Mom is so happy when I get home that her response to "I'm going over to Thatcher's house again" is something so entirely out of character for her, I'm almost stunned into staying and making sure she hasn't been body snatched.
"Go over there as much as you need to, because you need to make sure you study with him again. He is a great help," she says.
"Oh, um, okay, sounds good," I stutter. "Thanks Mom."
Now I'll really test her to make sure she hasn't been replaced by some alien with no idea how protective my mom truly is.
"So, Thatcher wants to come over to walk me back to his house. Is that okay?"
The moment of truth. She gazes off, slowly nodding. "Yes, that should be fine. He seemed like a nice boy."
She's been snatched. That's it.
"Really?" I ask.
"Yeah, why not?" she responds, nonchalantly. Then, probably because she's realized that the question she's asked might not be rhetorical, she asks again, this time more suspiciously, "Why not?"
I laugh. "No reason, it's just that... well, I feel like you would have never let a boy walk me anywhere before. Especially not at night, and especially not a boy you just met."
She inhales deeply, her eyes closed, probably planning her best apology for all of that. Or something. "You're right," she admits. "But... I also need to recognize when you have people in your corner who are also going to make sure you're on the right track. People like Mrs. Thomas. People like Thatcher. Really, I just don't trust Gina, and being that she was your closest and really only friend outside of school for so long, I didn't want to give up the reigns."
"You can trust me, though. Like, by myself. I won't do anything."
She kisses my forehead. "I trust you, it's other kids that I don't trust. The people you surround yourself with influence your future more than you do sometimes. I'm just glad to see you're making better choices now that you're in theater."
"Thanks. I promise, though, that I'll always be myself."
"Easier said than done, but... I will work harder to trust that you won't give in to peer pressure." She rubs my arm before changing the subject. "When will Thatcher be here to pick you up?"
I check my phone. There's a text from Gina waiting for me along with a message from Thatcher. I read his message first: "Leaving now," it reads. It was sent two minutes ago.
"Any second now," I say, as I hit the text app.
"Where did you go today?" she asked. Then she sent a second text about five minutes after: "I'm so happy we have a class together now!!!"
"Well, don't forget to bundle up. Text me when you and Thatcher are heading back, so I can make sure you get here safely," Mom says before heading into the kitchen.
"Will do," I say as I type a text back to Gina.
"Me too," I write in response to her. "But I wish you told me. Your group is going to take the play my group wanted to do now." I send the message, but immediately feel bad.
Gina probably went through a lot of trouble to get switched in the theater class, and it's not her fault that Layla and Patti are fighting over a one act. It's not my fault either. "Oh well, we will find a new play. I'm happy I can see you in class every day now!!"
As soon as I've replied, I see the three dots pop up on the screen that let me know she's typing her reply.
"Sorry about the play," Gina writes. "Want to hang out?"
"Meeting Thatcher to rehearse and study soon," I write.
"Whaatttttttt? Again??" she writes. Then she sends a bunch of winky face emojis. My cheeks flush, just in time for the doorbell to ring. Thatcher is here.
"Yeah again. It's nothing though. Calm down haha," I write before throwing on my coat and heading toward the door.
"Whatever you say," she writes back. I read her response just before opening the door, and I see Thatcher standing on my stoop.
"Hey," I say, slipping my phone in my pocket.
"Hey." He smiles at me. His cheeks are red with cold, and his dark hair, even though it's naturally straight, curls up from underneath his grey knit cap. It's probably about twenty degrees out, but all he has is the hat and a black pea coat. Then he holds his hands up to me, in frozen-still jazz hands. He's also wearing gloves. "I came prepared," he says.
"Hi, Thatcher. How are you?" Mom asks from behind me.
His smile immediately looks more forced, like the smiles the camera guys make you do for your school picture. This must be his for-the-parents smile.
"Good evening, Mrs. Myers. I'm doing well, how are you?"
I don't want to tell him it isn't Mrs anymore so as not to cause any awkwardness, and my mom is gracious enough not to correct him either.
"I'm fine, thank you. Make sure she is back here safely at a reasonable time. By 9, okay? She has a bedtime."
"Mom," I scold. She laughs a bit to herself.
"I'll have her back by 9, no worries, Mrs. Myers."
"I'll see you both then. Have fun, you two."
"Will do, thanks Mom, bye," I say as I hurry Thatcher out the door and close it behind me.
Our boots crunch in the snow, and I try to think of something to say; but all I can think to talk about is the pop quiz. I can't wait any more. "You were right," I blurt out.
"About...?"
"About me," I say smiling. My heart is racing with nervous energy. Why am I suddenly nervous to talk to him? It's just Thatcher. "I have dyslexia, like your brother. And I got a 9 out of 10 on my pop quiz. And the psychologist said I have a high IQ. I'm superior."
He beams. "That's awesome. Not that you have dyslexia," he says, "that you have a high IQ and that you did so well on the pop quiz."
"Yeah," I say. "And I told her about how you read to me last night and how you made me repeat my lines, and she said that I should keep you around to help me. So now you're stuck with me," I say, though I immediately wish I could take it back. It sounds too bold, too desperate. But then he laughs, and I feel at ease.
"Ah man, and just when I was about to get rid of you. No, I'm just kidding," he says quickly, even though his tone was obviously joking. "I'm happy to help, so whatever you need, I'm here."
"Thank you," I say.
We turn the corner and head down First Street toward Chestnut. The cold wind smacks us, and our conversation pauses so we can cover our faces. Once we turn onto Chestnut, the houses block the wind again, and we drop our shields. Thatcher looks at me and smiles. A cloud of warm air escapes from his mouth as he exhales. "So, are you ready to study and rehearse in my dad's shed?" he asks.
"Sure," I say.
"Alright, c'mon," he says, and he leads me through a little pathway between his house and the one beside it and into the backyard. I ran through here last night, but didn't process any of it in my embarrassment. If I wanted to follow my path directly, still marked with two sets of footprints in the snow--one mine and one Thatcher's--I would head off to the right, but Thatcher leads me back to a shed on the far-left side of his yard.
It's small and ordinary looking from the outside. Just a regular vinyl shed with a lock on the door and no windows. But when Thatcher undoes the lock, he presses an LED light button on the ceiling to illuminate the space, and I see it's more than just a shed. Sure, there is a lawn mower at the back and some tools hanging on the wall, but there are blankets on the floor and an outdoor park bench against the side wall. It's not a big space, and actually, Thatcher has to duck to even fit inside, but it's enough of a space to feel like you have your own piece of the world.
I take a seat on the bench, and Thatcher closes the door behind us. He "locks" it from the inside by tying a small piece of rope from the door to one of the wall hooks. "Now my brothers can't bother us," he says as he shuffles around to face me. "They'd be pissed if they knew we were out here, so just in case, I wanted to close us in. I hope you're not weirded out by that," he explains.
"No, not weirded out," I say.
He takes a seat beside me on the bench and lifts one of the blankets from the floor to cover our legs. "Do you have your book?" he asks.
I pull The Catcher in the Rye out of my backpack. "Here it is," I say, handing it to him.
"Okay, onto chapter five."
He flips it open and begins reading. As Thatcher reads me the chapter, I find myself falling in love with Holden the same way I fell in love with Romeo, and it's not because of the characters--in fact, both characters are pretty unlikeable--it's because of the feeling Thatcher puts into them. Thatcher makes them real. I stare at the shed wall as he reads, and I find myself mesmerized by the story. I imagine everything Thatcher says playing out in front of me and as it does, my head somehow finds its way to rest on Thatcher's shoulder.
He stops.
"You're not falling asleep on me, are you?"
I laugh. "No, I'm listening."
I feel his head rest on mine. "Okay," he says softly. "I'll keep going then."
My heart feels so light, like it could float away if it weren't trapped inside my ribs. I listen as Thatcher gives life to Holden. Holden tells me about his brother Allie and about a glove, and I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.
When the chapter ends, neither Thatcher not I move. I feel him take a deep breath, but he continues to rest his head on mine. My brain, my intelligent brain, starts to run wild. A friend would have moved his head by now, right?
"My mom and dad separated when I was seven," Thatcher says all of the sudden, without moving. His gloved hand rests on his thigh. I can see now that there are gaps between the knitting, and the wool yarn they're made from is starting to fuzz.
I don't move, it's too comfortable here.
Thatcher continues. His voice is low and serious, completely devoid of his usual sarcasm. "My mom knit these gloves. It's one of the only good things she left behind. She destroyed us. I won't get into it too much, but long story short, she spent all our savings, maxed out a ton of credit cards in my dad's name, and then ran off with some guy she'd been cheating on my dad with. We were left with absolutely nothing. Less than nothing, actually, because of all the debt. My dad took on three different jobs just to get us out of the credit card debt, since we couldn't take any action against her. It took my dad five years to get out of debt and build back his credit, and even then, we were barely approved to rent here." He finally lifts his head off mine, so I do the same. I look him straight in his chocolate-brown eyes when he says, "Don't tell anyone."
I shake my head. "I won't, but why did you tell me?"
He shrugs. "Holden's past with his brother reminded me of my own, and since the psychologist lady told you to stick with me now, I thought I'd tell you." He smiles, though his lips never part.
"Thanks for telling me," I say. I think about telling him about my family too, but it was never as tough for me not to have the traditional upbringing as it was for him. My mom has always been enough.
"Sure. Well, anyway," he says, "what do you want to do next?"
I shrug. "Whatever."
"You want to just run through our lines?" he asks. "I have mine memorized, so I'll hold the script. Don't hold yours. I want you to really try to remember yours, okay?"
I purse my lips in thought. "Yeah, okay," I agree. I hand him my copy of the script from my backpack, and he holds it in front of him so I can't read any of it.
"Hi there," Thatcher starts as George. "Are you Clarice?"
I can do this, I tell myself. "Yes, which would make you George?"
"That's me," Thatcher corrects me.
"Right," I say. "That's me. Which would make you George?"
Thatcher smiles. "Told you you could do it," he whispers before continuing with his line.
We run through the rest of the scene with only small errors from me, and at the end, he and I both burst out in laughter.
"This scene is going to be awesome," he says.
I smile and agree. "So, you really are happy to have me for a scene partner?"
He looks at me in confusion. "Yeah, of course. I know it sounds pathetic, since we just met, but you're honestly one of my closest friends. I don't have many friends." He laughs at himself.
"I don't have many friends either," I tell him. "So you're probably one of my closest too."
He smiles. I was so wrong about him before. His face isn't plain. It's full of little details that make him unique. Like his eyes. They are brown, yes, but they sort of change shade from light to dark as they expand from his pupils. And his smile. His teeth are sort of square, which makes his smile look like it was hand drawn to be perfect. He even has a big freckle on his jawline. He isn't plain.
That's when I realize I've been staring at his face for far too long, and even worse, he's been staring at me staring at him. "Well, it's still early," I say, pulling out my phone to check the time. A text from Gina is waiting for me on the lock screen, but I don't want to risk Thatcher reading it so I quickly turn it off. "Should we keep going over the lines?"
He pulls out his phone. "We could watch Starship Troopers," he suggests with a smile.
I really don't want to, but I don't want to leave his side either. "Okay," I say. "Let's watch Starship Troopers."
"Yes," he says, logging into his phone so we can watch it on his Netflix app. "You're going to love this."
He turns the light above us off and balances his phone between two of the hooks on the opposite wall. He lifts the blanket up to cover us up to our shoulders, which is definitely helpful since the vinyl walls don't do much to keep the cold out. "You can relax if you want," he says. "It's a small space, so don't feel weird if you want to rest your head on my arm or something."
I'm glad it's dark in here otherwise he'd see my uncontrollable grin. The movie starts with a weird propaganda video for the mobile infantry of this universe. It's super cheesy, and it seems like it is on purpose, but Thatcher isn't laughing; so I don't either.
Then I feel his arm interlock with mine beneath the blanket. I flinch a bit, because at first, I can't tell if I've accidentally touched him or if it's the other way around. It takes me a second to realize it isn't an accident.
"Sorry, is that weird?" he asks in a low whisper.
"No," I say, trying not to let my voice sound too high-pitched with excitement.
"Just so our arms have a place to go, you know?" he asks. "Arms are weird."
"Right," I struggle to say as the movie starts into the actual plot. I'm breathless.
I'm watching the movie, but I barely pay attention to the horrible acting and weird plot line. We stop it halfway through so I can get home in time, and as he walks me back, all I can think is how there's no denying I have a crush on Thatcher Gorsky. What's better is that there's a chance Thatcher Gorsky may have a crush on me too.