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He nodded slowly. “What did they think of me and you being together?” Pink swept across his cheeks. “I mean, that we’re at the same school?”
Part of me thought that was a strange question for him to ask, but then I figured out where he was heading with it. He thought that the reason why Rosa and Carl wouldn’t be happy to know he was back had to do with who he was, but he would be wrong. It was what he represented.
At least, I hoped that was it.
“They...are just worried about me...fitting in,” I told him, and that was true. “About whether I can handle it, which...obviously I can’t.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, but before I could say anything, he announced, “My name is Rider Stark.”
Um.
“I like working with my hands,” he continued as he slowed down, hitting the brakes at a stoplight. “And I don’t like classrooms.” He glanced at me, lashes lowered. “Maybe saying I didn’t like classrooms would be a bad choice, but I could say something like I don’t like bananas.”
“Bananas?”
He nodded with a small grin. “I discovered about three years ago that I absolutely hate those damn things.”
“But they’re
just bananas.”
“They’re the fruit of the devil.”
A surprised laugh burst out of me. “That’s ridiculous.”
The half grin spread and the dimple appeared. “It’s the truth. Now it’s your turn.”
I knew what he was doing. Trying to prove that what had been asked in speech class was something that I could do, but obviously that wasn’t the case. What was the point in doing this now? It wasn’t the same.
“Mouse?” he said softly, but I shook my head. He didn’t respond immediately. “Okay.”
Letting go of my hair, I looked out the window as the interior of the car darkened. We were driving through an underpass. A few moments later Rider turned right and pulled off into a small parking lot in front of a long, rectangular building that had more busted-out windows than it did glassed ones. “Where are we?”
Rider turned off the car and unbuckled his seat belt. “It’s an old factory. Looks bad but it’s safe. Promise you.”
I glanced at the ominous building that seemed straight out of one of the ghost-hunting shows I liked to watch on TV. See? Ghost shows. I could’ve said I liked those in class. If anyone else said this place was safe I would’ve kept my butt in the car, but even with the four-year gap between us, I trusted Rider. I took off my seat belt and climbed out.
He joined me on the other side, slipping my keys into his pocket. The pavement we walked across was cracked, and weeds poked through the fissures. Large chunks were missing. I glanced up at the sky. The scent of rain was heavy in the air as we neared double doors with faded red paint.
“We’re not heading inside. Not today.”
There was going to be a later? An odd flutter took root in my chest. I ignored it, thinking it was a good thing that we weren’t going in. Mainly because I really didn’t need to add breaking and entering to skipping school on the fourth day.
Also, I was sure the place was haunted.
Reaching down, his warm fingers found mine. Startled, I tried not to trip as he took my hand and led me around the side of the building. A musty scent clung to the old brick walls. He didn’t talk as he led me around the side of the building, beyond long-forgotten Dumpsters. He headed to the left, and I saw several old stone picnic tables, and then the back of the building came into view.
I ground to a halt.
My lips parted in shock. I didn’t know where to look; there was so much color. Someone had transformed a decrepit gray wall into a living kaleidoscope of reds. Yellows. Greens. Purples. Blues. Blacks. Whites. Letting my eyes rove everywhere, I saw giant letters—random initials and words that didn’t look English. Then there were the murals. I could make out people and cars. Buildings and trains. All of it was spray-painted. Most of it put my soap figurines to shame. The talent implied by the intricacy of the letters and the detail in the faces was amazing. And to be able to do this with spray paint? I couldn’t even do it with a paintbrush and Diego Rivera guiding my hand.
I thought about the red smudges I’d seen on Rider’s fingers and I twisted toward him. Smiling a little, he let go of my hand and walked toward the decorated wall, his long legs carrying him halfway down the length of the building. He stopped in front of a painted young boy. I inched closer, folding my arms around my waist as he ran a hand over the shoulder of the dark-haired child. The detail was astonishing, down to the hands shoved into the pockets of worn jeans. The shirt was white and looked so real, so flimsy, that I expected it to blow right off the frail body. The boy was looking up at the graffiti above him, but it was the expression on the face that gutted me.
Hopelessness.
It was in his light brownish-green eyes. Devastation was caught in the line of the child’s mouth. It was in the way his brows were furrowed together and lifted up. The bleakness was so strong it was tangible. It clouded the air. I knew that look. I’d seen it. I’d felt it.
It said, would my life be like this forever? Was there no future any different than today?
