Free Words and Their Meanings by Kate Bassett

me.”
    The windows are dark, but I catch a faint glow from the kitchen island light. Mom used to leave it on when Joe was a senior and got to stay out until midnight.
    Mateo moves the gear shift to park. He looks at the closed garage door, then down at his lap, then over to me.
    â€œThanks a lot,” I say.
    I know I need to get out, but I just keep sitting here, watching him blink.
    â€œSure,” he says. “Would have taken you ’til tomorrow to walk home. Besides, it was nice, hanging out with you.”
    Watching his lips fold into themselves, I don’t want to want him.
    I unbuckle my seat belt. Instead of pulling the car door open, I sit statue still. Coffin still. I need to get out of here. My eyes keep shifting toward him. Those lips.
    â€œWell, good night,” I say, opening the door.
    â€œNight,” he says, not putting the Jeep into reverse.
    I count breaths. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
    Mateo clears his throat.
    â€œRight, well, I gotta get home before my mom wonders if I got abducted by some vixen waitress.”
    He flashes a dimple. His thumb grazes my cheek, traces one side of my jaw. I freeze. Except for my heart. It’s echoing into my ears at a maddening pace.
    â€œNight, Anna.”
    And … nothing. He straightens up and shifts into reverse.
    I scramble out, standing in the middle of the sidewalk leading up to my front door until every last trace of red taillight is gone. My skin thrums with a buzz I’ve read about, a buzz I’ve witnessed but never experienced. Rush. Heat. Ache.
    I lie down on cracked concrete, fold my arms across my stomach, stiffen my muscles, open my eyes so wide the stars and moon blur with the black sky, watercolors of light and dark running together. I start counting seconds, then minutes, until I reach nineteen. Because here’s a universal truth: You never feel more aware of what it means to be alive than when you’re falling in love.
    Or dying.

13
    I can’t sleep. It’s 3:45 a.m. and I’ve gone through every possible solution for insomnia: warm milk; counting sheep (only sixty-four wooly critters jumped a fence before I got too bored, but still); reading passages of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea , one of those classics no one could have ever possibly enjoyed; coffin yoga to an old Cowboy Junkies record, with my eyes closed, twice. Still awake.
    The moon casts a hazy light inside my room. I untangle from the covers and get up, throw on one of the sweatshirts my dad left behind, and go to the window. We haven’t put the screens back on yet, probably because it’s always been Dad’s job. I didn’t even notice until now. Guess we ha ven’t opened them much.
    Before I can think about it, I grab my cell phone, yank up the window, and crawl out onto the roof. Last time I was up here was two Christmases ago. It had snowed, so the shingles were full of fluffy white flakes, and Joe and I bundled up and watched the sky. I mean, I was fifteen, so it isn’t like I believed in flying reindeer. At least, I claimed I didn’t believe. I didn’t want to be teased about my secretly-not-meant-to-be-ironic Rudolph Christmas sweater.
    Even though the roof is bone dry, I’m unsteady on my feet. So I sit down and look up. Then I crawl to the left, toward his window.
    For a few minutes, I debate whether or not to text Nat. I start typing a couple times, then hit delete. I start writing, “I’m sitting on the roof outside Joe’s room,” and hit delete again because she’d think I’m about to hurl myself off, even though I’m pretty sure the one-story overhang wouldn’t be enough of a fall to kill me (plus I was only walking that night on the highway, walking with stardust beneath my feet). Texting might not be a great idea.
    I stand up. Turn and face the blackened glass. Put both palms against it. And wait. It’s not as if I expected a ghost to reach up from the other side