Annika Northman: Part Two

Chapter 1: Normal

Shreveport, 2008

I'm sipping hot chocolate on the third story of the city mall, leaning against the railing and watching people in the food court when the boy comes up to talk to me.

"Hey," he says from my left, making me jump a little. He props his elbows on the railing, playing with a bundle of white papers spread out like a fan, as I straighten and square my feet, glancing to my right and left for Ginger and seeing only strangers. The boy smiles at me. "You waitin' on somebody?"

I've spent very little time around human children, so I can't guess their ages with much certainty. That said, if pressed, I would say this boy is around thirteen. His hair is dark and shaggy, but held down by a hat that looks more like a sock for his skull, the kind of thing that should, I think, be saved for winter, even though it's barely October and I wouldn't even have taken a jacket tonight if Eric hadn't told me to before I left. The boy's eyes are blue. I like blue eyes.

"Um," I say, "Yeah. An employee of my guardian." I raise my hot chocolate to my mouth, because that seems perfectly – what's the word? – nonchalant. I don't really have a better term for Ginger besides "employee of my guardian," but she is the one I'm here with, the one who dropped me off at the coffee shop right behind me after we got my new sneakers (currently still in their box in a plastic bag by my feet) and before she darted off ("For just a minute, I swear!") to take advantage of a sale at Victoria's Secret. That was nearly a half-hour ago.

"Cool," says the boy, which is an odd response, because nothing I said was particularly interesting. "I'm here with my youth group. It's a, uh, special trip, but . . . some of the girls ran off to shop, and the guys, we're just, sort of, killin' time."

"Cool." I trade my little Styrofoam cup from my right hand to my left, because my right palm has suddenly gotten sweaty – oh, but apparently so has my left. Which I guess makes sense, hands tend to do things together. I rest the cup on the railing, still holding it, so there's less of a chance of my dropping it on someone's head far below.

"Yeah . . ." He shuffles the papers in his hands. "I'm Blake."

I meet his eyes, look away, and meet them again. "Annie."

He grins easily, naturally. He's handsome, I think. If you can be handsome when you're still so young. Something in that smile works something loose in me, and I turn my body towards him a little more. "What, um – What is a youth group?"

His eyes widen a little – this is something that most people know, then. I hold a straight face. "Oh, it's – it's, um, it's part of a church. It's for the kids in the church, you know, like, the teens. We get together and talk about God, just with each other."

"Oh."

"Have you not . . . Do you not go to church?"

"Not really."

"Whoa," he says. "That's . . . I mean, you don't look like someone who doesn't go to church."

"What is someone who doesn't go to church supposed to look like?"

"I don't know, just . . . less normal."

"I look normal?"

"Oh, I didn't mean . . ." And he stutters out a few more things, but I'm not listening that closely – not to the words, at least. I'm staring into his eyes, his nice blue eyes, reaching, and reaching, gently, until I feel the tingle in my chest that tells me he's nervous, feel the twinge in my stomach that tells me he's hungry, and hear a faint few seconds of some angry rapper shouting curses at the world – a song stuck in Blake's head. And probably not one that Jesus would approve of.