Free Lovely by Beth Michele Page A

wipes her fingers with a napkin. “What’s wrong?”
    What’s the matter with me ? For a couple of minutes I actually forgot about my brother. I try and shake it off, picking up a brownie and taking a quick bite. “Nothing.”
    She walks around the table and stands in front of me. “What is it? You look really pale all of a sudden.”
    “It’s just that …” I hesitate, unsure whether I want to tell her, but then it’s almost as if I feel a hand at my back pushing me to do so. “It’s my brother; he’s been having these headaches and they need to do some tests to make sure it’s nothing serious.”
    My head drops and I feel her move closer to me, her hand reaching out to fold over mine. A deep sigh leaves my chest, as if that simple touch helped me release something, the something that’s always trying to be strong for everyone else. I take in our hands touching and my eyes make their way back to hers.
    “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is laden with sincerity, as are her eyes. “It sounds like there’s a good chance, though, that it could be nothing, right? Plus, your brother is young and healthy, yes?”
    Here she is comforting me when both her parents are gone.
    “Yeah,” I say, feeling a knot in my throat. My father was young and healthy, too, but that didn’t stop God from taking him before we were ready.
    She gives my hand a tiny squeeze. “If you want, you could always talk to my sister if you think it would help.”
    “Thanks.”
    She pulls her hand away and walks over to the sink. Even though her hand’s no longer on mine, I still feel her touch lingering there.
    I hear the faucet turn on and look up to watch her scrub the brownie plate, her head lifting over her shoulder.
    “If you want to head out,” she says, “I understand.”
    I stare directly into the endless stream of brown in her eyes that hypnotize me even from a distance. “No, I … I like being here.”
    Her eyelids flutter and she smiles as if my words made her day. “Okay.”
    We leave the kitchen and make our way back to the living room, planting ourselves on the rug again.
    “So who’s your favorite poet?” I question, wanting to know more about this intriguing girl before me.
    “That’s easy. Shakespeare.”
    “Why him?” I ask with interest.
    “I don’t know really. He just had a way with words and was such a romantic soul.” She pauses and stares at the pale blue curtains, dips of light finally entering the room. “‘Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.’”
    “Hamlet.”
    “Wow, I’m impressed!” she exclaims. “And you said you didn’t know much about poetry.”
    “I only recognize it because we read it in high school. It’s hard to forget when that was the play we were practically forced at gunpoint to read an excerpt from in front of the whole class.”
    A giggle leaves her mouth and the sound floats in the air above my head. It relaxes me, and I stretch my legs out and lean my head back.
    “It’s really homey in here,” I comment. “I don’t know if it’s all the books, or …”
    “Or what?” she asks.
    “Nothing.”
    “Okay,” she says with resignation. She nudges my foot with her own. That’s twice a part of her body has touched mine today. “So, about the poem, what do you think you’d like to write about? The easiest way to do it is think of something you like, and then just write how you feel about it.”
    “Something I like?” I like you. “Well, I like pizza.”
    “Pizza. Alright, well then think of words that come to your head when you think about pizza.”
    I stare at the ceiling, silently praying for inspiration. “Let’s see … cheesy, pepperoni, scrumptious, crispy, gooey.”
    “Those are really good words,” she sounds enthusiastic, “very descriptive. Now, see if you can put together a couple of sentences.”
    I visualize the pizza I had last night for dinner. “Pizza. Gooey