Mom and Dad are highly amused, teasing me about Archer, but mostly they’re happy that I “have my spark back.”

  Why the hel does he cal me Ace?

  “I think we can go out now, Quinn,” Dad says, waggling his eyebrows. “I can’t wait to spend time with our new neighbors.”

  My eyes widen. “Do not say anything!”

  Laughing, he pretends to zip his mouth and heads out the front door.

  He better mean that.

  I help Mom take food out and flick the twinkle lights on as we go.

  Everyone is outside. Lights flicker up and down the street and the Ebson brothers strum the first chord on the makeshift stage they’ve set up. Music drifts through the street. The evening is warm, and the scent of barbecuing food fil s the air. I take a breath and smile.

  Mom walks up to the edge of our property to speak to Juliet. Archer is standing with a drink, red Solo cup to his mouth, eyes pinned on me.

  My steps almost falter but I manage to make myself walk to the edge of our grass. I’m far enough away from Mom and Juliet that they won’t be eavesdropping. Archer meets me, stopping about ten feet away. Beside us is our tree.

  He has this gravitational pul and it takes real effort to not walk closer.

  “People have gone al out,” he says.

  “Awesome, isn’t it. This is what it’s like al the time. Best street in the world.”

  His smile is sarcastic as if he’s trying to disagree.

  Neighbors stop by like we have been given shifts, everyone saying hel o while keeping a safe distance back. Food is dropped in little brown parcels, some with a smal hand sanitizer taped to the side.

  We watch the Ebsons play. Their sign has two drawings of guitars and reads: Rock off, COVID. I’ve read a couple others that I can see from here.

  Apocalyptic party 2020. United We Stand. You’re al my heroes.

  Archer’s is my favorite. Ace. I’m desperate to know.

  The sun is setting, making the twinkle lights grow brighter. I’m sitting on a picnic blanket on the ground. Archer is doing the same from his yard.

  “See how awesome it is here,” I say, soaking in the atmosphere. “And you get to see me every day.”

  He pretends to look horrified as he takes a bite of a Hershey bar that Mr.

  Cotton dropped off like a peace offering. I guess he’s decided they’re okay now. I’m sure he’l have a new conspiracy soon about something else.

  Missions one, two, and three are complete. Though I’m not sure how successful I’ve been staying cool in his presence, but he hasn’t run away so I’m cal ing it a win.

  “The town has its good points.”

  “When lockdown is lifted, I’l take you to the best places. We’l go bowling, trampolining—”

  “Trampolining?”

  I wave my hand. “You’l love it. There’s also an awesome music store, lots of instruments and old vinyls.”

  He rests his arms on his knees. “I want to hear how bad you are at guitar.”

  “Your ears wil bleed.”

  “I’l take my chances. I’l teach you.”

  “I’m total y up for that.” The words leave my mouth far too quickly.

  Abort mission ‘Be Cool,’ it’s never gonna happen.

  He laughs. “I thought you would be.”

  “We could start a band,” I joke. “Who wil sing?”

  “I used to sing.”

  “And play the guitar?”

  “I can walk and talk at the same time, too,” he says sarcastical y.

  “Oh my god, you’re hilarious.”

  He rol s his eyes and smiles.

  “What happened to your old band?”

  Shrugging, he replies, “I moved away.”

  “You can start a new one.”

  “With you?”

  “No, not real y. I do suck. I’l be up front cheering.”

  “Hmm, I’ve always liked the idea of having a groupie.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You might not be that good yet.”

  I could listen to him laugh al day.

  “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when restrictions are lifted?” I ask.

  “Drive around town with my tour guide.”

  “Right. Trampoline park.”

  He raises an eyebrow as if I’ve suggested we do each other’s makeup.

  “Our first date isn’t going to be at a trampoline park.”

  Oh. A date. A date.

  Off you pop, COVID. I’ve got a date with Archer, and I can’t wait!

  The Ebsons begin their second set, playing “Al About You.”

  I glance over just as Archer’s gaze fal s to my lips. Curling my fingers into my palms, I take a breath and count back from ten. You are not going to jump over there. You are not going to even acknowledge the fact that he wants to kiss you.

  We’re not al owed to get kissing close.

  But one day we wil .

  —

  About six hours later, I sit with my back against the tree and look up. The sky is the color of Archer’s eyes. The party is over, my parents are inside watching a movie, but I’m too restless to sleep.

  I’m not surprised when I hear him climb the tree. The surprise is that he has a rucksack on his back.

  He sits on his branch, and I look up to see his profile. Then he turns his head and the intensity in his face almost knocks me out of the tree.

  “Hey,” he says, raking his hand through his dark hair.

  “You went inside an hour ago. Are you sleepwalking? I’m not carrying you downstairs and putting you back to bed.”

  Whatever he was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. His lips press tightly together as he fails to suppress his amusement. His eyes give him away, they’re doing the smiling.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Quinn. How are you?”

  I laugh and shake my head.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine. I like my tree.”

  I vowed to never come up here again but thanks to him, it’s my happy place again. It’s calming. He’s given me that gift and it feels amazing.

  He nods. “The tree is…”

  “Perfect.”

  “Let’s not go that far.”

  “You’re acting chil , but you love the tree and you like it here. You never say much, not about how you feel anyway. I dare you to admit it.”

  His eyes light up. “You dare me? Are we seven?”

  “Chicken.”

  He blinks heavily.

  “Yes, I cal ed you a c
hicken.”

  I’m either talking so fast and so much that he can’t keep up or talking absolute crap. I need to find a saner middle ground.

  “I’m not fal ing for that, Ace.”

  “Do you like living here? I think you do; you’ve been smiling the last couple of days. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

  “Just how much have you been stalking me?”

  “Observing,” I correct. Anyone have a fan for my face? It’s on fire.

  He rol s his eyes. “Sure. I don’t hate it here.”

  “That’s about as good as I’m going to get, isn’t it? I thought things went wel tonight. We had a good time, right? I mean we talked a lot and ate a lot.

  Everyone had fun.”

  His lips part. “Is your head the same as your mouth?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you’re thinking, is your brain going nonstop?”

  “Oh. Yeah, it’s pretty much like a constant tornado of thoughts in my head.”

  “Do you ever have bad days? I have this theory that you’re some sort of robot. Like a government experiment to put one in the community and see if anyone notices.”

  “If that were true, I’d go back, get a software update, and finish school now.”

  He laughs again.

  “You know, I’ve thought that you are either a vampire or a werewolf.”

  “What do you think now? Oh, and I total y had you pegged as a Twilight fan.”

  “Team Edward al the way, baby. Now I think you’re al right.”

  “I’m al right. Try not to inflate the ego too much, Quinn.”

  I laugh. “Do you stil think I’m a robot?”

  He takes the coin out of his pocket and passes it from finger to finger.

  “No. Now I think you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

  He couldn’t have surprised me more if he pushed me out of the tree.

  A laugh rumbles through the tree. “Wow, that’s how you silence Quinn Reeve.”

  I’m surprised my mouth isn’t hanging open.

  Words exist. Why can’t I think of a single one?

  Tilting his head back, he laughs and grips the coin in his palm like he’s scared he’l drop it. “I think I like your shocked face the most.”

  I snap my teeth together. I’m incredible and he likes my face.

  Taking a breath to compose myself—it doesn’t work—I sit up straighter.

  “My best face is my shocked one?” I rasp. My stupid voice is wobbly, making me sound like an absolute idiot.

  “Al right, you got me. Your smile is better. The best, actual y.”

  “Have you had coffee?” I ask. What is going on here?

  I’m rewarded with yet another laugh. “No, but I might be tired of pretending that I don’t want to be around you al the time. Every day for the past two weeks, I’ve seen you smiling and trying to make everyone else smile.

  I can’t stop looking out for you whenever I pass a window, you’re like some sort of human magnet. I’ve been so intrigued by you. And so desperate to talk to you, it’s embarrassing. I’ve caught you watching me more times than you’d admit.”

  “Confession time is my favorite,” I mutter.

  He gives me a flat look. “That’s because so far I’m doing al the confessing. But that’s fine, you came and spoke to me first.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugs. “You’re…much more than anything I’ve experienced. It was a little scary to want the girl next door so bad when you’ve never spoken to her.” He winces as though the confession is actual y hurting him. “I real y like you, Quinn. And I like al of your faces. They’re al beautiful.”

  My heart thuds in my chest so fast I’m seeing stars. It’s the best feeling in the world, kind of like flying without lifting an inch off the floor. My fingers curl into the bark. Al I want to do is climb closer.

  “I like you too, Archer.”

  His chin dips in a nod and his smile widens. “Yeah, I know. You’re not subtle.”

  Oh, great. “I don’t even know how you get eyes that color. It’s insane and unfair.”

  When he looks at me, I almost melt into a puddle. Those. Damn. Eyes.

  “Hold this for me a sec,” he says, flicking something at me.

  My eyes bulge; I lift my hands and snap them together. I caught it.

  Opening my palms, I see his coin. “Archer?”

  “It’s a test. No one has held that since my grandpa gave it to me. I punched a kid at my last school for trying to take it. It doesn’t feel wrong handing it to you. Keep it safe for now.”

  I curl my hand shut and hold it against my racing heart. He’s trusting me with his grandpa’s coin.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Be patient.”

  I can’t. I’m slowly going crazy, wondering what you’re up to with that bag.

  “Do you have supplies? Are we running away?” I ask.

  He smirks, taking out his iPad. It’s in a case with a handle. Attached to the handle is a loop of string.

  This is getting a bit weird.

  “Archer?”

  “Patience, Ace.”

  “Why do you cal me that? It was on your chalkboard.” Today ours read: No virus wil keep us down.

  His eyes flit to me. “I’m not confessing that one yet.”

  “Unfair.”

  While hanging the iPad off two smal broken branches so it faces us and doesn’t swing, he glances my way. “You tel me how long you’ve been

  watching me for, and I’l tel you what it means. It was day one for me.”

  Wel , there’s no point in pretending now, not when he’s admitting the same. “Since the day you moved in. I thought people who look like you were only on TV.”

  He nods. “Ace is ranked the highest in a deck of cards.”

  My mouth pops open audibly.

  I’m his ace?

  “You’ve gone silent again.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter like a fool.

  “Seriously, confession time is very one-sided.”

  “I’m obsessed with you. Are we even now?”

  His smile does stupid things to me. “We’re even.”

  “Good.”

  He taps the screen and brings up Twilight on Amazon Video.

  “Get comfortable,” he says.

  Wait, we’re not talking more about this ace thing?

  “Twilight?” I ask.

  He grunts, and I have no doubt that this isn’t his first choice. Or his hundredth.

  Digging in his bag, he balances a can of Coke and a bag of Haribo on a branch between us. Then puts the same on his lap. He hangs the bag on another branch and sits back.

  Bel a’s voice floats from the iPad.

  “We’re watching a movie,” I say, smiling while my heart does its racing Arch-er beat.

  His eyes connect with mine. “No, Ace, we’re having our first date.”

  “I’m sorry to tel you this, mèimei, but this is not your year.”

  Auntie Xin tsks as she glances down at the weathered pages of her trusted notebook. Wearing a pastel pink tracksuit and framed by a generic picture of a field hanging crookedly on the wal behind her, she looks like anything but the world-renowned fortune-tel er she claims to be. Even the grainy photographs of her with vaguely familiar “celebrities” does little to distract from the fact that we’re crammed into the back office of her Asian snack shop in Houston’s Chinatown.

  For as long as I can remember, Mom has been one of Auntie Xin’s most loyal clients. Since the day she came across the ad offering an introductory session nearly twenty years ago, Mom has consulted the elderly woman on everything from which stocks to buy to when and where we should go on vacation. As if that’s not enough, every year around my birthday, Mom drags me to see Auntie Xin for a fortune reading of my own.

  Mom cal s it a valuable gift.

  I cal it a waste of a perfectly good hour of my life.

  Now that I am
days from turning seventeen, we’re seated across from Auntie Xin, separated by a wooden desk so large I’m convinced they knocked

  down a wal to move in. Despite this, we stil barely meet the six-foot rule for social distancing. Of course, with Auntie Xin barely able to operate a smart phone, a virtual session was out of the question. Instead, we made the trip to see her in person, overheating from the double masks Mom insisted on using for the occasion.

  “Are you sure?” Mom whispers.

  The unnatural y black strands of Auntie Xin’s bangs fal into her eyes as she squints at incomprehensible—to me, at least—lines of characters and numbers that combine to reveal my fortune. Auntie Xin leans back against her equal y ancient chair, the wooden legs squeaking despite its featherlight occupant.

  “I’m afraid so, Chan tàitài,” she tel s Mom. “I even read it against the Daymaster. I am certain. Your daughter wil face great chal enges this year.”

  Besides the global pandemic that has turned my junior year into a never-ending cycle of Zoom lectures and late-night essay writing? Or the highly depressing realization that my social life hasn’t changed a bit since quarantine started?

  I keep this al to myself…especial y the last part. Even before COVID, Mom never failed to complain about how much time I spent at home. Of course, she was also the one who wouldn’t let me leave without knowing who I was with, where I was going, and when I’d be back.

  “What kind of chal enges?” Mom asks, voice shaking. “Are you talking about the virus? Could she get sick?”

  Auntie Xin consults her book once more, muttering under her breath as she flips between pages before heaving a long sigh.

  “It’s difficult to say exactly, but I’ve warned you about Michel e’s weak immune system. That’s why she’s so smal . She’s prone to getting sick, so be extra careful.”

  I resist the urge to rol my eyes. It’s bad enough that at five foot one, I’m the shortest one of my friends…maybe even the entire junior class of Memorial High. But it’s genetics, not my chronic al ergies, that forces me to shop for clothes in the kids’ section. Besides Dad, no one on either side of my family can reach the top shelf at the grocery store.

  “Should Michel e stop working at the restaurant, then?” Mom asks. “We had to let go of al our staff when this whole thing started, so she’s been helping out.”

  Helping out is her way of saying I’m working for free six days a week…or as she puts it, for the privilege of having a roof over my head and clothes on my back. I hold my breath, hoping fortune wil be on my side, but Auntie Xin shakes her head.