Time Between Us (2 page)

I race into the house and take the stairs two at a time. I turn on the shower, peel off my sweat-drenched clothes, and stand naked while I down a glass of water and let the steam fill the bathroom. My reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror fades away behind the thick fog, and when my image becomes completely obscured, I run my palm across the glass, clearing a wet, dotted path in the condensation. I consider my face again. I don’t look crazy.

I spend my entire shower wondering if he was real, whom I can tell, and how I might possibly come out of that conversation sounding sane. As I get dressed for school, his face is still creeping into my thoughts, but I do my best to push the whole thing out of my mind and try to convince myself I imagined it. Still, I vow to avoid the track for the rest of the week. I know what I saw.

I shake it off as I zip into my boots and give myself one last check in the full-length mirror. I run my fingers through my curls, scrunch them up in my hands, and shake my head again. Useless.

Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I force myself to move on to my morning ritual. I stand before the map that decorates the largest wall in my room; I close my eyes, touch it, and open them again. Callao, Peru. Good. I was hoping for someplace warm.

With my travel dreams on his mind, one day last summer Dad spent a secret hour in the garage adhering this giant paper map of the world to a foam-core board. “You can mark all the places you go,” he said as he handed me a small box of red pins. I stood there and stared at it—this colorful expanse of paper, with its topographic mountain ranges and changeable shades of blue to depict the various depths of the ocean—and saw a map of the world, but knew it wasn’t mine. My world was much, much smaller.

After Dad left the room, I stuck the little red pins into the paper, one by one. My class had visited the state capital last year, so I put a pin in Springfield. We once took a family camping trip to Boundary Waters, so I put one in northeastern Minnesota. We spent a Fourth of July in Grand Rapids, Michigan. My aunt lives in northern Indiana, and we go twice a year. That was it. Four pins.

At first, all I could see was that pathetic little cluster of red near the state of Illinois, but now I view the map the way Dad intended. Like it’s asking me to see every square inch of it with my own eyes, challenging me to make my little world larger and larger, pin by pin.

I give the map one last look and head down the stairs toward the glorious scent coming from the kitchen. I don’t even need to hit the landing to know that Dad’s standing at the coffeepot pouring out two mugs—one black, for him; one with milk, for me. I grab my cup from his outstretched hand. “Good morning. Mom already gone?”

“She left before you did. Early shift.” He watches me take a sip, and then he steals a peek out the kitchen window. “Where did you run today? It’s still pretty dark out there.” He sounds worried.

“Campus. The usual.” There’s no way I’m telling him about the guy at the track. “It’s freezing, too. That was a tough first mile.” I pour myself a bowl of raisin bran and plop down on the stool at the counter. “You’re welcome to join me, you know,” I say with a grin. I know what’s coming next.

He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Wake me up some morning in June and I’ll run with you. Until then, you aren’t getting me out of my warm bed for that kind of torture.”

“Wuss.”

“Yes.” He nods and raises his coffee mug in a mock toast. “Yes, I am. Unlike my Annie.” He shakes his head. “I created a monster.”

Dad turned me into a runner. He had been an Illinois Cross-Country State Finalist in high school. With his glory days behind him, now he’s the crazy guy in a professorial sport coat standing at the end of the course, clapping wildly and cheering me on in a booming voice that threatens to take down the forest’s most sturdy oaks. It’s gotten worse now that the cross-country season has ended and I’m running track, where he’s never out of sight and there are no trees to muffle him. Even though he’s beyond embarrassing, he’s devoted. In return, he’s the only one I still allow to call me Annie.

Dad goes back to his paper while I down my coffee and finish my cereal in comfortable quiet. Unlike Mom, who seems compelled to fill silence, Dad lets it stick around like a member of the family. But then the low horn of Emma’s car breaks the calm.

Dad drops one side of the newspaper. “There’s your Brit.”

I give him a peck on the cheek and head outside.

The car is humming in the driveway, and I walk toward it as quickly as I can without banana-peeling on the ice-covered concrete. I let out a little breath of relief when I swing open the door of Emma’s shiny new Saab and fall into warm leather.

“’Morning, love,” Emma Atkins chirps in her British accent. She throws the gearshift into reverse and flies out of the driveway. “Did you hear?” she blurts out, like the words have been locked up in there for hours and she’s finally setting them free.

“Of course not.” I look at her and roll my eyes. “Why would I hear anything before you do?”

“New kid starting today. He just moved here from
California
. That could be good, right?” While Emma’s seen the world, she hasn’t seen much of the States beyond the Midwest. California seems like a fantastic American oddity to her, like frozen custard or a hot dog dipped in cornmeal and impaled on a stick.

“Anything new is good,” I say, and when I turn to look at her, I see that she’s wearing more than the usual amount of eye shadow, extra accessories, and the uniform miniskirt she had hemmed to make it “mini-er.” Clearly the new guy’s been heavy on her mind since she woke up this morning. When we stop at the light, I watch her stretch her neck to look into the rearview mirror and blot her lipstick with her fingertip. Not that she needs any extra help. She’s English, but she looks more like a Brazilian supermodel with her high, defined cheekbones and dark, sultry eyes. Today I didn’t even bother to put on lip gloss, and when we walk into school together, whether Emma’s all dolled up for the new guy or not, I know which one of us turns heads.

Even more extraordinary than the extra effort she’s taken with her appearance is the fact that she hasn’t bothered to put on music. I reach into the glove compartment and start sifting through the pile of CDs, loose and scratching up against each other, until my fingertips feel suede. I unearth the hot pink case I bought Emma for her birthday last year, and start slipping the disks into the little plastic sleeves.

“Hey, why aren’t you more excited? This is big news, Anna. We haven’t had a new student since…” She trails off as she thumps her fingers on the steering wheel, like she does when she’s deep in thought.

I don’t even look up from my project as I finish her sentence. “Me.”

“Really?”

I shrug and nod. “Yeah. Eighth grade. Zits and braces. Frizzy hair. That horrible plaid Westlake jumper.” I wince at the thought of that last one. “New kid. Me.”

“Really…” She stares out the window and thinks about it, like there’s a chance I’m wrong. Then she says, “Huh. I guess so.” She reaches over and pinches my cheek. “And see what a good day that turned out to be! Without you, I’d be singing all by myself. Speaking of which, we’re going to be at school before you choose one. Here.” Emma reaches over and grabs the disk on top. “
Vitalogy.
Perfect.”

We’ve been playing the new Pearl Jam CD practically nonstop for the last three months. She slips it into the stereo and turns up the volume as high as she can without distorting the bass. She looks at me and smiles, moving to the beat as the opening guitar notes of “Corduroy” start out quietly, then build, escalating at a steady rhythm until the car is filled with sound. I lean back into my seat as the drums join in, softly at first, then louder. We hear the last five notes of the intro and that’s our cue—we look at each other and sing.

The waiting drove me mad.…

You’re finally here and I’m a mess
….

We sing every word, loud and off-key, but the final minute of the song is instrumental, so that’s where we really let go. I air-guitar and bob my head while Emma drums on the steering wheel, her hands flying around and slapping the leather, but as close to “ten and two” as I’ve ever seen them. As if she were capable of choreographing our arrival, she pulls into her usual parking space just as the last guitar notes fade to black and twists the key in the ignition. “Pearl Jam’s coming back to Soldier Field this summer, you know? You should get Freckles to get us tickets.”

“Stop calling him that.” I stifle a laugh. “His name is Justin. And yeah, he can probably get us tickets.…”

She looks at me sideways, eyebrows raised. “
Probably?
Come on, he’ll do anything you ask. That boy has it
bad
for you.”

“No, he doesn’t. I’ve known him since I was five. We’re just friends.”

“And is
he
aware of this?”

“Of course he is.” My parents and Justin’s have all known one another for years, and for most of them, he and I were inseparable. But things have changed. Justin Reilly used to feel like a comfortable pair of sweats, but now he’s more like a prom dress. Lovely but itchy.

“Fine, then would you kindly ask your
friend
if he can score us Pearl Jam tickets?” She’s just about to get out of the car, but she stops, seeming to have had a new thought. “Wait, what if he can’t get them? Then what?”

I stare at her. “Do you want to see Pearl Jam this summer, Em?”

She nods. “Of course.”

“And when was the last time you didn’t get what you wanted?”

I wait while she thinks about it. Then she shrugs and smiles. “Am I that spoiled?”

“No,” I lie. Emma gives me her puppy dog look, and I say, “Sometimes, but I love ya anyway,” and that gets a smile.

Emma and I walk from the student lot to the side entrance. Inside, we stamp our feet on the doormat, watching as the heater above us melts the snow on our boots and makes it drip, and for the first time all morning, I have an opening. If I’m going to tell anyone what happened at the track, Emma is the one, and now is the time, but I don’t know where to start. How am I supposed to tell my best friend that a guy appeared out of thin air, smiled at me, and disappeared before my eyes, leaving me with nothing more than an impression of his butt and a nagging mystery to solve?

“Em?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something…weird?” I look around to be sure no one can overhear me, because it’s one thing to tell your best friend that you may be losing your mind and another thing entirely for the news to catch fire and start making the loop.

“Of course.”

We walk toward our lockers and stop, but just as I open my mouth to tell her, Alex Camarian comes around the corner, wearing his basketball jacket and a huge grin, and throws his arm over Emma’s shoulder.

He sticks his face between the two of us, and I hear him murmur into her ear, “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Ugh, Alex,” Emma says, giving him a small push but still egging him on with a half smile. “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation? What do you want?”

Before he can answer her question, the first bell rings. “I’ll tell you what I want…” he says, pulling her to his chest, “…if you walk The Donut with me.”

Emma looks at me. Then at Alex. Then down the circular hallway dubbed The Donut.

She gives me another glance, this time asking silent permission, and I give her what I think is an encouraging smile as Alex offers her his arm. “May I?” His pseudo-sexy voice is matched by an earnest expression that makes him look like he’s trying out for the lead role in a cheesy soap opera, and I watch as she lets him thread his arm through hers and lead her away. She looks back at me with a shrug and a grimace, like she has no choice but to go with him, and mouths the words
Later, okay?

Maybe Alex’s intervention is a sign: if I am seeing disappearing guys, that information may best be kept to myself. I reach into my locker, grab books for my next three classes and a piece of gum for the road, and stand up.

And that’s when I spot him. I freeze, staring at him like the apparition he must be. Dean Parker’s arm is draped over his shoulders in a fatherly way as he guides him through the hall, past the throng of students, pointing into doorways and calling his attention to the signs on the walls. Directing him to his first class on his first day at his new school.

The new student. The one from California. A guy with dark shaggy hair—and there’s no question in my mind, the same guy I saw at the track.

They pass right by me, neither one giving me so much as a glance. I stand there, slack-jawed and pale, as the two of them round the corner out of sight.

I’m usually the first one through the door, but today I make it to Spanish just as the fourth-period bell rings. Señor Argotta watches me with this surprised look on his face, like I’m the last person he expects to be late for his class. He waves the bright yellow tardy slip back and forth in front of me as I walk by. “
Hola
, Señorita Greene.” He tries to look stern, but he can’t hold the expression for more than a second before his face relaxes back into a grin.

“
Hola
, señor.” I race past him with my head bowed at first, but then I turn around and give him an apologetic smile as I collapse in my chair. I remove my spiral notebook from my backpack and dig around for a mint while I contemplate the mystery this day has become.

He’s real. And he’s
here
.

I can’t stanch the flow of questions racing through my head. First: Where has he been all morning? I’ve walked The Donut between every class so far and he’s nowhere to be found. Second: Why would a high school kid who’s new in town be hanging out at a university track at 6:45 a.m. on a Monday? Third: Why did he look at me like he knew me, but pass right by me two hours later like I was a total stranger? Unless…maybe he just didn’t see me. If I could just find him, I’d know.

Where is he?

Alex flops into the seat next to me, and Argotta picks up the pad of tardy slips and waves it at him with a scolding voice and matching expression. “You’re late, Señor Camarian,” he says in his thick accent. But within seconds he returns the pad to his desk, and Alex gets the same understanding smile Argotta gave me.

“Sorry, señor,” Alex says toward the front of the room, and then he leans across the aisle, well into my space. “
Hola
, Anna.” I blink from the glare of his teeth, blinding under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Hey, Alex.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can verbalize the thought, Argotta clears his throat at the front of the room and begins speaking.

“Attention, please! Today we are welcoming a brand-new student.” I look up and my breath catches. “This is Bennett Cooper.” Argotta pauses dramatically while the new guy shifts his weight from one leg to the other and adjusts his backpack over his shoulder. “Everyone, please welcome our new amigo and make him feel at home here.” Argotta points at a seat behind me and one row over, and the new guy starts walking toward it. “Now, essays, please, everyone.”

Twenty sets of curious eyes follow him, settle on him for a moment, and turn their attention to their respective bags to unearth stapled essays on Spain’s admission to the European Union. My eyes are among those that look at him, but are also the only pair that can’t seem to look away.

Bennett. His name is Bennett.

He’s looking down at his desk and playing with the pages of his textbook like he’s embarrassed by all the attention, but after a few moments, he slowly raises his head. I watch his gaze land on the door at the far end of the room, move clockwise around the perimeter of the classroom, and come to a sudden stop when he sees me. Because I’m still staring at him.

I don’t know how long my face has been frozen like this, but as soon as I realize that he’s caught me, the flush creeps up my neck and into my cheeks, and I feel myself do the only thing I can do at this point: I smile. And I wait for it to be returned, with not just any smile, but
that
smile. The one from the track. The one filled with warmth and recognition and…interest. But his expression contains none of the above. Instead he shoots me a small, almost shy smile. The kind of smile one might give a total stranger.

I can’t possibly look that different in my uniform than I did in running clothes.
Why is he pretending he doesn’t recognize me?
I realize I’m still staring at him, and now the tips of my ears are burning and my face has fully ignited. I flip around in my chair and reach down into my backpack, searching for a distraction. My hair starts to tickle my nose, so when I sit back up, I grab a handful of curls, twist it around my finger, and stick my pencil through the middle to hold it in place.

Twenty minutes later, Argotta snaps my attention back to the room when he holds his arms out wide and exclaims, “Let’s do four practice groups today, okay?”

I look down at my notebook and discover that its pages are covered with words and phrases and conjugations, which is surprising, because I don’t think I’ve heard a word Argotta’s said. He points to Courtney Breslin in the front row and says, “Count us off, señorita!
Por favor.
”

“
Uno
.” And the count-off continues, snaking its way around the room until it comes to me.

“
Cuatro
,” I say, and then I listen. And work hard not to move my head at all. A few minutes later, I hear what I’ve been waiting for. The voice over my shoulder says, “
Uno.
”

At the end of the count-off, Argotta yells, “Bring your stuff,” and we begin moving around the room to our newly assigned sections. I’m in Group Four and Bennett is in Group One—clear across the room—and this is where we will stay for the remainder of the class. As quickly as he appeared behind me, he is now as far away from me as possible; but at least I can study him better from this angle.

His uniform is the same as the rest of the guys’: Black pants and a white oxford shirt under a black V-neck sweater. I think he’s wearing Doc Martens, but it’s hard to tell from here. It’s easy to see what’s different: his hair. Most guys wear theirs in some conservative, neatly parted style. Others sport ultrashort Caesars or leave it a little long on top but shaved on the sides. But their hair is never
this
long. Bennett’s is unkempt, hangs just a little over his eyebrows, and looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days. I can’t remember what he was wearing at the track, but the hair…That’s definitely the same. The hair I remember.

When the bell rings thirty minutes later, everyone stands up and moves for the door, blocking my view. I rise and reach for my backpack, quickly deciding to talk to him on his way to lunch, but all I catch is the blur of his head as he vanishes through the doorway.

When I go through the double doors to the dining hall, I spot him right away. He’s sitting alone at a table in the corner, with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I make my way through the salad bar, grab a banana, and fill a large cup with Coke, all while stealing glances in his direction. As it turns out, I’m in no danger of being caught. In the five minutes it takes me to get my food, he doesn’t look up once. He just sits in his chair, holding a paperback in one hand while he picks at his food with the other.

Danielle is already planted at our usual table, and as I set my tray down, I steal another quick look in Bennett’s direction. He spoons out bites of red Jell-O without looking away from his book.

“Scoping out the new guy already?” Danielle asks.

I look at her with surprise, then panic. “No.” I sit down and reach for my drink. “Why?”

“Oh, come on! I’ve been watching you. I’ve never seen anyone work a salad bar with her eyes glued on someone twenty feet away. It’s impressive. Quite a skill.”

The tips of my ears begin to burn. Again.

She laughs and takes a sip of her Coke. “You’re talented, Anna, but you’re hardly subtle.” She moves close and gives my arm a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry. He didn’t notice. I don’t think he’s looked away from that book once.”

Emma arrives breathless, plops her tray down on the table, and takes her seat. “So…what do we think?” She draws out the last word in a higher inflection.

Danielle shrugs and tilts her chair back, balancing on the two back legs and not even attempting restraint as she stares at him across the room. “He looks…oblivious. Do you think he knows there are other people in the room?”

“He looks older, or something,” Emma chimes in.

I pretend to look around the room before letting my eyes settle on him again. It’s not that he looks older—he’s actually got a bit of a baby face. Danielle was closer. He looks indifferent, like he doesn’t seem to care that he’s here—or care that we’re all staring, wondering
why
he’s here—and that alone makes him even more interesting. At least to me.

“Hmmm…I think I’m disappointed.” Emma stares straight at him, taking stock of every detail. She turns back to look at us, eyes wide, nose crinkled. “He’s definitely not what I was hoping for. He looks like every other guy in this cold, dreary town. No tan. No hot blond surfer hair.” She takes a bite of a bread stick. “I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“Maybe that is surfer hair,” suggests Danielle. “How do you know what surfer hair looks like?”

“You know, it’s long.” Emma wiggles her fingers next to her head. “It looks cool. Not like”—she directs her thumb toward Bennett’s table—“that mop top of his.”

“Come on, you guys. Give him a break.” They both turn to me, their professionally shaped brows raised in matching expressions, and stare. “What?” I shrug and take a deep pull on my straw, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat and cool my face.

Emma finally picks up a forkful of salad and directs it toward her mouth, and for a split second, I think I’m off the hook. But then she stops. “Okay, I’ll ask.” The lettuce and tomatoes hover in front of her. “Why do you care what we think?”

“I don’t. It’s just…You’re just being mean.”

“We’re not being mean!” Emma looks at Danielle. “Are we being mean?”

Danielle shakes her head no. “I didn’t think we were being mean.”

“We’re just observing. Like…scientists.” She shoots me a smart-ass grin and pops the fork into her mouth.

I let out a sigh and pick at my sandwich. She’s right. Why
do
I care what they think? It’s not like I know him. And since I don’t seem to be at all familiar to him, I’m starting to wonder if the thing at the track this morning even happened.

Emma and Danielle are watching me intently and exchanging meaningful glances as they eat. Then Emma shoots Danielle her “don’t worry, I’ve got this one” look, turns to me with those soft eyes, and begins to do what she does best: make people tell her things they don’t want to tell her. It’s like a superpower or something. “Anna?” she sings. “What’s going on?”

I look at her like I know this trick, like I’m not about to give in to it, but then I fold. I bury my face in my hands. “It’s nothing. It’s just weird.” I try to say it under my breath, but it comes out loud enough for them to hear. Emma gently pulls my hands away from my face and makes me look at her.

“What’s weird?” Then she remembers this morning, and things click. “Wait, like the weird thing you were going to tell me before class?”

I look around the room, checking for anyone else within earshot, and when I turn back again, I find Emma and Danielle leaning in so close to me their cheeks are nearly touching.

I look around the room again before moving in toward them. “Fine.” I let out a sigh. “So…I was on my run at the Northwestern track this morning. I ran around a couple of times, and all of sudden, I looked up in the bleachers and saw this guy sitting there, watching me. I ignored him at first—I just kept running and he just kept staring at me—but when I came around the bend…” I stop and scan the room one more time. “He was gone. And I mean,
gone
gone. He just…disappeared.” I leave out the part about how he smiled at me.

“Okay, that’s definitely weird,” Emma says and looks at me wide-eyed. She must see something in my expression that tells her there’s more. “And?”

I gesture with my chin toward Bennett’s table. “And that’s
him
.” Out loud, it sounds even weirder than it did in my head.

Emma and Danielle spin in their chairs and take him in again. “Are you sure?” Emma asks without taking her eyes off Bennett.

I look past them, directly at his table. “He looks like the same person. Same build. Definitely the same hair. The weirdest thing was that at the track, he looked at me like he…knew me or something. But he doesn’t even seem to recognize me now.” They’re still staring. “Please stop looking at him.”

“He’s not that bad, I guess,” says Danielle.

“Yeah, if you look past the hair he’s sorta cute,” Emma agrees. But when she turns around again her expression is stern, maternal. “But you know, the track thing is sorta creepy.”