I’m late for class.
The afternoon bell rang five minutes ago and I take the stairs two at a time, counting my steps like I’m keeping rhythm on my guitar. I make a pattern of it—two-three, two-four, two-six—when I practically crash into her.
Marion.
I flinch and move to the side and we both find our balance. My hand catches the railing and Marion’s grabs the wall, and we stand there looking at each other, half between steps. Not going up. Not going down.
Her mouth is part open, her hair up, and there’s dust in the sun between us. I think I should say something, but the railing sticks to my palm and my neck starts to itch.
“Hi,” she says, and I watch her mouth close. Swallow and don’t say anything.
I wait for her to talk and she waits for me, and somewhere in the hall below us comes the clang of metal against the floor. It’s probably one of the cafeteria workers unloading ketchup.
I push off the railing and walk away from her, regaining my balance enough to wipe my palms on my jeans. At the top platform, I can’t help but look back. In the same way I can’t help calling my sister. I want Marion to be there.
She is, sunned with dust in her hair.
“Hey,” I say.
She perks up and kind of smiles. But this is like the lake, where I don’t have anything to follow it.
So I just nod. And go to class.