Free Through to You by Emily Hainsworth Page B

but he shakes his head. His hair is darker than his sister’s, but they have the exact same brown eyes and freckled nose.
    “Thanks.”
    I rub my knee and look around. This is just awkward. There’s an old TV at the foot of the bed and posters from various pro teams on the walls, though they seem weighted toward the Cowboys. A few Pee Wee trophies dot the bookshelf. I used to have a bunch just like them.
    “Guess you like football,” I mutter.
    Something lights up in the kid’s flat eyes.
    “I’ve been working on my deep pass,” he says with some hesitation. “Throwing from the hips, like you said.”
    Like I said?
    “Yep, that’s … what you’re supposed to do,” I say, glancing away from him.
    If he doesn’t close his mouth and blink pretty soon, I’m out of here. I don’t care who sees me.
    “So … did it hurt?” he asks.
    I tear my eyes from his posters. No one has ever asked me that except Viv. My mind flashes school colors, red and white, then blue and orange— it’s wide open, my feet are flying—then impact . I rub the scar above my knee.
    “Yeah. It hurt.”
    The door bursts open, hitting me in the shoulder blade.
    “Ow!”
    “Shhhh!” Nina hisses. “What are you doing in here? I said wait in my room .”
    I hold my palms face up. “I didn’t—”
    “You okay, O?” Nina interrupts, turning to her brother, concerned. “Sorry about this, give me fifteen minutes … best pancakes you ever had. You okay?”
    “I’m fine.” His face reddens. “Leave me alone.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” she promises, pushing me back toward the door.
    He ignores her and looks at me. “Cam?”
    “Yeah …?”
    “It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
    Nina drags me out of the room before I can answer. She clicks the door gently shut behind us and leads me to one of the closed doors across the hall.
    She’s holding my hand. I pull out of her grasp as she turns the knob. She looks back in surprise for a second, but then raises one finger to her lips and points to the next room. A low, rumbling snore rises and falls through the walls. I follow her into a bare white room.
    The bed is neatly made, covered in a plain white bedspread. There’s a worn dresser by the closet, a small desk with nothing on it but a couple of pens in a mug. A red beanbag chair sits in the corner under a window next to a precisely arranged bookshelf. There are no clothes on the floor. Not even a pair of shoes. I’m afraid to touch anything.
    Viv’s room was always messy like mine—well, maybe not quite as bad as it is now. Her one chair was always heaped with clothes she designated “not clean or dirty.” She tacked photographs and magazine ads all over the walls, interspersed with quotes and phrases she picked up in books, movies, or other people’s conversations.
    Nina’s walls are blank, perfectly white, like a cell. Her bedroom feels more like a guest room, like no one really lives here. There are marks on her mirror as if she used to have pictures taped to it. On one shelf there’s a small photograph in a frame that looks like one of those red British phone booths. The picture is of a man and woman with a baby and a little girl. She has copper hair and a great big smile just like Nina did at the diner.
    “How come your little brother acts like he knows me?” I ask.
    “What?” She looks out the window, away from me.
    “How come Owen acts like he knows me—and you act like you know me—except you didn’t last night at the restaurant?”
    She doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring out the window.
    “Look, I’m not even mad anymore,” I lie. “I just want to know why.”
    Nina finally turns around and there are tears in her eyes.
    “You’re my … best friend.”
    This I’m unprepared for. I hesitate, unsure of what to say—I’d never even met this girl before last week. She wipes her face and her expression goes blank again, emotionless, like she’s regaining some kind of militant self-control. She takes a