Page 21 of Haunt Me

“D’you want to give me your number?” I ask her. I have never asked a girl for her number more awkwardly before, and I don’t even care. I just need her number so that I don’t freak out again if she’s not under our tree.

“My number?” she kind of freezes.

“Yeah, so… erm, so we can talk about when to meet.”

“Look, I missed talking to you too,” she says, and I’m weak with relief. How can she be so honest and direct, just like that? So unembarrassed? I second-guess every word I say to her. “But it’s… it’s too early for phones yet, don’t you think?”

I smile. “It’s never too early for phones.”

“I only got mine a few days ago.” She looks away. “I’m too old to only get my own phone now, I know…”

“No no,” I quickly interrupt her. “Well. How old are you?”

“Fifteen. My dad…” she tenses a bit at the word. “He is very strict.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten there are parents like that, parents that wrap themselves like a noose around their kids. In my grief, I had forgotten that not everyone’s parents are a treasure.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

“It’s whatever,” she shrugs.

That shrug again. Suddenly, I wonder if her having strict parents is related to her knee was bleeding when I found her. Maybe she had run away.

“Don’t let it bother you,” she says, as if she can tell what I’m thinking. Again. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” she replies, faking confidence. My lips curl into a smile. “So, no phones, ok?”

“Ok,”

To me, it sounded less like ‘no phones’ and more like ‘no phonesyet’. A shiver of anticipation travels down my spine, and I haven’t felt that in months.

“I’m almost sixteen,” I offer, “and you’re probably right. We only just met, I get it.”

She doesn’t say anything, presenting me with a nice view of her neck. I sigh, frustrated.I made her want to hide again, dammit. Maybe her dad is right: it is too soon. If she gave me her number now, I would not stop texting her—I would do nothing but text her. And she’s probably too young to be giving out her number to boys anyway. She is definitely inexperienced. I need to slow down. I need to calm down. Except I can’t. My skin is buzzing, too tight for my body. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I grab a piece of gum out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. I offer her some, holding out the package. She looks at it as if it’s going to bite her.

“Want some?” I say awkwardly.

I imagine her taking the piece from my fingers and immediately I go weak in the legs. What is wrong with me? It’s the exact same thing that happened when I put the bandage on her knee. I barely touched her skin then—and now, I’m not eventouchingher.

The very idea gets me all hot and bothered. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? I barely know this girl. The fact that this tiny person is affecting me so much by saying so little scares the crap out of me.

I want to get to know her and to stop being a complete moron around her. But for that to happen, my legs need to stop turning to mush and my mouth needs to start communicating with my brain asap. And neither of these things seem to be happening right now. I’m just standing here, holding out a piece of gum without saying a word, and she is staring at me as if I’m having a stroke.

Which, fair point, I think I actually am.

You are the only thing that pulls me out of the sadness, I want to say to her.Save me, and I will save you back, I want to scream to her. Instead, I repeat:

“Want some?”

“What is it?” she asks, looking down at my hand.

Weird question, but I might have misheard her due to all the strokes I’ve been having.

“Gum?” I reply uncertainly.

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