Page 27

“What’s it like?”

“Hmmm?” Anna’s soft hum is absent-minded. I stick out my lower lip.

“Anna!” I whine, dragging her name out longer in annoyance. Only then does she finally lift her head away from the papers in front of her and in my direction. Her fingers go still over the bumps there in place of letters. My lip juts out even farther when I see the twitch of her mouth. “You’re laughing at me!” I accuse.

She chuckles, but denies my claim in her next statement. “No, baby, I’m not. I’m sorry, I was distracted.” She pats the bench seat next to her where she sits. Even though she can’t see the forest or the driveway, she says that it’s still nice to sit out here and listen to the sounds of nature. “Come here. What were you saying?”

For a moment, I don’t know that I want to go to her. She was ignoring me, after all. The expression she gives me, though, is apologetic, and that seals the deal. She’s one of the only adults that ever feels sorry when she’s mean to kids. I guess I can forgive her since she doesn’t do it often.

Scrabbling over, I heft myself onto the seat next to her and scoot close. Her sweet, floral scent is nice. I lean into her side as she lifts her arm and tucks me closer, her hand passing down my back. Up and down. She’s always nice to me, even when she’s tired. I cuddle against her with a sigh. Maybe Lyall was right. Maybe I am a baby, but if it means I get Anna hugs, then I’m okay with that.

“Now,” she prompts me, shuffling the papers in her lap to the table that sits alongside the swinging bench. “What were you asking?”

Tugging at the bottom of my shorts, I wrinkle my nose. I’d hoped she’d give me an answer when she was distracted—it was why I’d asked it in the first place. I shouldn’t have complained that she was ignoring me. Now she’s completely focused, and I can feel fire burning in my cheeks.

“Oh my,” Anna says, laughing quietly. “It must be something with that blush.”

Both of my hands slap over my cheeks, and I cast wide eyes her way. “I’m not blushing!” I argue. “You can’t even see me!”

“Reyes Scott,” she chastises. “You know that I don’t need sight to know when you’re blushing. I have magic powers.”

I wince at that comment, and slowly, my hands sink back to my lap. She doesn’t have magic powers. I wish she did. If Anna were like us, everything would be different. That’s what Dad always says—if we had a female witch, our coven would be better, everything would be better. Boy witches aren’t good enough. Everyone knows that.

“Okay, maybe I am blushing,” I mumble. “But it’s only a little.”

Anna’s hands continue to move up and down my back. “That’s okay, sweetie,” she tells me. “Everyone gets embarrassed sometimes. I hope you know that you never have to be afraid of me, though. I’ll do my best to answer any of your questions. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I bite my lower lip and stare hard at the wooden slats of the porch floor. We sit like that for a long time. Her hand never stops stroking my back, and I wish, not for the first time, that Anna were my mom. Maybe if she were, Dad wouldn’t be so angry all the time. Maybe if Anna were my mom, things would be different.

“What’s it like?” This time, when I ask the question, it’s in a quieter voice. I’m not sure if I still want to ask it, and if she doesn’t hear me, then I wasn’t meant to.

She does, though, and her response is another question. “What’s what like, sweetie?”

Ugh. Do I really have to say it? Doesn’t she remember what we were talking about yesterday? That stupid book she’d been reading—one of her braille books with raised lettering. Just like her papers today. I grumble in annoyance, but she’s so soft and comfy that I don’t move away from her even though I’m irritated.

“What’s being in love like?” I ask, louder. My eyes remain on the floor of the porch, my legs swinging back and forth, the tips of my shoes not even brushing the wood. It’s not fair. Lyall is already tall enough for his toes to touch the floor when he sits.

Anna’s hand stops its movements, and I glance up, wondering if I’ve upset her. The black surface of her glasses—the ones she wears over her eyes to protect them since they’re extra sensitive—reflect my own face. Her lips are parted, and her brows arch up over the tops of her glasses. In surprise?

“That’s a good question,” she says after a moment, her warmth pressing into me still. “I think it’s different depending on the types of love we feel.”

I groan. “No, Anna, I mean … like you and Uncle D,” I press. “Not like the brother kind of love, but the kind that … you know … makes people do the things like in your book.”

Anna blinks behind her glasses, and then, pink rushes up her neck and into her cheeks. “Now you’re blushing!” I yell, wiggling away to point at her. “Ha!”

With a shake of her head, Anna reaches out and easily captures my hand and lowers it again before tucking me in close. I don’t know how she does that so easily, but I don’t have long to think about it, because as she starts stroking my back again, her feet kick at the floor and send the both of us swinging back and forth. Air ruffles my hair and swishes over the exposed skin of my calves.

“What is it like?” Anna repeats my question and then hums in the back of her throat. I wait, restless and growing more frustrated by her silence the longer it stretches.

After an eternity of sitting there and swinging, I give in with a sigh. “If you don’t know—” I begin, only for her to gently touch my mouth with one of her fingers, silencing me.

“Not every answer can be given right away,” she says quietly. “Some of them take patience.”

I hate patience. Adults always say, “Be patient,” but they just say that because they don’t want to deal with us. I cross my arms over my chest and glare out at the trees. The swing creaks with each back-and-forth movement.

“Love is a complex emotion,” Anna finally says after a beat. “You can love someone and still not like them very much.”

My shoulders slump, and in a quiet voice, I ask, “like how sometimes I don’t like my dad much?”