Free Tell Me Something Real by Calla Devlin Page A

energy—extra, even.
    â€œI can make you a quesadilla,” I offer.
    â€œYou mean I could have a tofu-free meal?”
    â€œYes. Extra cheesy and full of fat.”
    As he follows me into the kitchen, he snatches a satsuma from the overflowing fruit bowl and liberates it from its peel. “That would be awesome. Real food. I mean, my mom does all this for me, but—”
    â€œYou need something really unhealthy to feel human?”
    â€œExactly. Have a slice of this orange.”
    He separates a piece for me and puts it in the center of my palm. We look at each other, frozen in place, just staring. His eyes hold every possible color, green with flecks of gold and aqua blue. My healthy blood pumps through my veins, filling my heart so much that I think I’ll go into cardiac arrest. How could the body redirect everything to one organ? That’s how I feel—blood abandons my lungs, my kidneys, my liver—everything else that keeps me standing upright, here, in front of him. Bones and skin and that giant bundle of muscle, my heart, the only thing that matters, and I want to reach into my chest and hand it to him, as he handed me the orange. He makes it all worth it. Not Mom’s cancer, obviously, but the resulting collateral damage: losing Jasmine and my friends. Walking down the halls alone. Not having anyone to call when Adrienne is out with Zach. It’s like I spent sophomore year trying to take a deep breath, and I couldn’t, not really, until he walked into the clinic’s courtyard.
    â€œYou should eat that,” he finally says as he pops the remainder of the fruit into his mouth.
    My taste buds fail me. All I feel is his finger tracing my hand. “Let me cook.” Remarkably, my voice box still functions.
    I watch him eat one quesadilla, then another, along with two more oranges.
    â€œYou’re better.”
    He nods. “Yeah. I feel good today. What do you want to do?”
    Nothing that would change this day, his good, energetic, pink-cheeked day. This is the best he’s looked, so much better than when I first laid eyes on him three weeks ago. “We don’t have a car to steal.”
    â€œLet me take a shower and think of a plan.”
    Caleb in the shower. I turn away so he won’t see me blush. “I’ll clean up.”
    â€œI’ll be fast.”
    â€œOkay,” I say.
    The bathroom is at the other end of the house. He won’t be able to hear me. I have just enough time to run through Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major, one of Mrs. Albright’s more difficult pieces. I scoop up the newspaper and sit down on the piano bench, a homecoming. My fingers sweep the keys. I try to focus on the music. The piano anchors me in place, but my mind rises and falls with the piece, levitating through the music.
    â€œYou’re so good. When do you practice?”
    I drop my hands into my lap. “I haven’t been. Not enough, anyway.”
    Water drips from his skin. He didn’t take the time to dry off. He dressed hurriedly and I finger the hem of his T-shirt, which is inside out.
    â€œKeep going,” he says. He pulls my hand off his shirt and moves it back onto the keys. “Come on. I want to hear.”
    I left the front door open, and a breeze rustles the sheet music. I close my eyes and concentrate on the notes. I don’tstart over, back to the beginning. I pick up where I left off and play with everything I have, pouring myself into the music, to the crescendo, and finally the end. He puts his hands on my shoulders and mine remain on the keys. I feel his breath on the back of my neck. The piano and Caleb, both at once.
    I turn around. He pulls me up and kisses me. The kiss I’ve been waiting for since our doomed walk on the beach when I almost killed him. This is the kiss that I wanted when he moved in, when I go to sleep, and when I wake up. This is exactly how I imagined, the closeness of