Free Every Hidden Thing by Kenneth Oppel Page B

asked. She looked genuinely surprised, which made me surprised for a second until I realized she was playacting. I chuckled.
    â€œNo,” I said, feeling very suave. “We’re not getting off till after you.”
    Her eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
    â€œOne of your students just told my father where you’re going.”
    â€œOh dear.”
    â€œIt’s funny,” I said. “My father wanted me to talk to you and try to weasel out where you were going.”
    She hesitated a moment. “Mine too.”
    I sat back. “Really? So we were both spying on each other.”
    She smiled. “Is that the only reason you talked to me?”
    For a moment I wondered if I’d hurt her feelings. I shook my head.
    She looked unconvinced. I knew her father might return at any moment, so I hurried. “Would you write to me?”
    â€œYes,” she said right away. “Where do I send the letter?”
    â€œJust the post office in . . .” I caught myself. Too much whiskey. “Ha! You’re very good. I almost told you where we’re going.”
    â€œSo why don’t you?
    What was it about her gaze that made me want to tell her the truth? Tell her everything in me. Maybe she’d make sense of it all, keep it safe. Maybe I thought the more I told her, the more she’d like me. At school girls had seemed to like my talk, but usually I was just flattering. I saw what they liked, and the look in their faces made me want to please them better than they’d ever been pleased.
    Right now I wanted Rachel Cartland to stay and like me. I wanted her to trust me. I leaned closer, though there was no risk of anyone overhearing, it was so noisy. “We’re getting off at Crowe, working the badlands to the north.”
    She nodded calmly, but I was pretty sure she was surprised.
    â€œCan I tell you a secret?” I said.
    She smiled. “You are a terrible spy.”
    â€œI shouldn’t tell you.”
    â€œYou don’t need to tell me. I’ll say good night.” She made to get up.
    â€œWait,” I said. “Wait, wait.” I told her about the tooth, all about it. She listened with rapt attention. Our faces were close, and when I finished talking we watched each other expectantly. Her mouth was not lush, but her upper lip had a very precise and pretty notch at its center, and I knew I was about to kiss it. I didn’t care who’d see or what would happen afterward, and I had the feeling she didn’t either. But from the corner of my eye, I saw her stolid father approaching. The sour sight of him made me lose my nerve. I knew I only had a few more seconds alone with her.
    â€œDon’t forget to write,” I said. “I like talking to you more than anything.” My heart was beating fast, and I couldn’t stop myself adding, “You really do have the most extraordinary eyes.”
    My appearance has gone uncomplimented, almost entirely.
    Certainly my father praised me for good schoolwork and my scientific drawings and observations—and I valued these a great deal. But without a mother I was never told I had lovely hair or a pleasing figure or striking eyebrows—or any of those things one is supposed to hear as a girl, even if they’re untrue. My aunt Berton’s few remarks usually involved a criticism of some kind, like my hair looked as though it needed washing.
    The first and only time I remember being complimented for my appearance was in school when I was nine. I was asked to read a passage of Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses,” and I was shy to do it. I did not like people’s eyes on me, and I read it as quickly as possible. Mrs. Hansard, who was always kind to me, nodded and said, “Rachel Cartland, that was quite clear and correct, butI find it hard to believe that you can’t read such stirring words with more passion, when you have such bewitching intensity in your