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I wondered from time to time who Kyrie’s friends were before I arrived, though. I didn’t seem to take anyone’s spot.
After dodging her request for days, I finally agreed to have dinner at Kyrie’s house. Though the silence of my trailer was comforting—Valerie was often going to bed early, worn out from her early shifts at the café—I knew I couldn’t deny my new friend forever. The home cooked meal at Kyrie’s home was amazing, but I was glad when the night was over. Pastor Davis had been eyeing me all night as though I were there to take his beloved daughter’s virginity.
I tried to show him I wanted nothing to do with Kyrie in that way by calling herbuddyandfriend, but it didn’t seem to do me much good. It was clear from the way he continued to look at me. The most genuine smile I received from him was right after I announced I was leaving.
Did I think Kyrie wanted to fuck me? No. But she was fascinated with me for some reason. I chalked it up to being new, but the mystery of who I was would wear off eventually, and I mused that maybe soon she would try to befriend the new girl.
I shook away the image of Sorina on the headstone as Kyrie joined me on her front porch. “Can I walk you home?” she asked.
I glanced back at the open door. Kyrie’s father nodded at me, then retreated around the corner to where I knew his office was thanks to the tour Kyrie led me on of her home.
I reached up, rubbing my neck. “You don’t have to. It’s just down—”
“I know where the trailer park is. There’s only one here.”
Last week in science I heard a kid call me “poor-rich.” I didn’t know what he meant, so I asked Kyrie. She said it was because I lived in the nicest trailer in the park, and my clothes were name brand. I didn’t see what good that did for me. Some tall basketball player still mumbled the words “trailer trash” as he walked by me after that class. It didn’t matter that I had nice things. I was still beneath them. The difference between me and the other kids who lived in the trailer park was that I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me.
I let out a sigh and feigned a smile for Kyrie. “Then you know it isn’t far.”
“Nothing is far here,” she said as she reached for my hand. “But I want to leave this house for a minute and speak earnestly.”
“Earnestly?” I gave her a half smile, my eyebrow-raised as I pulled my hand from hers. Kyrie often drifted into an elegant way of speaking, and I found it strange and oddly comforting.
“Yeah.” She shut her front door, clasping her hands behind her back, bouncing a little on her feet. “Without my mother and father hovering. Or everyone at school hovering. We can talk about tutoring.”
“Ah, yes. Better get my dumb ass on track.” I knew I wasn’t stupid, but I was still catching up.
Kyrie brushed past me down her front walk. Flowers grew at the edges, a barrier between the concrete and the perfectly manicured yard. “You’re not dumb, Nicholas.”
I followed, hands in my pockets. “I’ll remember you said that when I have my first pop quiz.” I was trying my new reality out, wearing it like a story.
Kyrie stepped into the road. There were no sidewalks on her street, but the road was quiet. “I’ll have you ready for that. Don’t worry. I’m top of my class.”
I caught up to her quickly, long strides matching hers. Kyrie was tall. Five foot ten to my six foot. She had an older brother who graduated ten years ago. He was the star basketball player, and just as smart as Kyrie. I’d learned a lot about her in a short period. “Maybe I’ll take that spot from you.”
She grinned, pushing her hair behind her ear. “You can try.”
“Your parents are nice,” I remarked, changing the subject. Nice and normal. Warm and doting.
“Yeah, they’re wonderful. I wish your aunt could have come. They’d love to meet her,” Kyrie said as she played with the hem of her dress.
“Would they like to meet her to see if she exists and make sure you didn’t bring a vagrant into their home?” I asked.
“No, silly. They just know all of my friends’ parents. That’s the way it is here. Everyone knows everyone.”
“Tell them to stop in at the café,” I offered, watching the trees as we walked along the road. The trees in Hart Hollow seemed old and watchful, as if something lived in them. Trees held secrets. Told them. Maybe that’s why the ranch had been so barren—like a desert.
“I told them she works there. It won’t be long before they decide to compliment the chef and welcome her to town,” Kyrie said.
“And ask her if she wants to join Sunday service?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I had no intention of ever stepping foot in a church. That part of my life was buried. Only resurrected when I wanted to bury it again in my notebook.
Kyrie smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. They’ll do that. I’m sure. I won’t tell them you’re an atheist, though.” Her tone was light, but I knew her heart was heavy with her new knowledge that I didn’t believe in God. If she knew where I came from, maybe she would understand. Or maybe not. I’d learned how Jesus lovers could be.
I hadn’t shed my ruined skin, hadn’t brushed off the way the hands of God-fearing women could feel on your flesh.
Or God-fearing men.
“That would have been a great dinner conversation.” I laughed.
