Our feet shuffle along the gritty sidewalk until we reach the Satis House grounds. Caleb helps me clear the same gate we escaped through, the smell of burnt embers from the bonfire still lingering in the air. The charred remains pop and glow in the middle of the courtyard, and I take in the view before I leap down to the ground on the other side.

  We’re not so far past curfew, which gives me a little relief. Too much relief, perhaps. In my tired and distracted state, I walk face-first into the boobs of the women’s dormitory guardian. I could have sold it if maybe I ran into her inside the dorms, but I didn’t. I was two feet on the other side of the gate we escaped through, and my co-conspirator was straddling the high fence behind me.

  My tired heart is out of beats, and my legs give way along with it as I fall to the ground in a limp and graceless collapse.

  CHAPTER 13

  I wasted an hour trying to learn how to say I am frustrated in French. Je suis frustré.

  This is, of course, not on my test. I’m still glad I know how to say it, given I have said it about seventy-four times now. I slam my book closed, sending a flurry of notecards in all directions around my table and to the floor.

  “Je suis frustré!” It feels good to shout. I crane my neck to the hallway behind me and wave an apology to the two guys who have been studying for their physics test in the room opposite me.

  “Sorry,” I mouth. They just glare.

  “Pardon.” I say the French word aloud, then giggle to myself because I’ve crossed over into insanity. They still aren’t amused, but they go back to their own studies. I bet they ace their test. I, on the other hand, know every word that will not be on my exam. I am completely incapable of stringing words together into a sentence. Why is learning a language so hard?

  With a groan, I push out from the rolling chair and get on my hands and knees to gather up my study cards. When the glass door behind me swings open, I lift up and bump my head on the bottom of my desk.

  “Shit!” I rub the sore spot and fall to my ass to turn around to see my company. I was expecting Nicki. She promised to bring me a snack if I was here later than six. It’s seven. But those aren’t Nicki’s shoes.

  “What is…palm?”

  My eyes glaze over on Henry’s damp shoes. He’s wearing his white Vans, and sweatpants that he probably sleeps in.

  “Pomme,” I say, correcting his pronunciation for apple. At least I’ve got this much down. Maybe if I string together enough partial credit, I can pass the unit exam.

  I crawl out from under the table and rip the notecard from Henry’s hand without looking him in the eyes. I haven’t been able to look at him since the night we snuck out a week ago.

  “Awe, come on. Is it still gonna be like that, Lily?”

  I stuff my tongue in the side of my mouth and pause halfway between him and the table. A cynical laugh puffs from my nose.

  “I spent the last six days re-striping the track. Even though it’s nowhere near track season. Today…it rained. You think that Caleb and I got a pass because of the rain? No. You know what we had to do?”

  “Paint in the rain?” Henry laughs at his own dumb joke, and it irks me so much that I shift my gaze to him just in time to see the shrug that accompanied his response. His expression is smug, or maybe that’s just the way my mood colors it. His hands hang in his pockets, pants pushed up to his calves and an old Cubs T-shirt with the bottom ripped hanging loose on his body. His hair is just wet enough to make the waves curl tighter. It’s been pouring all day.

  “We scraped gum. Because the rain should soften it,” I say, putting on the voice of Dean Orson. I let my head fall to the side and tip my chin so I can glare at him one more time before shaking off a laugh of my own. “I guess we’re still doing this,” I breathe out, frustrated with him. Angry at him.

  Je suis frustré…furieux!

  He’s not going to leave. It’s been like this all week. I’ve gone through four half-ass apologies with him. The first the next morning—late morning. I got a hungover phone call that I let go to voicemail. I made it halfway through the message, all the way to the part where it was Lexi’s fault because she gave him a pill and he didn’t know it was Molly.

  I didn’t delete the message. That’s on me. I kept it with the hope that there’s something in the rest of it that redeems Henry. I haven’t listened to it all the way through yet because it more likely doesn’t. I’d rather stay optimistic.

  The next three apologies came in person. One at my door, with a flower that I’m pretty sure he picked from the landscape outside. It was wilted. Henry said it was winterized.

  It was dead.

  The other two were ambushes, much like this, only Caleb was with me, walking from one class to the next. Caleb forgave Henry right away. He lives with him so I guess he has to, but he can’t give me a compelling reason to let go of my grudge, even though he wants me to. I’m not done grudging yet—even if Henry smells like wood and rain, and is still picking up my cards with me.

  “You can go,” I snap, standing with half of the cards in my hands. Henry freezes on one knee, holding a small handful of my notecards in his right hand. He taps them against his leg and glances down at them before picking up the last card and straightening the small pile. He stands, still holding them in front, fidgeting nervously and moving his feet inches at a time as if he’s trying to find solid ground.

  “Lily,” my name hangs between us for long, quiet seconds, and the more neither of us speak, the more anxious I get—about everything.

  “Henry, I have a test tomorrow, and I’ve been studying every night after the service hours I have to do because I got caught sneaking out. If I don’t get this…this…” I toss my cards back on the table and reach forward ripping all but one of the cards from his hands. I hold them up and fan them out in front of him. “If I can’t get this stuff in here…” I tap the side of my head and toss his cards with the rest of mine. “I’m going to fail. Epically…fail.”

  His lips tighten as his gaze travels just below my eyes.

  I hold my hand out for the final card and he glances at the words then hands it to me.

  “Thank you.” I blink my gaze to him briefly, then turn my focus back to the angry mess I left on my desk. I scoop the cards together in a pile and slide the chair out from the desk so I can regroup and focus. I can feel Henry behind me. I haven’t heard his feet move once, and I don’t think he’s taken a deep breath. I do, lifting my shoulders high and holding them scrunched up against my neck before I release the tension and blow out heavily through my lips.

  “Do you still get to audition? For the showcase?” His voice vibrates. I wonder if my worst fear has just now hit him. How selfish of him.

  “No. They took it away,” I lie, feeling instantly guilty for playing a game like this with him. That’s not who I am—a liar. I glance over my shoulder and catch a hint of his guilt-ridden features from the corner of my eyes.

  “I’m kidding. It was a reprimand. Because sneaking out, it seems, happens all the time,” I add, moving back to the French cards I’ll never memorize.

  He’s still there. And as long as he stands behind me, silently, I won’t be able to read a Goddamn thing.

  “I really am sorry, Lily.” His apology is whispered this time. It’s pathetic, but for once, I think it’s honest. I’m not sure if he’s sorry because of how I’m treating him, or because he feels bad about dragging me out and acting like a fool.

  I don’t like that version of him that I saw.

  “I know you are, Henry.” I sigh. “Look, I really need to study.”

  I turn to the side with my arm over the back of the chair. The rain outside is pelting the library roof, nearly drowning out the roar of thunder that vibrates the walls.

  “If you’re going to stay…at least help.” I shrug, and my inner voice calls me weak. I won’t memorize anything with Henry in the room. I’ll just sit here and vacillate between being mad and forgiving him.

  “Elena took me to France when I was eleven. We spent the summer there. I know a little.” His lips twist into a half smile that falls into a slight one, the kind that begs to stay.

  I nod my head toward the table and turn back to face my studies. A second or two later, Henry pulls up a chair across from me and begins to gather my cards in his hands.

  “Do you want to try colors?” He’s flipping the cards around so much that they start to spill again. I flatten my palms on the table with a heavy slap, startling him frozen. His eyes flash to mine.

  “I don’t know any of it. And if you’re going to bring nervous energy in here, you have to go.” I deflate with the weight of hopelessness tugging down my shoulders.

  Henry’s nod is short, and incredibly jittery. It makes me laugh because it reminds me of the time my mom tried to train a dog we rescued. The poor thing was so frazzled by her slur of commands that he just kept peeing on the floor. We gave him to our neighbors. I bet they still have him.

  Inhaling slowly through my nose in an attempt to calm my own racing pulse, I force an apologetic smile on my lips and look him in the eyes.

  “I’m stressed. I’m sorry.”

  He gives another jittery nod and smiles through gritted teeth.

  “Colors sound great. Let’s start there,” I say, letting my head fall forward to rest on my now-folded arms. I close my eyes and listen to nothing but the words, and I fail—over and over again.

  The first half hour is a worthless string of him asking me phrases and me not getting any right; the next thirty minutes shows some progress. Somehow, despite the massive distraction that Henry Alderman is, I retain about half of the things he quizzes me on the first time. We go through them four more times, and with each pass, I get something new right. I slip up on a few, but he corrects me, and I’m almost always able to finish the sentence on my own.

  It’s almost eight, and my stomach is beginning to rumble. I can tell Henry’s hungry too. I’ve heard his stomach growl.

  “Je suis un pain à la banane.” I stumble through a sentence of my own making, and Henry’s face pulls in tight, one eyebrow high as he looks up at me from the cards in his lap. He’s become more relaxed, but I’m still not certain of his expressions.

  “You’re…a banana bread?” He pauses with his brow quirked, laughter perched at the edge of his lips.

  My mouth tightens to hold my amusement in, but it spills out quickly.

  “Is that seriously what I said?” I ask.

  Henry nods through a belly-shaking cackle. He works to regain composure, looking down at the table top with his palm spread out in front of him on the wood. His hair flops down over his forehead and he takes three or four deep breaths so he can be serious. His mouth keeps trying to hold its form, but it just continues to break into a grin that brings his eyes to me again.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, holding his palm out to excuse him.

  His lips are thin, stretched and working so hard. His dimples are deep, and his eyes blink rapidly. He’s suddenly my Henry—the one who loves to slide on wooden floors late at night.

  “Je veux du pain à la banane,” he finally says through a straight face.

  I blink at him twice.

  “Je suis un pain à la banane.” I repeat it the way I said it the first time, knowing it’s wrong. I do it because I love the way Henry laughs, and he reacts exactly as I hope. His head falls forward to the table and his voice goes an octave deeper with a dramatic groan.

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “I’m hungry,” I respond instantly.

  “Oh God, same,” Henry says, leaning back in a massive stretch that lifts his shirt up his stomach just enough to show off his skin. I look, and he notices, so I quickly look down at my book and tuck my hands under my knees in my chair.

  “Let’s get a snack at the hall. I have credits. And it’s still open,” he says. I glance up, and he cocks his head enough to send a trickle of hair down over his brow. He blows it back with a crooked smile, and I realize that I’m no longer mad at him. It isn’t fair, but it’s the truth. He charmed his way right back. The French didn’t hurt.

  “Okay,” I say, sliding my book into my bag and taking my stack of cards from Henry so I can tuck them inside too. I zip it up while Henry hits the switch for the lights. My neighbors are still hard at work on their physics studying, and Henry knocks on their glass wall, giving them a thumbs-up when they look our way.

  “I’m pretty sure they hate me,” I grumble without moving my lips.

  “Yeah, well, they’re geniuses. Geniuses are assholes…so they hate everyone.” He doesn’t even mask his voice, and I wonder when their eyes flicker if they heard him. When one of them flips Henry off, I assume so. We both laugh under our breath and wave as we walk toward the exit.

  The rain is a steady sprinkle now, so we only have to jog to the dining hall to stay semi-dry. Henry gets to the door first and holds it open for me, catching my arm when my feet slip on the wet tile.

  “Whoa there,” he says as I stumble to get my balance.

  I titter nervously, a little embarrassed but more flustered because he’s touching me. Twelve hours ago, I pictured his face as I scraped away gum as a punishment, and I stabbed the sidewalk heatedly, dropping F-bombs every few breaths. And now he’s touching me, and I…I like it. How can I be angry at him when his touch gives me butterflies?

  “I’m good; I’m good,” I say holding my arms out. He drops his hold and steps away with his hands out, ready to catch me as if I’m a balanced tower of tea cups. I smirk at him bashfully and he chuckles before leading the way into the snack bar. Henry grabs a pack of white-powdered donuts and I get a small bag of trail mix and a banana. I hold it up and repeat the French words that led to this snack run, getting it right this time. Henry claps lightly and whispers, “Bravo.”

  “You mean, très bien,” I correct, setting my snacks down for the clerk to ring up.

  “Touché,” Henry says, picking up his things and walking backward to lead me out to the tables near the windows. His teasing draws out a tight smile on my lips, and it stays there while I sit down across from him and catch his gaze still on me.

  I busy myself with my banana first, breaking off the end and setting it on a napkin before taking a bite.

  “Something against that part of the banana?” he asks.

  “Oh,” I mumble with a full mouth. I shrug and chew down my first bite. “The little hard part on the tip bugs me. It’s…gross.”

  I take another bite of the soft center and try not to blush when Henry bunches his brow at me, amused by my quirk. I have lots of them when it comes to food, like picking away nearly every piece of orange rind, and working the skin off beans. It’s tricky, and it means that it takes me forever to eat. Alice won’t serve chili anymore.

  He reaches toward the napkin and pinches the banana tip between his thumb and index finger then holds it up to inspect it.

  “You know, they say spider eggs might be in the bananus,” Henry says, squinting as he draws the dark little bit closer to his eyes. I actually have heard that—it’s what led to my banana-tip protest. He turns it in his hand a few times then, without warning, pops it in his mouth, grinning as he swallows.

  I just stare at him with my mouth open in awe.

  “What?” he chuckles, tearing into his donut package with his teeth and following the spider bite with an entire donut, white powder dusting his lips.

  I shake my head and fold the peel over the rest of my banana, opting instead for my trail mix.

  “It’s urban dictionary stuff. Nobody really knows what that thing is called. I would know—I did an entire paper on it in sixth grade.” He grabs my banana and unpeels what’s left, eating the rest whole—other black bit and all.

  “You’re full of shit,” I say, leaning my head to the side and glaring with one eye smaller than the other.

  His mouth moves in slow circles, chewing and smirking all at the same time. I try to judge the look in his eyes but give up under the intensity, letting him win. He’s too good at bluffing to know anything for sure, and lord knows I can only stare into his eyes for so long without acting goofy and forgiving him more than I want to.

  After our initial gorging on snacks, we both begin to pick at our food quietly for a few minutes, his whole bites getting cut to halves and quarters until he has two donuts left. I separate out the raisins in my trail mix, saving the chocolate flecks for last. Henry steals one, and I swat at his hand playfully. He turns in his seat, protecting his shins from my swinging feet, so I clutch the rest of my trail mix in my palm, losing a few sunflower seeds in my haste.

  “You can have those,” I say, waving them off like I’m royalty tossing him bread.

  “That’s bird food. I don’t want that,” he says, brushing the seeds to the floor.

  “Is not.” I squint my eyes and shake my head. I pinch a handful of my mix and push it in my mouth, and Henry lunges across the table at me. I react by holding my trail mix closer but I also blare out a loud, “Ahh!” My pulse races with my nerves, and Henry’s hand stops, fingertips just short of my arm.

  Playful laughter slows into a hum, and eventually…silence. I’m left with nothing but his stare. Those eyes get me into trouble. They make me break rules, but they also make me try things I probably never would. They make me care more than I should. They make me feel like maybe I’m just a little special to the guy looking at me, even though I know I’m not.

  Henry’s lip ticks up with a faint laugh and he slides a few inches back, his hand dragging along the table. I let my hands fall to my lap, the last few berries and seeds stuck to them along with the small bits of chocolate. I look down at my open palms and laugh at my mess, then reach up for the napkin and begin wiping it all away.

  “I really am sorry, Lily.”

  My jaw automatically flexes at his apology. I’ve heard it so many times this week that I don’t know if it can feel legitimate at this point.

  “I know,” I say, my mouth falling into a soft line while I continue to clean my hands. The napkin is beginning to shred but the stickiness is still there, so I start to rub my palm on my jeans. I know when I look up again, Henry’s eyes will still be waiting. His hands haven’t moved anymore.