Текст книги "Fall From India Place"

Автор книги: Samantha Young

Соавторы: Samantha Young
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“Did you get into a lot of trouble there?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Are you writing my biography?”

Having been surrounded by sarcastic adults my whole life, I was immune to any kind of teasing. I stared him straight in the eye. “So what if I am?”

Marco smirked at my response. “Yeah. I was getting in trouble. They thought it might be better for me here.”

“And is it?”

He shrugged again, a small frown furrowing his brow.

Realizing he didn’t want to talk about it, I changed the subject. “Your name is Marco, right?”

“D’Alessandro. I see my reputation precedes me,” he replied, a wry little smile on his perfect lips.

It occurred to me that Marco didn’t talk like the kind of boys he hung around with at school. And it wasn’t about his accent. I’d overheard them enough to know that they took pride in being rough in speech, sometimes overplaying Scottish slang and swearing so much their mothers’ ears would have bled if they’d ever overheard them. They avoided sounding intelligent, whether deliberately or as a consequence of a collective lack of brain cells.

“Not to sound like a bitch or anything, but I don’t think I’ve heard anyone in the crowd you hang with use a word like ‘precede.’”

He grunted. “One of us needs to know how to read and write. You never know when crime might involve those basic tools of communication.”

Although he was joking, I could hear the edge in his tone and felt stupid. “Sorry. That sounded really judgmental.”

“Maybe. But I guess you’re not wrong.” He slid me a look and it was as if he saw right through me. “Some of us aren’t great at school. I’m not great at school.”

Another question popped into my head; I couldn’t help myself. I’d never been so curious about anyone before. Then again, I’d never gotten butterflies from just being in someone’s presence before. “What are you great at?”

A cloud passed over his features. “I don’t know.”

“You must be good at something,” I insisted. I couldn’t imagine that Marco didn’t have some kind of talent. There was just something so special about him. I didn’t even know what it was, but I knew it. I just knew it.

“Design and tech.”

I stared at his hands, feeling somewhat envious. I’d been rubbish in design and tech. I tried to make a Perspex clock in the shape of a star and it ended up looking like… well… a star that had been in a car crash. My metal coat pegs almost caused me a fatality of the thumb and my wooden pencil case didn’t close correctly. “You must be really good at it to be taking it in fifth year.”

He didn’t say anything, just scowled at a leaf that skittered by on the pavement.

Hmm. “So what do you want to be?”

He shot a quizzical look my way. “What do you want to be?”

“It changes every few months,” I answered in consternation. My friends all knew what they wanted to be when they were older. I still hadn’t made up my mind between a writer, a teacher, a doctor, or a librarian. “I really need to focus.”

“Maybe you should be a reporter.”

I snorted at his teasing. “The twenty questions? Right. Sorry.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” His eyebrows drew together, as if he were surprised by his own confession.

Encouraged, I jumped to my next question. “D’Alessandro? Like the restaurant?” There was an Italian restaurant with that name, only a five-minute walk from my house.

“It’s my uncle’s.”

“Great food,” I said honestly.

Again, he didn’t respond.

I got the feeling he didn’t want to chat about anything related to family. “I heard the pizza in Chicago is the best.”

That received a grin. “You heard right.”

“Do you miss your friends there?”

He was quiet again, so I thought he wasn’t going to answer this one either. I was thinking it was a no-go on any really personal questions, but then… “I didn’t really have friends. Not good ones anyway.”

Our footsteps slowed as we found ourselves on my street. I squinted against the sunlight peeking through a cloud as I looked up at him. “I hope you’ve found good ones here.”

When he looked at me my heart almost puttered to a stop at the warmth in his eyes. “You got a name?” he asked softly.

I shivered, not understanding my body’s reaction to him. “Hannah Nichols.”

He smiled, drawing to a stop to hold out his large hand.

Feeling the butterflies riot in my belly, I determinedly ignored them and placed my small hand in his. I tried to hide my reaction to the tingling that shot up my arm from where we touched. I wanted to tighten my grip and had to mentally stop myself from doing so.

“Nice to meet you, Hannah.”

“You too. Thanks for helping me out with Jenks. And for walking me home.”

“Not a problem.” He let go of my hand and I instantly bemoaned the loss of his touch. He took a step back, preparing to leave, but I grew still at the suddenly stern expression on his face. “Try not to miss the bus again.”

He disappeared down the street before I could say anything, and I stared after his broad back, feeling so many things I’d never felt before.

After walking into my house, only to spend the evening distracted, I came to one conclusion: I had my first crush. On Marco D’Alessandro.

I should have joined the debate team. I shook my head, marching toward the main exit of the school and cursing my shyness to hell. At the beginning of the year my politics teacher had asked me to join the school debate team, and because I was sure I’d never be able to speak up and articulate in person what I was so good at saying on paper, I’d turned the offer down.

Now I’d missed the bus because I’d come across the team working in an empty music classroom and had stopped to listen to them. I’d been filled with the sudden urge to just stride in, introduce myself, and start airing my opinions. I had loads of opinions inside of me. I also had this fear that one day they’d just explode out of me, wreaking havoc and leaving disaster in their wake.

There were so many things I was missing out on because of how damn quiet I was. And in truth, I wasn’t really that quiet anymore. I said what I thought at home, consequences be damned.

I frowned back in the direction of the school as I opened the exit door. It was definitely time for a change. I could feel it coming.

With a sigh of regret, I hurried forward, my eyes searching out Marco and finding him waiting alone by the gate for me.

For whatever reason, over the past year Marco had waited at the gate most days, watching me get on the bus. There had been several times I’d been late and he’d walked me home. Most of those times my lateness was not my fault, but I do admit to being deliberately late a few times in the last couple of months just so I could be around him.

I was addicted to the feeling inside me when we were together, or even when I was thinking about him – and I thought about him a lot. He didn’t make me feel like a shy, awkward nerd. And to my delighted surprise, I discovered that I could make Marco – this boy who was definitely prone to brooding – laugh. He laughed at my jokes and teasing and he constantly remarked on how smart I was, as if it was something to respect rather than to mock. When I looked at him, my belly would flip, my pulse would race, and I’d get this delicious tingling all over my body.

I wanted him to kiss me so badly.

I couldn’t tell if he felt the same way. I was fifteen now and five foot nine. Boys at school had started paying me more attention since I’d grown boobs and my hips had filled out. But I didn’t know if Marco had noticed those things.

He’d surprised me over the last year. He wasn’t the most talkative person on the planet, but he was patient with my questions even if he didn’t answer a lot of them. He let me chat about the books I was reading and the music I was listening to and actually seemed interested when I did.

He’d also been there for me when I told him about the time my family went through one of its most difficult situations. When I was thirteen my big sister, Ellie, was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and although it turned out to be benign, the whole thing scared the crap out of us all. As had the brain surgery she’d had to have. I’d never really talked about it with anyone, or the effect it had on me, but Marco listened to me and somehow managed to give me comfort in his silence.

As well as discovering that he was a great confidant, I’d also discovered that he wasn’t as terrible at school as he’d made out. Although some of his friends found themselves in trouble at school, Marco was quiet and kept out of the drama. His height and broad build had made other students wary of him. His good looks and the fact that he was American had made him popular. And his brooding intensity had given him a reputation for being utterly cool, and so all these things combined had garnered him respect. I knew he wasn’t a typical bad boy, no matter what rumors I heard. He studied and he worked with a tutor. He’d passed his exams last year, excelling in design and tech, maths, and P.E. He had an English tutor and his grades were passable.

“Why were you late this time?” he asked, falling into step beside me.

I shrugged, not really wanting to talk about the fact that I was failing at life.

“Should I be worried?”

The fact that he might care enough to be concerned for me made me feel all squishy and warm inside. I gave him a soft smile. “No.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

I chuckled, kicking a stone out of my way. “You don’t tell me stuff.”

Marco seemed to process this. “Well, what do you want to know?”

Deciding that today was a good day to try to be brave, I asked, “Why don’t you talk about your family?”

He gave me a look as if to say, “I should have known you’d go there.” “I don’t really get along with them,” he admitted.

“All of them?” Since I came from a close family, the idea that Marco was estranged from his didn’t sit well with me. I knew how happy my family made me. I wanted Marco to be equally happy.

“Nonna, maybe – my grandma,” he replied. “Not Nonno – my grandfather. And not my uncle Gio. His wife is nice. Him, not so much.”

I didn’t like the sound of that at all and I wanted to know more, but this was more information than I’d gotten out of him in the past, so I decided not to push my luck. “I’m late because I was listening in on the debate team. My politics teacher asked me to join at the beginning of the year. I said no and now I wish I hadn’t. I need to grow some balls, Marco.” I sighed.

“You’ve already got them. You just to need use them. This supposed shyness of yours is all in your head.”

“And how did you get so smart?”

Marco gave a short bark of laughter and drew to a halt. I stopped with him, my eyes widening slightly as he stared at me intently. “You’re the first person to ever say that to me.” He shook his head. “I’m not smart, Hannah.”

Ignoring the shiver that chased down my spine as it did anytime he said my name, I gave him a disapproving look and skirted around him to sit down on the steps of the Georgian apartment building we were outside of. I looked up at him, my expression completely serious. “You don’t have to be book smart to be clever, Marco.”

Marco stared down at me for a few seconds and then sighed as he lowered his tall body onto the step next to me. His arm brushed mine and heat rushed up it, exploding through me. My cheeks flushed furiously, but Marco didn’t notice. He gazed out into the street, seeming lost in thought. Finally he asked quietly, “And you think I’m clever?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitating.

I did think he was clever. And talented. And so much more than he even realized.

His lips twitched. “I don’t think I’ve said anything clever to you.”

“You have a dry, clever sense of humor. You get my jokes,” I cracked, nudging him with my arm. While he smiled at me in return, I continued. “You always think before you speak. Some of the most intelligent people in the world haven’t learned how to do that.”

His eyes washed over me and my insides dipped like I was on a roller coaster. We’d never been this close to each other before.

“I bet your parents tell you you’re smart all the time,” he muttered.

“Yeah, they want me to believe in myself.”

“That’s good. You should believe in yourself.”

I made an impulsive decision right at that moment and my palms began to sweat as the blood rushed in my ears. “I think believing in yourself means having to be brave sometimes.”

Before Marco could reply to that, I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his. My heart was slamming so hard in my chest I could barely hear anything over the sound of its beating. Marco stiffened beneath my kiss, but I didn’t pull back. Instead I put more pressure behind it. Seconds later, I felt the heat of Marco’s hand on my waist and his lips moved against mine.

I didn’t have time to feel relieved or triumphant because he was kissing me back, taking control of the kiss, and sending my hormones into overdrive. My skin was flushed, my lips tingling, and all I wanted was to sink deeper into him and feel his hands all over my body.

My hands suddenly had a life of their own, one coming to rest on his knee, while the other cupped the nape of his neck.

He squeezed my waist and I sighed involuntarily, my lips parting on the sound. Almost instantly I felt the touch of Marco’s tongue against mine, and the surprising bolt of lust that hit me between the legs made me stiffen in shock.

Just like that, I found myself pushed away as Marco abruptly stood up.

I looked up at him, panting for breath, watching him rub his hands over his short, dark hair and drag them down over his face. Then he dropped his hands and his taut features were revealed to me as he lowered his incredulous gaze.

Before I could say a word Marco strode down the steps and disappeared up the street.

CHAPTER 4

The fourth-year class erupted into boisterous conversation as soon as the bell rang. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor, jotters were stuffed into backpacks, and friends who had been separated in my seating plan reunited as they headed toward the door.

I had finished a year of teacher training at the beginning of the summer, and now I was two months into my probation year. Once this year ended, I’d be fully qualified. After that came the really hard part – finding a permanent teaching position.

I felt confident that I knew what I was doing, but every now and then someone would remind me I was just starting out and there would be this moment of panic. I couldn’t let that kind of self-doubt win, and I definitely couldn’t let it show. Kids were like predators – show a sign of weakness and they’d take you down.

My eyes caught Jarrod Fisher’s as he lazily put away his things. His friends, two of my problem kids in this class, stood by his desk, waiting on him. From what I had heard they followed Jarrod’s example, but in my class Jarrod wasn’t a nuisance, though his friends were obnoxious brats. I’d heard stories from the other teachers, however, that Jarrod could be a menace. He swore, he talked back, and he disrupted lessons.

I wondered what was causing him to clash with those teachers. I got his cheeky side, but never an aggressive manner.

“Jarrod, may I speak with you, please?” I asked, and then gestured to his friends to leave the room along with the rest of the students.

As per usual they ignored me, looking to their ringleader.

As per usual I didn’t let that fly. “Boys. Out. Now.”

The boys threw me dirty looks but turned and walked out of the classroom. Jarrod stood up, stretching out his tall body. He grabbed his backpack and came over to me slowly, a small smirk playing on his lips. At fifteen he was already well over six feet. With his dark skin and light eyes he’d reminded me of a certain someone from my past the moment he’d entered my class. After I discovered the photo two nights ago, that resemblance seemed somehow more pronounced. Of course, Jarrod was less brooding, but perhaps just as angry underneath his cocky charm. Sometimes it was difficult not to wonder what caused that anger in a boy so young. Sometimes it was difficult to try not to care about that and just teach him English.

“What’s up, Miss Nichols?” He slouched against my desk, completely at ease with me.

“I’ll be handing back the first draft of your personal essays tomorrow, but I wanted you to know that you did exceptionally well.” I studied him, knowing there was more to this cocky boy than met the eye. There had to be. I knew that after reading such a wonderful essay about his little brother. “You’re very insightful, Jarrod.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Seriously?”

“I’ve written notes. You can look it over tomorrow. I just wanted you to know that I enjoyed it.” I gave him a knowing look. “If you would work like that in all your classes, you’d do well. You should start thinking about university.”

The spark that had lit in his eyes at my praise died, but he offered me a cheeky smile. “And why would I do that? That’d be no challenge for the teachers.”

I gave him a look of reproach. “Jarrod.”

He shrugged. “They piss me off. Mr. Rutherford does it deliberately. I’m not going to sit there and take it.”

I didn’t know if that was true or not, but since Mr. Rutherford, a maths teacher, rubbed me the wrong way whenever we crossed paths, I couldn’t find the words to disagree with Jarrod.

Instead I went with, “Don’t swear. And don’t let anyone stand in the way of your future. You’re a really smart kid. You should do something with it.”

“If you say so, Miss Nichols.”

“I do say so. Maybe the other teachers would as well if you’d stop smart-arsing them.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Did you just swear?” he teased.

Knowing I’d be in trouble if he decided to report me, I cursed myself inwardly. Sometimes it was hard to separate teaching the kids and volunteering with the adults. When I swore in front of my literacy class it was no big deal. Swearing in front of youngsters? Not so professional. I shook my head in innocence. “I don’t recall doing so, no.”

Jarrod laughed. “Look, the other teachers aren’t like you. They’re immune to my charm. That’s the problem. End of story.”

“Oh, Jarrod.” I gave him a mock-pitying look. “I’m not charmed by you. You aren’t that charming. What I am is pleasantly surprised by your abilities.”

“Whatever you say, Miss.” He winked at me and then swaggered out of the room as if life was one big joke. It was all a pretense. I saw through his crap.

Although I felt we had a rapport, I did worry about whether my advice and encouragement were penetrating the barriers he had built up around himself. I knew all about building walls. Sometimes you needed those walls to keep folks out because letting them in broke down the glue that was holding essential pieces of yourself together… but there were times when you needed to learn when to let those walls down, to let people in because they were the glue that held you together.

Perhaps I’d have a better chance at getting through to Jarrod if I were better at recognizing the difference myself. I’d learned quite young that there was a massive divide between theory and practice.

Sometimes I just couldn’t quite pull myself out of theory.

I had my reasons.

I reached down for my bag, ready to pack up and return home to do my marking there. Shoving a folder into the large handbag, I heard a crinkle and knew exactly what had happened. I’d crumpled the photograph.

Hands shaking, I reached in and tugged at the photo, pulling it out and smoothing it flat with the tips of my fingers. Why had I kept it? Why had I brought it to school?

Staring at the photograph of me – the younger, cockier, romantic sixteen-year-old me – as I smiled into the camera for the selfie I’d taken with my friend Marco, the boy I’d fallen for hard, I wondered not for the first time where that version of me had gone.

It was funny… I sometimes wondered if I lost her because of Marco, and yet I think I hadn’t found her until I met him.

I couldn’t explain how I knew there was something wrong when Marco texted me to meet him. It’s not like he hadn’t done that before. I’d met him several times at a library to help him with his Higher English work – a course he didn’t need to take because he already had an apprenticeship with a joiner in Edinburgh. That didn’t seem to be enough for Marco, though. It was like he was challenging himself, trying to prove to himself he could do what other people told him he couldn’t. He’d surprised me over the last year and a half with his quiet determination.

It wasn’t always about schoolwork. Sometimes he texted me to meet him at a shop or a restaurant only to spend the next few hours wandering the streets of Edinburgh with him, me chattering away while he mostly listened. That kiss, that impulsive kiss, so long ago was never discussed. He’d avoided me for a month after that kiss. But kissing him and being rejected had actually been somewhat liberating. Okay, it hurt like hell and I felt humiliated, but after a while I began to realize that the world hadn’t ended. I’d done something for me, something brave, and I’d made it out okay. It had changed my perspective. I spoke up in class now, and I stood up for myself and for my friends against petty name-calling. I entered my short story in the junior writing competition my English teachers had urged me toward, and I joined the debate team.

That was sort of why Marco started speaking to me again. I, of course, missed the bus after my first meeting with the team, and when I walked outside, there he was. He never said a word to me about the kiss. He just pretended like it had never happened.

As long as I got to spend time with him, though, I was able to shove my disappointment deep down inside myself.

Usually I was filled with excitement when on my way to meet him. However, this time I was filled with a sense of foreboding as I walked in the early dusk toward Douglas Gardens.

The small gardens that ran alongside the Water of Leith were empty. Except for the large figure sitting on a bench.

“Marco?” I asked quietly.

He gave me a nod as I approached, and as I got closer his features came into better focus, as did the red swelling under his left eye. I sucked in a breath and hurried toward him, sitting down close. Without thinking I reached a hand toward his face, my fingertips tracing the skin just underneath the developing bruise.

“What happened?”

He looked lost. I felt a painful ache in my chest for him. “Some people are afraid of me. Because of my height, my build, the rumors, my reputation.” His mouth quirked up at the corner in disdain. “And some see it as a challenge. Me as a challenge.”

Infuriated for him, I lowered my hand to rest on his shoulder. “What did your uncle say when he saw?”

Marco snorted. “Hannah, who do you think did this?”

I didn’t know what I wanted to do more: cry for him, or bring a world of pain down on his uncle. There would never come a time when I would understand how an adult could abuse a child under their protection because I’d never known anything but absolute love and devotion. I knew Cole had suffered at the hands of his mother and Jo at the hands of her father. I’d felt helpless upon hearing that. I felt helpless again.

“Has he… has he done this before?”

He shook his head. “And probably never will again. Aunt Gabby went ballistic at him. She told him she’d leave him if he ever touched me again.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “I like your aunt Gabby.”

That got a smile out of him. “Yeah, she’s cool.”

“Did you tell your grandparents what he did?”

“Hannah —” He smiled sadly. “Nonno pretty much hates me. He could give a crap. I was bad news in Chicago. I hung around guys that were getting into really ugly stuff. That’s why my grandparents sent me away.”

Intrigued, I leaned forward. “Why do you think your granddad hates you?”

My mum’s dad had died before I was born, but my dad’s father was still alive and he always showered me with love the few times a year I got to see him. I couldn’t understand a grandparent hating his grandchild.

“I’m half African American. My Italian grandfather can’t stand the fact that his precious daughter slept with a black guy.”

My lips parted in shock. “He’s racist?”

Marco shrugged. “My dad could have been Japanese, Jewish, or Mexican and it would have pissed Nonno off. What mattered was that my dad wasn’t Italian and my parents weren’t married when my mother got pregnant. Nonno is really old-fashioned and a total traditionalist.”

You could call it whatever you wanted. There was no excuse for mistreating a child ever, and for it to be based on simple genetics? I was furious for Marco. “Was he awful to you?”

Marco shrugged again, but this time he met my gaze when he said, “My mom pretty much disowned my dad and my grandparents wouldn’t let him near me. He gave up, took off before I was even one. My mom stuck around for a few years, but she couldn’t take being a mom. She was only seventeen when she had me. And she couldn’t take the fact that her dad, who she’d once idolized, couldn’t stand the sight of her and the massive disappointment she represented. So she took off too. Left me with them.”

My stomach felt heavy. “How bad was it?”

He looked me straight in the eye and I knew by his expression he wasn’t going to tell me. By not telling me, though, he left my imagination to work overtime and I felt nothing aside from fury at his grandfather and a need to protect Marco. “Nonna’s great. She tried to make up for… everything else. And most of the Italian side of the family are great. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to live with them.”

“So you got in trouble and they sent you here to your uncle?”

He nodded, a scowl forming on his handsome face. “My mom’s big brother. My aunt Gabby is Scottish Italian, but her dad is originally from Chicago. She came for a visit years ago and my uncle Gio fell for her. They came up with the idea for the restaurant, her parents had capital, he moved here with her, and D’Alessandro’s was born.”

Silence fell between us and I suddenly felt awkward touching him. I dropped my hand and settled back against the bench. My eyes moved down the long sprawl of his legs, and I thought that if he’d wanted to, Marco could have fought back. He didn’t. Out of respect or refusal to be brought down to his uncle’s level, I didn’t know. I just knew it made me care about him even more.

“Is this why you texted me?” My voice sounded loud in the darkening gardens.

“Nah. I texted you to hang out with me. To talk.”

I laughed softly. “You? Talk?”

I felt warm all over at the sight of his grin. “I talk. I just did, didn’t I?”

“I suppose. But you’re really more of a listener.”

“Whatever.” He shook his head at me, still grinning.

Wanting to keep him smiling, I attempted some easier conversation. “Well, you said talk, so I’m going to make you talk more.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded, turning to the side and stretching my arm out along the back of the bench. Marco shifted slightly, turning his body in toward mine. “Let me see… okay. What’s your favorite song?”

“‘Dirt Off Your Shoulder’ – Jay Z.”

I burst out laughing and his smile widened. “You’re lying.”

He shrugged.

“Seriously? Favorite song?”

Marco sighed, rubbing his hand over his head. He seemed almost self-conscious as he replied, “‘Hurt’ by Nine Inch Nails.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” But I’d definitely be YouTube-ing it when I got home.

“It’s good. Real, you know.” He shifted again so he was sitting to the side, facing me. “Nonna’s neighbor died and her son inherited the house. He was a big Nine Inch Nails fan. He’d blast that music, pissing off Nonno and half the neighborhood. Nonno sent me over one afternoon when I was twelve to tell the guy to shut it off. But when I got there ‘Hurt’ was playing. I’d never really paid that much attention to lyrics until that moment. Didn’t get how they could be like a letter someone wrote to you… to let you know you weren’t alone.”

For some reason this brought tears to my eyes. I’d never wanted to protect someone the way I wanted to protect him. I thought if he saw, he would resent it. But sitting there with him, looking into his eyes as he looked into mine, I knew Marco could discern how I felt about him. And for once he didn’t walk away. Instead, his expression softened, his eyes warmed, and he asked, “What’s your favorite song?”

I beat back the wetness in my eyes and smiled. “I grew up listening to Bob Dylan. My mum’s a huge fan. Have you listened to him?”

Marco shook his head. “Not really.”

“‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ That’s my favorite song. It’s kind of a sad song, but it doesn’t remind me of sad times. It reminds me of day trips to the Highlands with the whole family, or lazing around on a Saturday afternoon, just Mum and me. I suppose sometimes it’s the memories associated with the song rather than the song itself that makes it a favorite.”

“That sounds cool. I’m glad you have a cool family, Hannah. You deserve that.”

I frowned at the seeming insinuation behind his words. “So do you, Marco.”

When he didn’t reply, I pushed the frustration over not being able to help him with his family life aside, and asked, “Favorite movie?”

I saw his cheek lift into a smile again and I relaxed. “Training Day.”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“We’ll fix that oversight. What about you?”

“My favorite movie? Or my real favorite movie?”

He chuckled. “Both.”

“The movie I tell everyone is my favorite is Dead Poets Society. It’s a great movie, but it’s really my mum’s favorite movie.”

“And yours?”

I felt my cheeks heat a little. “Okay, you can’t tell anyone.”

He laughed. “How bad is this?”

“It’s Finding Nemo.”

Marco grinned. “It’s not that bad.”

“Out of all the movies of all time, I choose Finding Nemo. An animation,” I reminded him.

He shrugged. “I chose Training Day. It’s not what everyone else holds up as a great movie – your favorite movie is one you enjoy a lot. A movie you can watch over and over again because for whatever reason you get something out of it.”

“You’re right. You’re completely right. From now on I’m owning up to Finding Nemo.”

“Oh, I never said that,” he teased. “Keep that shit to yourself until you’re out of high school.”

“Hey!” I punched him playfully on the arm and he burst out laughing. Watching him, knowing I’d lifted his mood, made me feel like someone had wrapped us up in a warm cocoon. The connection between us had strengthened. “Next question. Favorite book?”