Within/Without

chapter four.

Val - September 2009

The middle school was a big, big place. Bigger than I thought it would be. I had barely been here for ten minutes and I had already gotten lost.

My parents had seemed happy this morning. Mom had taken me outside, posed me beside one of our rose bushes, took a jillion pictures until Dad came downstairs and chuckled and told her, "That's enough. You'll make her late."

I hadn't been late, but I was about to be, because the clock was edging closer to the starting bell and I still hadn't gotten my locker open. People walked past me in droves, some I recognized, some I didn't. Everyone looked brand new—new haircut, new clothes, new shoes, new friends. Their backpacks were new, too, as were the books and binders they hold against their chests. I was so behind.

I turned back to the locker, and banged it with my fist one more time for good measure. I tried the code again, starting at zero, turning it right, turning it left, turning it right again. I pulled up and waited for the satisfying click of victory, but it didn't come.

I banged on it again. Jo and I—we'd practiced. She was in high school, so she'd been opening these things for like, her whole life. I'm sorry, Jo, I thought. I've failed you.

I was about ready to get up when a pale hand reached in front of me, closing around the combination lock. Startled, I took a few steps back. Beside me was a boy I didn't recognize, a stack of chapter books shoved underneath his free arm, army green backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair was dark and messy and his clothes seemed a bit loose and his eyes were the bluest things I'd ever seen. He was staring at me, and I realized he'd just asked a question.

"What?" Oh. Very graceful, Valerie.

"I said, what's your code?" Just as he asked it, the bell rung above our heads. I wasn't late, yet. But I was close. The boy looked up towards the speakers, the overheads washing his skin in pale gold. "We've only got three minutes."

"Uh. Is this the sort of thing I'm supposed to give to strangers?"

"No. Not at all. But you kind of need me."

He was right. "21-34-7," I told him, and he spun the numbers in like he'd been doing so for months, clicking the locker open with ease.

"How'd you do that?" I demanded, wide-eyed.

He just grinned at me, flashing his palms in my direction. "Magic hands," he said, and the grin faltered, if only for a second. He held out his hand to me, matter-of-factly, like some sort of grown-up business had just been exchanged. "I'm S...Oliver."

"Soliver?"

"No. Just Oliver. Bonavich, Oliver. That's me. Oliver. Ollie. No. Not Ollie, that would be—uh, it's just Oliver."

He grimaced, chewing his lip. I decided to do him a favor, so I just chuckled and shook hands with him. He had nice hands. Not too sweaty, not too cold, with a grip that felt secure without being painful. "Okay, Just Oliver," I said, and he winced a little. "I'm Valerie."

"Just Valerie?" he prompted.

"Val," I said, pulling my books from my newly-opened locker, "if I like you."

Oliver's eyebrows went up. It changed his whole face—made him less mysterious, more friendly. I wondered which elementary school he came from, and what his friends from there would say. Stranger yet, did everyone know this Oliver Bonavich kid except me?

"Do you?" asked Oliver. "Like me, I mean?"

The late bell twanged above our heads, and Oliver cast a look up at the speakers again. He jolted when I slammed the locker closed and turned away from him, in the direction of the other hallway. "I don't know!" I called to him as I walked away. "I haven't decided yet!"

But I had.

Sort of.