Free Out of Order by A. M. Jenkins Page A

it.
    â€œHow can you be sure that something really exists unless you touch it?”
    But then, I’m figuring, if I were Palmer, I’d have brought the tape in to show Gutterson. Only Palmer said he’d promised the girl he wouldn’t. Which means maybe he was lying about the tape in the first place.
    Strange thought, that Palmer could lie the way I do. Probably not as much, though. Nobody could lie as much as I do.
    â€œIt could be that blind people actually have greater perception than the rest of us.”
    I focus on Grace again. Blind people—that’s what this was all about. Good thing I said “bad.” Jesus, can you imagine if I’d said “good”?
    And it’s a good thing Grace doesn’t have a clue what all goes on inside my brain. Nobody has a clue. I’m not even sure most of the time. It’s like the Indy 500 with bumper cars in there.
    Grace’s face is still and stern right now, but not because of me—it’s because she’s still trying to figure out this idea about blind people. She’s so intense all the time, always, about everything.
    Her left eyebrow’s drawn in a little, the way it gets when she’s chasing down some thought. I can see that tiny little line next to the inside part of her eyebrow. I call it her thinking line.
    â€œGod, you’re beautiful,” I burst out.
    The thinking line disappears. Grace looks startled for a second, almost like she’d forgotten I was here. Thenher face softens, and suddenly nobody’s smart and nobody’s stupid. It’s Colt and Grace, on the same playing field.
    For once she doesn’t gripe about me saying “God” like that. Instead she smiles, like I’ve given her a present. And then, when I don’t say anything else, she asks, “Want a taste?”
    I’m not really into ice cream, but she’s holding the spoon out across the table—she’s offering to feed me herself. So I nod, and she does it, she leans forward and lifts the spoon to my mouth. I take it between my lips and my teeth, and then she pulls it out slowly while I’m sucking off the ice cream. Her little thinking line is definitely gone. And she’s watching my mouth the whole time.
    â€œColt.” Grace says my name like nobody else can. It sounds like something that tastes good when she says it. “You’re really a sweet person.” She says it softly, looking at me very intent, the way I guess an artist might, if she was trying to draw the lines of my face. “You’ve just got this bad-boy façade.”
    I’m not sure whether to do my wise nod. I’m not sure if “façade” is something I ought to be nodding about.
    â€œSometimes it’s hard to tell who you really are. You’re such an enigma.”
    â€œThink so?” I ask, like I know what she just said. Forget Word of the Day. Her brain’s deep into let’s-analyze-Colt mode, so deep that she’s forgotten to worry as her body gets totally hot for me.
    We’re gazing into each other’s eyes just like in one of those movies she likes, until Grace realizes that her body’s hot for me—you can see the moment it hits her, because her cheeks suddenly turn pink and she ducks her head again and won’t look at me for a few minutes.
    I think then what I’ve thought many, many times since Grace and I started going out. She’s innocent. And I love her, so I’ve got to take it slow.
    But someday soon, the heat from me and Grace Garcetti is going to melt every drop of ice cream within ten miles.

CHAPTER FOUR
The Suckometer Bottoms Out
    So I’m feeling okay again, my life is good, I’ve got Grace again, and I’m one happy guy…until a few nights later, when the shit hits the fan, and suddenly my whole life sucks again.
    â€œNo way,” I yell. “No way I’m going to let a eighth-grader help me with my