“Why are you at my car?” My voice sounds hoarse.
I can see his brows rumple, his eyes sharpen as he assesses me with a look that seems both skeptical and irritated. “Are you Evelyn?” he says at last.
“I’m Evie.”
His gaze falls to his battered sneakers for a moment before tugging back to mine. “Evie…I’m your foster brother.”
THREE
EVIE
“But…” I shake my head. “Your name is—”
“James Landon.” I think I must gape, because his eyes roll in response. “I know, I know. It’s a shock to all. My social worker called the school, told me my chart had a misprint: seven instead of seventeen. During a phone call, someone mentioned me being the same age as your parents’ daughter. My social worker assumed they were talking about you.”
And my parents thought the boy would be Em’s age.
“So…” My head feels buzzy.
“Will you let me in? It’s hot as fuck out here.”
I let him in, crank the car, and step back out to call my mom, my backside leaned against my door. She confirms what Landon told me.
“I talked to his social worker all morning, and I still think he’s a fit for us. Can you go to the office and find him? Theresa—his SW—told me he still wants to come to us.”
“He’s already in my car,” I tell her in a low tone. “I’m outside of it.”
“Do you feel good about him?”
Something squeezes in my chest—the knowledge that if I say “no,” he’ll just be…what? Sent off to a group home? Like a dog in the pound…
“For sure,” I tell her quickly, turning so I’m looking into my car window. I can see his jeans-covered legs, his big hand drumming on one knee. “He seems nice.”
It’s a lie, of course. Whatever he seems, I wouldn’t call it “nice,” but…I want him. I want to know him. My whole body feels alight with frenzied energy.
“We’ll be home soon,” I tell my mother.
“Okay. Thank you, honey.”
I get into the car, my cheeks too warm, my chest too tight.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks darkly.
“We’re all good.”
Except that’s not really true either. I feel rattled, as I drive out of the parking lot. Rattled by the vastness of this feeling. Unnerved by the way I want him—senselessly, and without explanation.
He’s quiet, and I’m so nervous, I can’t speak. As I drive the familiar route toward home and he stares out the window, interest wars with my anxiety. Like earlier today, when I talked to him near the school’s front doors, I feel an uncharacteristic sense of boldness. It’s like a shot of adrenaline making me act braver, although I feel more nervous than ever.
“Let me tell you this,” I say, daring a glance at him. “Your room is awesome.” I force myself to smile, even though he looks like misery personified, and my heart is beating too fast. “It’s got a Star Wars poster and airplanes on the sheets. In your bathroom, there’s a Hogwarts shower curtain.”
His eyes are skeptical, his lush mouth tense.
“My little sister and I picked it all out for you, for seven-year-old Landon.” I laugh.
His eyebrows arch as he crosses his arms over his chest. His lips are pressed together, the corners of his mouth curved upward in a kind of smile but kind of grimace, too.
“Em, she wore her favorite Minnie Mouse dress to meet you at her elementary school today. You have to love her or you’ll break her heart. She’s expecting a new friend.”
He doesn’t speak, not with his mouth, so I continue. “I think you’ll find your clothes a little bit too small, but don’t go stealing any shirts. We’ll get you more.”
His smirk bends into a smile; his eyes crinkle. “It’s not funny,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself.
“It’s sort of funny.”
He rubs his hand across his face to hide a small smile.
“You did steal the shirt,” I venture.
“Why do you say that?”
My gaze flickers to him. “Because it’s got gray seams. I couldn’t see before, but now that you’re up close… Pax wears name-brand undershirts. How did you get away with it?”
He does the smirk-smile-grimace thing again, making a dimple bloom in his left cheek. “I’ll deny it if you ever ask again.”
“I wouldn’t. I’m a little square, but I’m no rat.”
“I found it in the locker room this morning…” He taps his forehead. “Wrote my initials on the tag.”
I laugh. “That’s crazy smart.”
“I’m crazy smart.”
“That’s what my parents said.” I laugh. “I was wondering! What kind of elementary school kid needs help prepping for college?”
His eyes shut, and he shakes his head. I want to grab him by the shoulders just to feel their thickness: cotton-covered muscle…
“That’s a pretty big fuckup,” he says, stretching out his legs.
“Age is just a number, right?”
“Is that what the greeting cards say?”
“You’re a skeptic, aren’t you? I can tell. I bet you like Jack Handey. You’re a reluctantly hopeful agnostic who wishes you didn’t have an optimistic streak, but you do, don’t you? I can feel it.”
As soon as the words fall off my tongue, I want to clamp my palm over my mouth. I’ve never been so forward with anyone, nor so presumptive.
To my shock, he laughs. “You’re right. That’s pretty fucking good; I’ve gotta give it to ya.”
“You should be more optimistic,” I say. “Look at what you pulled off today with the shirt. I think things are going your way, Landon. James Landon?”
He nods.
“And what’s your last name? Jones, right?”
“Like Indiana.” He winks.
“Oh my gosh, I bet Em looked for you all day. Poor thing.”
“Your parents…” He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they send me packing after tonight.”
“Why would they do that?”
“You know why.” His eyes narrow.
“Because you’re my age?”
He nods. “Coyote in the hen house.”
I give a laughing hoot. “I’m the hen?”
Again, that rakish nod. His eyebrows lift, and those gray eyes study my face. “I didn’t notice much at first, but now I’m talking to you…” He shakes his head again, and runs a hand back through his hair.
My heart pounds. “Now you’re talking to me…what?” I half-whisper.
He shrugs. “You’re the kind of good girl bad guys always go for.”
“Are you a bad guy?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe you play one. Like an actor in a movie.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like how?” I ask.
He looks at me again—a searching look that unlocks things inside me.
“Blunt and presumptive?” I try.
“You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”
This makes me giggle. “I have socks—and possibly a winter scarf—in my Hogwarts house colors.”
“I figured.” He looks smug. Relaxed now.
“And what are you?”
“You need to ask?” Again, the eyebrow lift, the skeptic.
“No. I really don’t. I know you’re Slytherin.”
He nods once, taking up most of the space in my car and in my heart.
“Every Slytherin needs a friend from Gryffindor,” I tell him.
“If you say so.”
“C’mon. It’s the truth. You know it.”
“I don’t need you,” he says.
“Yes you do. You need someone to call your bullshit.”
“Is that right?” He smiles reluctantly. That dimple.
“It’s right. You need a friend who understands that even though you claim to be from Slytherin, you’re not as scary as you seem.”