KALYN

THE FIRST THING I notice about Gus’s house isn’t his house at all.

It’s the yard, if you can call something that brand spankin’ glorious a yard. It’s like a goddamn secret garden, a land of downright whimsy. I expect to spot fairies, the way the ivy drapes from the front archway. Sculpted bushes line the walkway and ramp leading to the porch. Gus’s family has a koi pond. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a gator in there, tick-tocking; this place has to be Neverland.

“You could get married in a yard like this!”

“We did get married here.” It’s the first time Gus’s stepmom seems close to shy. Tamara is a riot in overalls, with a cracking laugh and about as much shame as a nudist. I could spend ten years in a car with her.

“Those weeds! Tenacious as hell!” Suddenly Tamara’s bent double over an innocent bed of lilies, yanking bits of green from the earth.

Gus laughs. “Another slaughter.”

I could spend ten years in a car with him, but it’d be a lot quieter. It might be enough to smirk at each other in the rearview.

He’s up to saying something now, working his face into a knot. Tamara smeared antibiotic over his scraped knuckles, stuck Band-Aids in an X in the middle of his forehead. Lifting his bangs makes him look like either Harry Potter or a cult leader.

“What gives, Gussie?” I’ll never guess his name, but his cheeks twitch when I try.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

These plant-smothered fences must muffle sound. I can hardly hear the neighbor’s sprinklers, but I almost hear leaves browning above us.

“Well, damn. Guess I’ll scoot.”

I mime an escape, but Gus tries for my hand. He mostly misses—coordination and Gus go together like ketchup and peanut butter—but his fingers find the tips of mine. “We never have people over. Thanks, Kalyn.”

“Nah, don’t thank—”

“Thanks, Kalyn,” Tamara says, without looking back.

“I—all right.” I know I’m red and whatnot.

Tamara pats her hands down her pants; I bet she wouldn’t recognize the weight of her fingers without soil under her fingernails. “You two wait out here a minute. I’ll go prepare your mother. Gus, you know she’s gonna suggest the cane.”

I have a feeling Gus’s “cane” isn’t the same as my “flyswatter.”

“Think you can argue her down?”

“Depends. What’s in it for me?”

“A weekend of free child labor?”

“Child labor? You’re seventeen, kid.”

“But you still call me kid, lady.”

“You looking for more holes to dig yourself out of?” Tamara winks.

That wink helps Gus’s posture unfurl. Seeing them banter almost hurts. Mom and me would be bickering already.

“Wait. Tam.” Gus leans forward to whisper words into her ear.

Tamara’s eyes get real big. “If you say so.” She heads inside without us.

Gus never pries about all my murderous poverty hints, so I cut him a break.

“So it’s real special, me coming over?”

You can see the grease in Gus’s wheels. “I only get to talk to you twenty minutes a day. It’s all coming up Rose the rest of the time.”

“I’m still me all day. I’m just playing dress-up.”

“You lay on the sidewalk with me. Kalyn would do that. Rose wouldn’t.”

Gus is getting at something true. We don’t hang out beyond secret kiln meetings. Minutes ago I thought I could spend a decade in a car with this guy, so what gives?

“I am stoked to be your friend.”

He’s still unconvinced. “Okay.”

“I mean it. I’d wear you like a hat if I could.”

Gus basically has pale Slinkies Gorilla-glued to his skull. Cocking his head sends them into a little frenzy. “I’m all about ecc, eco, eccentric accessories. But that’s going a little far.”

We wander up that ramp. The wood’s a bit worn down, and I can tell the treads have been replaced a few times. The porch is old but freshly painted, no cracks in sight. Some kind of heaven, this place. We sink into white patio chairs, the kind I always knew rich people would have. I try to make it look natural, but Gus sits in jerky stages. On the table between the chairs is a small jar of colorful, oddly shaped dice. “The infamous D&D arsenal?”

“Those are Phil’s.” Gus is redder than blood can be, a sunset on the porch when it’s only midmorning. “I screwed up today. What if he can’t forgive me?”

“Gus.” I lean forward to meet the wet wires of his eyes, pulling his forehead to mine, ignoring his tiny “ow” when I put pressure on the Band-Aid. “I fuck up every day. Fucking up actually makes you pretty good at figuring things out.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Gus says after a breath that might be mine. “It’s like I’ve been living in a picture frame, like my—but you broke the glass, Kalyn.”

When I visit Dad in prison, there’s usually a pane of reinforced glass between us. When you’re jailed for murder, they don’t always let you in the visitation room. Whenever there’s glass between Dad and me, we do the schmaltzy Spock thing where we line up our fingers, and Dad says, “You’re growing up,” because he’s watching through a screen and doesn’t know that I’m not at all, not really. I imagine I can feel the heat of his palm.

Gus doesn’t feel cold anymore. His forehead’s my fever. His Band-Aid might stick and transfer to me. “Christ, Gus, I’m gonna have to take you to my house.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re just . . . you’re very Gus.”

“And you’re very Kalyn.”

I don’t think that’s ever been a compliment before. It takes the air outta me.

I’m not sure how long Tamara’s been standing there, but she’s tactful about it. Gus pulls away and combs down his curls.

“All right. In you go.” I walk into the chilly air of the white house, and Gus follows. I stop the moment I get a good look at the walls.

My eyes go moony.