The next day, high school feels less overwhelming. Maybe because I know what to expect. Maybe because nobody asked me about my beanie. Powered people are apparently used to weird things.
The day goes by. Math class, history class, the cafeteria, where I eat alone in a corner while watching a girl levitate her applesauce so she can drink it without using her hands. Normal.
After school, I don't go straight home. I don't know why. My feet take me toward the park, the one with the big plane trees and the little lake where the ducks pretend to sleep. The air is cool, a little damp, and it feels good. It clears my head. Here, I'm not the new girl. I'm not the girl with the beanie. I'm just someone taking a walk.
I sit on a bench, my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and watch the trees move for no apparent reason. The wind, probably. Or a high school student practicing somewhere. Who knows.
That's when I see him.
He's standing near the lake, his hands in his pockets too, like he's waiting for something—or someone. Light brown hair. A little taller than me, maybe a little older. And when he turns his head, his eyes are blue. Not blue-gray, not blue-green. Blue. Like the bottom of a swimming pool when the sun hits it.
He looks at me. I immediately look away. Reflexes of a quiet girl. Look somewhere else, pretend to be interested in the ducks, hope nobody noticed me.
Except he walks over.
My heart speeds up. Not panic—not exactly. Okay, a little panic. A lot of panic. He walks toward me, his hands still in his pockets, with a hesitant half-smile, like he's wondering what he's doing himself.
He stops two steps from the bench.
“Hey.”
I don't say anything. My mouth is dry. My cheeks are on fire. I feel the heat rising from my neck to my ears—my real ears, the ones down below, thankfully.
“You're pretty,” he says. Just like that. Simply. Then he hesitates for a second. “You wouldn't happen to have a number?”
Nobody has ever said that to me. Nobody. I'm the kind of girl people don't notice, don't look at twice, and forget the moment they turn their heads. And now this blue-eyed boy in the park is telling me I'm pretty and asking for my number.
I stammer. Of course I do.
“Yeah… I mean… but we don't know each other. Could we get to know each other first?”
He smiles. A real smile this time. Not a half-smile.
“Okay.”
He sits beside me. Not too close, not too far. Just right. And we talk.
About what? Everything. Nothing. The park, the ducks pretending to sleep, high school—he doesn't go to Kitsune High School. He goes to a regular high school two blocks from here. He asks where I'm from. I say I transferred schools. He doesn't ask why. I like that. He tells me about music, and I tell him about Pinterest. He laughs. I laugh too, and it surprises me, because I don't often laugh with people I don't know.
When I check the time on my phone, an hour and a half has passed.
An hour and a half. Like time decided to start running without telling me.
“I have to go home,” I say, and my voice sounds strange, almost disappointed.
He nods. “Me too.”
We stand up at the same time. He gives me a little wave, then heads off in his direction. I watch him walk away for three seconds—not longer, because that would be weird—then I take the opposite path.
When I get home, I leave my bag in the entryway, take off my shoes, and go up to my room. That's when I empty my jacket pocket and find a small folded piece of paper.
He must have slipped it in when I wasn't looking. Maybe when I was searching for my phone. Or when I was laughing.
I unfold it. The handwriting is slightly slanted, a little rushed, like someone who wrote quickly before changing his mind.
*If you have a question or want to get to know me, here's my number.*
Ten digits underneath.
I stand in the middle of my room, the paper between my fingers, and I don't know what to do. Put it away? Save it? Frame it? My heart is beating way too fast for a girl who's just holding a scrap of paper.
I lie down on my bed. The necklace slips to the side of my neck, cold against my skin. The paper is still in my hand. I look at it again. Read the words again. Close my eyes.
I fall asleep like that, fully dressed, the paper crumpled in my fist.
The next morning, my mother's voice pulls me out of sleep.
“Sakura. Get up. Come see me. I have something to tell you.”
Her tone. This isn't her breakfast tone. It isn't the “you're going to be late” tone. It's the same tone as Monday morning in the bathroom, when she closed the door and sighed.
I sit up with a start. The paper falls from my hand. The necklace weighs against my chest.
I go downstairs, my heart tight, coming up with a thousand different ideas.
Does she know about the boy? Is there another rule I don't know about? Is something wrong with the necklace? Is the full moon getting close?
I push open the kitchen door. My mother is sitting at the table, her hands clasped in front of her. She isn't smiling.
“Sit down, Sakura.”
I sit. And wait.