Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
So close and yet so far.
She might have forgotten me, but she was about to be introduced to a new version of the boy she’d liked to toy with.
Arya Roth was all grown up now, and she was about to pay for what she’d done.
CHAPTER SIX
CHRISTIAN
Past
She came back again, and again, and a-mother-freaking-gain.
We spent most of that summer break in Mount Hebron Memorial, jumping between gravestones like they were puddles.
The day after our first encounter, she brought a book downstairs called The Secret Garden, and we read it, sweaty temples stuck together as we each held one side of the book. We each read a page on our turn, and I could tell we were trying to impress each other.
The next day, I brought Sherlock Holmes from the local library, and we read it in intervals, when I wasn’t yelling at her to stop with the doggy ears because I was paranoid about paying the library fee.
We sat on Harry Frasier’s grave and read. Sometimes we talked to her brother, Aaron, like he was there with us. We even gave him a personality and everything. He was the party pooper who trailed behind and never wanted to do anything. The cemetery became our own secret garden, with treasures and mysteries to unravel. Every nook and corner was explored, and we knew its residents’ names by heart.
One time, the groundskeeper found us playing hide-and-seek. We both ran like our asses were on fire. He gave us a good chase, spewing profanity and waving his fist in the air. When we got to the wrought iron gate, I gave Arya a leg up so she could escape before hopping over myself. The groundskeeper almost caught me, but Arya grabbed my hand and fled before he snatched my shirt through the rails of the gate. That was the last time we went there.
We spent the leftovers of summer break exploring hidden alcoves in Central Park and hiding in bushes, scaring runners. Arya brought down food and drinks and sometimes even board games. When she started coming downstairs with double everything—chocolate milk, granola bars, bottled water—I knew Mom was onto us and looked the other way.
Sure enough, one evening when Mom and I had made our way back to Hunts Point, she grabbed my ear and squeezed until white noise filled it. “Just remember Mr. Roth would kill you if you touched her.”
Touch her? I barely wanted to look at her. But what other choices did I have? Arya made the time move faster, and she brought me snacks and Gatorade.
By the time summer was over, Arya and I were inseparable. Once the school year started, that was when the friendship ended. Talking on the phone was lame—and also kind of stilted; we tried—and neither of our families was going to agree to a playdate, a concept Arya tried to explain to me several times.
I sometimes wrote to her, but I never sent the letters.
The last thing I needed was Arya thinking I liked her.
Plus, it wasn’t even true.
Another summer break rolled in. I was four inches taller. My mother, yet again, brought me over with her to work. This time, I was allowed inside the penthouse. Not because Mom worried for me, but because she was worried because of me. Earlier that year, I’d started hustling at school, selling counterfeit Jordans for a 500 percent profit margin after the commission Little Ritchie, who gave them to me, charged. The principal warned Mom I was headed straight to juvie if I didn’t cut it out.
The first time I set foot in the Roth penthouse, I was light headed. Everything was stealable. I’d knock down the walls and stuff them in my pockets if I could.
Onyx marble gleamed like a panther’s coat. The furniture appeared to be floating, hanging on invisible wires, and large, imposing paintings were everywhere. The wine fridge alone was bigger than our bathroom. There were dripping chandeliers, marble statues, and plush rugs everywhere. If this was how rich people lived, it was a wonder they ever left the house.
But the real gem was the view of Central Park. The silhouette of the skyscrapers gave the impression of a thorny crown. And the person wearing that crown was Arya, who sat at a winged, stark-white piano, her back ramrod straight, the view her backdrop, wearing a Sunday dress and a solemn expression.
My breath caught in my throat. It was then that I noticed she was pretty. I mean, I knew she wasn’t ugly. I had eyes, after all. But I’d never considered she was the opposite of ugly. Last summer, Arya had just been . . . Arya. My partner in crime. The kid who wasn’t afraid to jump over gates and ambush people in bushes. The girl who’d helped me find cigarette butts I could suck on.