Everything, Everything Part 6

"Fifteen minutes?"

"No."

Later Still

"Please, Carla-"

She cuts me off. "And here I thought you were doing fine."

"I am. I am doing fine. I just want to meet him-"

"We can't always get what we want," she says. From the flatness of her tone alone, I know it's a phrase she uses on Rosa all the time. I can tell she regrets saying it to me, but still she doesn't say anything else.

She's leaving for the day, halfway out my bedroom door when she stops. "You know I don't like saying no to you. You're a good girl."

I rush right through this opening. "He'd get decontaminated and sit across the room, far, far away from me and only for fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes at the most."

She shakes her head, but it's not a firm shake. "It's too risky. And your mother would never allow it."

"We won't tell her," I say instantly.

She gives me a sharp, disappointed look. "Do you girls really find it so easy to lie to your mamas?"

To Those Who Wait

Carla doesn't say anything about it again until just after lunch two days later.

"Now. You listen to me," she says. "No touching. You stay on your side of the room and he stays on his. I already told him the same thing."

I understand the words she's saying, but I don't understand what she's saying.

"What do you mean? You mean he's here? He's already here?"

"You stay on your side and he stays on his. No touching. You understand?"

I don't, but I nod yes anyway.

"He's waiting for you in the sunroom."

"Decontaminated?"

The look on her face says what do you take me for?

I stand up, sit down, and stand up again.

"Oh, Lordy," she says. "Go fix yourself up fast. I'm only giving you twenty minutes."

My stomach doesn't just flip, it does high-wire somersaults without a net. "What made you change your mind?"

She comes over, takes my chin in her hand, and stares into my eyes for such a long time that I start to fidget. I can see her sorting through all she wants to say.

In the end all she says is: "You deserve a little something."

This is how Rosa gets everything she wants. She simply asks for it from her mother with the too-big heart.

I head to the mirror to "fix myself." I've almost forgotten what I look like. I don't spend a lot of time looking. There's no need when there's no one to see you. I like to think that I'm an exact fifty-fifty mixture of my mom and dad. My warm brown skin is what you get by mixing her pale olive skin with his richer dark brown. My hair is big and long and wavy, not as curly as his, but not as straight as hers. Even my eyes are a perfect blend-neither Asian nor African but somewhere in between.

I look away and then look back quickly, trying to catch myself unawares to get a more accurate picture, trying to see what Olly will see. I try out a laugh and then smile, with teeth and without. I even try out a frown, though I'm hoping I won't have cause to use it.

Carla watches my antics in the mirror amused and bemused at the same time.

"I almost remember when I was your age," she says.

I don't turn around, talking instead to the Carla in the mirror. "Are you sure about this? You don't think it's too risky anymore?"

"You trying to talk me out of it?" She comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Everything's a risk. Not doing anything is a risk. It's up to you."

I look around my white room at my white couch and shelves, my white walls, all of it safe and familiar and unchanging.

I think of Olly, decontamination-cold and waiting for me. He's the opposite of all these things. He's not safe. He's not familiar. He's in constant motion.

He's the biggest risk I've ever taken.

Future Perfect

From: Madeline F. Whittier To: Subject: Future Perfect Sent: July 10, 12:30 PM By the time you read this we will have met. It will have been perfect.

Olly

The sunroom is my favorite room in the house. It's almost all gla.s.s-gla.s.s roof and floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s windows that look out onto our perfectly manicured back lawn.

The room's decor is like a movie set of a tropical rain forest. It's filled with realistic and lush-looking fake tropical plants. Banana and coconut trees laden with fake fruit and hibiscus plants with fake flowers are everywhere. There's even a babbling stream that snakes its way through the room, but there are no fish-at least no real ones. The furniture is aged white wicker that looks like it's been sitting in the sun. Because it's meant to be tropical, my mom keeps a heated fan running and a slightly too-warm breeze fills the room.

Most days I love it because I can imagine that the gla.s.s has fallen away and I'm Outside. Other days I feel like a fish in an aquarium.

By the time I get there, Olly has managed to climb halfway up the rocky back wall, hands and feet wedged into crevices. He's pinching one of the large banana leaves between his fingers when I walk in.

"It's not real," he says to me.

"It's not real," I say at the same time.

He lets go of the branch but remains where he is on the wall. Climbing for him is like walking for the rest of us.

"Are you going to stay up there?" I ask, because I don't know what else to say.

"I'm thinking about it, Maddy. Carla said I had to stay as far away from you as possible and she doesn't seem like the kind of lady that you p.i.s.s off."

"You can come down," I say. "Carla's not as scary as she seems."

"OK." He slips effortlessly to the floor. He puts his hands into his pockets, crosses his feet at the ankles, and leans back against the wall. I don't think I've ever seen him so still. I think he's trying not to spook me.

"Maybe you should come in," he says, and then I realize that I'm still in the doorway holding on to the k.n.o.b. I close the door but don't take my eyes off him. His eyes track my movements as well.

After all the IMs I felt like I knew him, but now with him standing in front of me it doesn't feel that way at all. He's taller than I thought and way more muscled, but not bulky. His arms are lean and sculpted and his biceps fill the sleeves of his black T-shirt. His skin is a tanned golden brown. It would be warm to touch.

"You're different than I thought you'd be," I blurt out.

He grins and a dimple forms just under his right eye.

"I know. s.e.xier, right? It's OK, you can say it."

I guffaw. "How do you manage to carry around an ego that size and weight?"

"It's the muscles," he shoots back, flexing his biceps and raising a single comical eyebrow.

Some of my nervousness falls way but then comes right back when he watches me laugh without saying anything for a few seconds too long.

"Your hair really is so long," he says. "And you never said you had freckles."

"Was I supposed to?"

"Freckles might be a deal breaker." He smiles and the dimple comes back. Cute.

I move to the couch and sit. He leans against the rock wall across the room.

"They're the bane of my existence," I say, referring to the freckles. This is a ridiculous thing to say because, of course, the bane of my existence is that I'm sick and unable to leave my house. We both realize this at the same time and then we're both laughing again.

"You're funny," he says after our laughter subsides.

I smile. I've never thought of myself as a funny girl, but I'm happy that he thinks so.

We are awkward together for a few moments unsure what to say. The silence would be much less noticeable over IM. We could chalk it up to any number of distractions. But right now in real life it feels like we both have blank thought balloons over our heads. Actually, mine's not blank at all, but I really can't tell him how beautiful his eyes are. They're Atlantic Ocean blue, just like he'd said. It's strange because of course I'd known that. But the difference between knowing it and seeing them in person is the difference between dreaming of flying and flight.

"This is some crazy room," he says, looking around.

"Yeah. My mom built it so I could feel like I was outside."

"Does it work?"

"Most days. I have a really excellent imagination."

"You really are a fairy tale. Princess Madeline and the Gla.s.s Castle." He's quiet again, like he's trying to build up to something.

"It's OK to ask me," I say.

He's wearing a single black rubber band around his wrist and he pulls at it a few times before continuing. "How long have you been sick?"

"My whole life."

"What would happen if you went outside?"

"My head would explode. Or my lungs. Or my heart."

"How can you joke ... ?"

I shrug. "How can I not? Besides, I try not to want things I can't have."

"You're like a Zen master. You should teach a cla.s.s."

"It takes a long time to learn." I smile back at him.

He crouches and then sits, back against the wall, forearms on his knees. Even though he's still, I can feel the need to move coming off of him. The boy is kinetic energy.