Seventeen #2
“That sounds like boy-trouble if I ever heard it,” Dark Static prods. “Tell me about him. I’ll prove my self-awareness to you.”
That sounds like a challenge, and I’m too tired to argue. If he could shed light onto the Fox situation, that’d be great.
“His name’s Fox Levine,” I say. “He goes to my school. He’s on my swim team. Ex-best-friend.”
“What’s he like?”
I pause; Fox is hard to describe. Enigmatic. Impossible. “You have similar personalities, actually. You’re both ridiculously cocky and competitive and impossible to read. Also, he has every reason to target Mayor Bridges, just like I do.”
I sit straight up, like Dark Static hit me with one of his lightning bolts. Wait.
“You know I wouldn’t tell you,” he says, reading my expression. It’s the same response he gave when I asked if he was Aaron. “Besides, the way I act—”
“—with me isn’t how you might act without the mask.
Yeah, yeah.” We’ve gone through this. I loop my arms over my legs and stare at Dark Static.
I see Fox without a shirt every day, and, unfortunately have his build and stature seared into my memory.
D.S., while long and lean like Fox, is broader in the waist, hips, and shoulders…
“Fine.” I give in. As much as I’d enjoyed checking him out, they’re not all that close to the same person. My mattress creaks as I slide back on it, coming to another realization: the odds that D.S. is Damian just got higher.
D.S. edges closer, leaning further against my bed. He’s out of place, sitting there instead of hiding himself in a shadow. “Say more about being ex-best friends,” he commands.
“We used to basically be siblings,” I begin the story I don’t like to tell. Maybe D.S. is right about the whole mask thing after all. Would I be this open with him if I knew him for real? Am I only this comfortable with him because he can be whoever I want him to be?
“Then there was the car crash, and a few days later, Fox threw chocolate milk at me in front of the entire cafeteria, just to be mean. After that, Fox didn’t say a word to me for an entire year and treated me like I was invisible.
I suppose he thought that if I didn’t exist, the whole situation with our parents would go away, or maybe he needed space to grieve or something, but didn’t he realize it hurt me as much as it hurt him?
Did it not occur to him that I needed him? ”
Dark Static keeps his gaze on his gloved hands, interlaced in his lap. He seems to want to hear all of this—interesting, because I’ve never been able to handle other people’s sob stories. Then again, calling Fox a sob story is giving Fox a lot of credit.
“What changed?” he asks. “Why is this resurfacing?”
“Finally, he started talking to me,” I mutter. “But he was mean. Overly competitive about beating me, embarrassing me at school. It got to where I didn’t remember ever being friends with him… until yesterday and today, when he’s suddenly so nice to me again, and I’m like, what is the catch?”
Then I remember… Fox drove me to the pool right before I was kidnapped. Could there be a connection?
“Yup. Definitely boy trouble,” says Dark Static. “See what happens if you just ignore him like he ignored you. He could back off a little. Or I could try to track him down and teach him a lesson.”
“Seriously? You love intervening in my life that much?”
“Gotta do what brings you joy,” he says. I ball up the nearest pillow and toss it at him, forgetting for a moment that we both have powers, and I could have signaled my annoyance at him a zillion different ways.
The mattress shifts as D.S. perches at the end of my bed. “If you want to have a pillow fight, I’m down.”
He smirks at my glare. “Don’t start,” I say.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Oh, please, like you do 24/7?”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
And then D.S. leans over me, inches away from my nose.
The heat radiating off him makes me spin, like his skin could melt mine if we touched.
Only it was more than something physical: with other people, I’m Madeline Roberts—I go to school, I swim, but otherwise, I’m boring.
But with D.S., I’m a bigger person. I’m visible. I’m electric.
His breathing catches then slows as we both realize the current state of our proximity.
“You’re not telling me to move,” he murmurs, leaning a nanometer closer.
“I was seeing how long you could hold a plank for,” I lie. “I guarantee I can hold it longer.”
“That’s what you think.” In a swift movement, he climbs over me to stand on the carpet, and it’s over. I need a moment to get my bearings and slow my heart rate, so I settle down and slump into my remaining pillow. When had it gotten so late?
D.S. coughs. “I’ll sleep on the floor. Until your dad gets home.”
“There’s a sleeping bag in the closet,” I say. He nods and goes to rummage for it. “Do you need a pillow or anything?”
I pause when I hear myself say those words.
A boy will sleep over in my room. I’d never guessed this scenario would happen to me during high school.
Well, whatever D.S. and I are isn’t typical anyway.
Something besides friends. Accomplices, maybe.
Is this a big deal for Dark Static too? I toss him one of my good pillows and he rolls the sleeping bag out on the floor beside me.
When he’s all set, I pull my covers up and he flicks off the light.
Darkness encases the room and my nerves skyrocket. Jitters crawl up my neck and my mattress feels like it could break under the weight of everything I’m carrying. I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was six, but without knowing what’s happening around me, terror seeps under my skin.
D.S. eases from the floor and crouches beside my bed. His gloved fingers tangle in my hair, his soft lips brushing my ear. “You’re okay, Madeline. Try to slow down. In… out… nothing can hurt you in here.”
I find his hand. It helps to have something to hold on to. When I lay still again, he stands and gives a last brush to my hairline.
“Good night.” I breathe him in—the smell of a stormy night, electric and dangerous. “Thanks for staying.”
“Good night, Madeline.” He pulls away, leaving the night to wash over me. I listen to him slide back over his sleeping bag. We’ll embrace the darkness together.