Free When I'm Gone: A Novel by Emily Bleeker

entertain you during work but your own mind. I thought about starting a new school, wondered if you’d be in my same grade, if we’d take a bus together, if you’d be my first friend. It took an hour to finish all the front windows, and the house had cooled ten degrees from the breeze they let in.
    Time was dragging by at an interminably slow rate, and my hair was nearly soaked with sweat. Until I finally got to the windows looking out on the backyard. You were there playing with Ben, popping in and out of the dilapidated shack my mom wanted to tear down. I took my time washing those windows, pushing them open one at a time, trying to decipher the few mumbles and phrases echoing through the backyard.
    I spent the next hour and a half spying on you until my mom caught on and gave me a bucket of Lysol and warm water to wash down the inside of the cupboards, which I worked on until dinner.
    My brother brought you to our house for dinner that night, both of you dirty from playing in the backyard. I couldn’t imagine what you found to do with my ten-year-old brother for three hours in that wasp-infested shed, but I was superbly proud of Ben for remembering his manners and asking you to dinner.
    At dinner, I tried not to look at you, but it was hard. You had a bright smile that made me want to smile back and light blotchy freckles on your cheeks that looked like flecks of sand I could brush off with my fingertips. I found out later that you hated them, but I loved them instantly.
    Dinner was simple—pizza from Dan’s Pizza House and a few bottles of pop. I knew that night must be special because I couldn’t remember one meal in my whole life without some sort of green veggie being dumped on my plate. I didn’t ask questions; I silently crammed slices into my mouth, trying not to come off as a creepy stalker girl.
    You told us about your family, your dad a seasonal fisherman on Lake Michigan, your mom a shopkeeper. You didn’t tell us your father’s real job was being an alcoholic and your mom’s was covering for it. But I could read the sadness in your eyes. I think it was the sadness more than your smile that made me want to know you better. So when Dad asked me to walk home with you to grab our spare key from your mom, my heart almost bounced out of my chest. He couldn’t have known what would come of that request.
    Our feet whispered through the grass as fireflies flickered in slow circles around us. The night was moist and hot and felt like my home in Mississippi.
    “I’ve never seen fireflies before,” I whispered, reaching out to touch one of the lazy bugs flashing in front of my face.
    “Never? How is that possible?” The first words you ever spoke directly to me.
    “Mosquitos are bad in Mississippi. The city sprays like crazy. Kills the mosquitos, but Dad says it also kills the lightning bugs.”
    “Hm, well, we have plenty to spare. When I was littler we used to catch them, put them in jars with holes in the lid. I’d put the jar by my bed, you know, like a lantern.”
    “Oh my gosh, I never thought to do that,” I drawled. I never thought I had an accent until I heard my voice next to your plain, halted phrases.
    We’d crossed the hedge and were finally at your back door. You kicked up the back mat and retrieved a house key with a metallic scrape. The lights were off inside, and I had this sinking feeling you were going home to an empty house. “So, did it work? The lightning bug lantern?”
    “It worked.” Twisting the knob and key at the same time, you forced the back door open and disappeared inside, leaving it gaping open. I wondered if you’d forgotten why I followed you home. You showed up with a key in your hand, the moon reflecting off its silver surface. I put out my hand, and you dropped the key into my palm and shrugged. “I stopped catching them though.”
    “Why? That sounds like a lot of fun.” I searched your face, the freckles, the same upturned nose May and Clayton have. I