Free The Space Between Us by Jessica Martinez Page B

to be any better than Charly’s.
    I deleted it.
    Barefoot and aching from the inside, I made my way downstairs, past Grandma at the sink, past Charly at the table, and out the back door.
    “Did it come?” I heard Charly ask, just before the door clattered shut behind me.
    Please don’t follow me.
    I stared straight ahead. Winter had come, and everything had decided to die—the grass, the citrus, the hibiscus, the maple. The black walnut’s skeleton stood naked against the grey sky.
    A thousand blades of dry grass stabbed the soles of my feet as I crossed the lawn, but there was no way in hell I was going back for shoes. I walked, passing Dad’s ailing lime trees, cringing with each step.
    When I reached the black walnut, I let my fingers run along the rough bark for just a moment before I gripped the lowest branch and hoisted myself up. Behind me, the back door creaked and banged shut again, but I kept climbing.
    “Hey,” Charly called from below.
    I didn’t answer, didn’t look down, just climbed limb by limb until the branches were too thin to hold me and I had no choice but to sit.
    “So, the email . . . ,” she started, then stopped. Hesitation was so rare for the queen of speaking without thinking. “It came?”
    “Go away.”
    “Not good news?”
    “I said go away, Charly.” I plucked a rotting walnut husk from the branch and rubbed the oily black pod between my palms. Grandma had made us gather the walnuts over a month ago, but somehow this one clinging hull had escaped.
    “I’m coming up,” she said.
    I looked down, just in time to see her fingers reach up and curl around the lowest branch.
    Did she actually think she could comfort me? I squeezed the walnut in one hand, rolled it between my palms, then squeezed it again. The impulse was too strong. I had to throw it.
    It hit her forehead with a satisfying clunk and dropped to the ground. “Ouch!” she cried, more surprised than mad.
    I gripped the branch and braced myself for her fury, ready to spew every nasty thing I could think of saying. But she dropped back down to the ground, and just stood there. Slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead into the bark where our names were carved, almost as if she was praying to the tree.
    I held my breath. Anger pumped blood through my veins, but I waited.
    Wordless, she pulled back and walked away. I watched, heard the grass crunch beneath her feet, and felt relief pour through me as she made her way up the steps and into the house.
    She’d left me alone. Now I could cry.

Chapter 8
    A re you nervous?”
    “Don’t talk to me.”
    “In general, or just right now?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Because I won’t talk to you at all if you don’t want me to, but we don’t actually know anybody in Canada, so it might not be the worst thing in the world if we were at least on speaking terms with each other. You know?”
    “Stop talking.”
    “Okay. But first can you pass me that magazine? Somebody already did the Sudoku in this one.”
    I passed her the magazine.
    “Umm, pencil?”
    I slammed my pen down onto her tray, then reclined my seat and closed my eyes. Sleep was my only hope, the only escape from the suckage of reality. Charly, meanwhile, was acting like she had drunk a jug of coffee. Obviously this—leaving Tremonton—meant something entirely different to her, and I got that. For her it was deliverance. She’d been sullen—no, worse—downright hostile for the last eight weeks, and now here she was so giddy I wanted to slap her.
    But her deliverance was my banishment. Staying up all night packing hadn’t helped me much either. I thought I’d had everything ready in advance, but then at midnight I’d looked in my closet and seen all the stuff I was leaving and freaked out. Repacking took forever, but I ended up stuffing another ten pounds worth of clothing into both my suitcases. Six months, two suitcases. Ridiculous.
    “Amelia,” Charly whispered, close enough to my ear that I