From A To Z

Chapter 4

Friday, May 7

I was tired and my backpack weighed a ton, so I decided to head straight home. The school week was finally over and boy was I glad. Sienna was being bratty, my allergies were acting up, Ms. Speltzer refused to let me change partners - it was all getting to be a bit too much right now.

I plugged in my earphones and put on a podcast. I chose a show about unlocking the potential of the human mind. Borderline boring but I wasn't in the mood to listen to true crime. Some of the stories were outright heartbreaking. Like the one of the thirteen-year-old cheerleader who was stabbed to death in Florida. Incomprehensible.

This weekend I wanted to disconnect. I had nothing planned, except for sleeping in, reading in the hammock in the backyard if the mosquitoes would let me, and picking the colors for my room. Mom said it was ok to ditch the beige for whatever shade I chose, as long as I did the painting myself. No problem. I could do that, right? How hard can applying two coats of paint to four walls be?

My room hadn't had a facelift since kindergarten. Now with only a year left until I left for college, it was suddenly a worthy project. I couldn't explain why, it just had to be done. My time, my choice of how to waste it.

Our street was short - just two blocks - but so were most streets in Bruler. Who needs bustling avenues in the middle of nowhere? I could describe each house I passed with my eyes closed. From the clunkers in the driveways, through the flowerbeds, to the inhabitants.

I knew who lived where what they were like. Mrs. Johnson with the hacking cough and the yapping pooch, the Ochoas whose kitchen smelled like heaven, Mr. Nielsen who made bird feeders in his free time. All neighbors knew each other and our routines, we had no choice really. This was typical Bruler - friendly and familiar.

It wasn't until I was on my block that I noticed the sound. It was a low persistent rumble like a faraway lawnmower or a clap of rolling thunder. I looked up. Not a single cloud. I paused the podcast and the noise grew louder. Wheels on the dusty asphalt, crunching, turning. Getting closer. I took off my headphones and turned around.

It was Arlo, an arm away, skateboarding past with an ease that suggested years of practice. I froze. He was the last person I expected to see. Since our cafeteria encounter, I made sure to keep my distance. If I spotted him in the hallway, I went the other way. If I saw him in class, I made sure to look engrossed in my work.

He jumped off his skateboard, pumped the tail with his foot, and picked it up by the nose. The deck was worn but the outline of an orange-black snake was well visible. There was dried blood on the grip tape and a fresh, painful-looking scratch on his sheen. I remembered the bruise on his knuckles the other day. Not a fight then, but a fall.

"Hey, Zoe," he rasped.

Wait, the last time we spoke he didn't remember my name. I tried to hide my surprise by taking an extra-long time to put my headphones away. What changed, I wondered? Did he look me up? Did he ask around? Worse, did he follow me all the way from school?

"What are you doing here?" I demanded to know. A curt question instead of a greeting. How very un-Bruler of me.
He frowned.
"Come again?"
I pointed around me.
"This is my street."
"Well, I didn't know that, did I?"
"So just a coincidence then?"
Arlo shrugged.
"I don't believe in coincidences. But I wasn't trailing you, if that's what you mean. I'm on my way to work."
"You got a job?"

I cringed at my own question. Would I have asked him that if he were white? Would I have accused him point-blank of stalking me if he wasn't a person of color? I was mortified by my own behavior. My hand shot up to my neck and I began scratching a non-existent itch.