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I nod and eventually give him a shy smile. “It was more than okay.”

The way he stares at me brings goosebumps to my skin and a tingle in places where it shouldn’t, causing me to hold my breath.

He’s so talented…

The bell rings, and his face drops. He bites his lip and glances toward the school. “Will you meet me here again tomorrow and help me?”

I shrug and finally smile at him. “I have nowhere else to go.”

Tommy meets me the next day, and the next. He’s quiet and sweaty as he hands me half of his lunch, usually at the end of the hour. Which I don’t mind. I enjoy the smell of him and his company, and it’s become my favorite part of the day, even if it’s fleeting. I eat and help him with math as I promised. I love helping him, I love explaining everything and watching it click in his mind. It seems like I have a knack for tutoring.

I’ve avoided the library like the plague since my interaction with Cindy. It’s easier here, and Tommy reminds me of sunshine—the kind that doesn’t blind me.

They still haven’t caught the killer, but the rumors it was Remy still run strong through the school even though they cleared him.

Remy’s been ignoring me, so I’m not as certain that the masked guy was him anymore. But I don’t wish to chance running into him. Although I can sense someone watching me.

When Mama asks me if I’ve spoken to any boys, I deny it—and she doesn’t question me. She ventured into town this week and played bingo. She came back with money and beer and seemed in good spirits as she did her nightly prayers. I came home with groceries and didn’t eat any of them.

I’ve spent my evenings catching up on my homework, leaving Mama to her God’s work. Her nightly prayers for God to save her, for God to save my soul.

At the moment at least, she seems settled to leave me be. I leave early every day, catching the first bus with Marty, who brings me a cup of coffee with one cube of sugar—and that gets me by until lunch. I get to school early and shower, since Mama and I only have well water at the Sheffield house, and I can usually sneak into the locker room to at least wash myself.

It’s lunchtime again but instead of heading directly under the bleachers, I wanted to watch the end of Tommy’s practice to see what all the fuss was about. So I sit on the bleachers for once, instead of beneath them. Today is overcast so the sun doesn’t have such a strong impact and I can see him clearly.

I understand why Tommy is so loved. He’s impressive on the field—fast and strong. He moves so effortlessly, almost gliding along the track. But my gaze keeps drifting to Remy who is running on his left. He’s just as muscular and keeping up with him. The two of them don’t even acknowledge each other.

I can’t help but stare at Remy, and I hate that I enjoy watching him. He’s not in his usual ripped jeans, but the same yellow striped shorts as his teammates.

Behind his darkness, he’s just a boy with pain in his eyes. Watching him now, I have to wonder if he had anything to do with that boy’s murder.

Remy pauses suddenly, walking in a circle with his hands on his head, catching his breath. I’m pinned in place as he glances in my direction, watching me as he wipes his sweat from his dark hair, his muscles rippling.

I bow my head, forcing myself not to glance up just as Cindy and her crew walk onto the field for their practice and the boys’ practice ends. She notices me and gives me the ‘kill’ sign. I hurry to the bottom of the bleachers, where I should have stayed the entire time.

Tommy comes in faster than usual today. He crawls in, settles a few feet away from me, and pulls out his notebook, oblivious to the fact I am shaking. My heart bounces like it does every day, even though his excitement has nothing to do with me.

I smile at him as he crunches his eyes together and begins to scribble. “Guess what?”

“What?”

He grins ear to ear. “I got a B on my math test.”

I watched him this week, and he looked much less stressed in class. I was hoping that was the case.

“That’s good Tommy.”

He sits on the ground and pulls out a notebook. “And I figured out the guitar solo in my head. I need to write the lyrics now.” He starts scribbling, taps his toe and hums, and I don’t dare interrupt him.

He looks so happy and comfortable—the happiest he’s been all week.

He spends the rest of the lunch hour songwriting—scribbling and humming and playing air guitar, ignoring me while I read. Eventually he stops, and I can sense him watching me as it grows quiet.

I shoot my eyes up. “Tommy…what is it?”

His eyes widen. “Oh, shoot. Didi, I’m sorry.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a paper bag, crawling over to me. “You must be hungry. Here, have the whole thing.”

I peer up at him through my white lashes. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”