Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Malcolm
She wasn’t coming back.
I told myself that all morning. It made sense.
Summer wasn’t part of this world. She had a home, a family, people who actually cared about her.
Whatever happened yesterday—her sitting with me, talking my ear off—it had to be some fluke, a moment of boredom she’d forget about the second she got home. That was how people worked.
And yet, some stupid part of me kept waiting.
I didn’t sit inside like usual. Instead, I found myself outside, in the backyard of the foster home, my back resting against the old wooden fence.
It wasn’t much—patches of dirt where the grass had worn down, a few kids kicking around a deflated soccer ball—but at least it was quiet.
The house was always too loud, too cramped. Out here, I could be alone.
Then I heard her.
“Oh, cool, there you are!”
I looked up, and there she was, striding across the yard like she had every right to be here, a stupidly bright smile on her face.
She wore jeans and a blue tank top, her ponytail bouncing as she plopped down right next to me without hesitation.
I tensed, staring straight ahead, hoping she’d get the hint and leave.
She didn’t.
“Hey, Malcolm.”
I said nothing.
She stretched her legs out, leaning back on her hands. “You hiding?”
I frowned. “No.”
She grinned. “Sounds like something someone who’s hiding would say.”
I exhaled slowly. “Why are you here?”
She shrugged. “Told you. My mom’s a social worker. She does this stuff a lot.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
She tilted her head, like she was considering her answer, then smirked. “Maybe I just like annoying you.”
That, I believed.
She let out a dramatic sigh. “Nice day, huh?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Good talk. Real deep stuff.”
I ignored her, waiting for her to get bored and leave. Instead, she started talking.
“I hate math. Like, with a passion. I swear, numbers weren’t meant to do this much work.
I’m convinced algebra was invented by an actual villain.
You know, like one of those evil geniuses in cartoons with a lab coat and a weird laugh.
He was probably like, ‘Yes, let’s make a subject where no one knows why the alphabet is involved! Mwahaha!’”
I blinked. “The alphabet?”
“Yes!” She turned to face me. “Why are there letters in math? Who invited ‘x’ to the party? Who said, ‘You know what this equation needs? The entire English language.’”
I didn’t mean to, but a small huff of amusement slipped out.
She gasped. “Was that—you almost laughed! I heard it!”
I immediately schooled my face back into a blank expression. “No.”
She nudged my shoulder with hers. “Liar.”
I shook my head. She was exhausting.
She wasn’t done. “I like psychology, though. I think I wanna be a psychologist someday.”
I stayed quiet, but I was listening.
She sighed. “Or maybe I’ll just drop out and become a professional fortune teller. I can wear big hoop earrings, sit in a dark tent, and tell people their futures. ‘You, sir, will have great fortune! But only if you avoid pigeons on Tuesday.’”
I stared at her. “Why pigeons?”
She gasped again, clutching her chest dramatically. “Oh my God. Are you actually engaging in conversation? Is this real? Am I dreaming?”
I rolled my eyes, but it wasn’t as annoyed as it should have been.
She grinned. “I bet you’d be good at something cool. Like, I don’t know... secret agent work.”
I blinked. “What?”
She nodded, serious. “Yeah. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious, broody guy’ thing going. You’d be perfect for some top-secret, world-saving mission. Picture it: you, in a sleek black suit, sunglasses, walking away from an explosion without even looking back.”
I almost smirked. Almost.
She squinted at me. “Wait. That was close. I saw it.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Liar,” she said again.
I turned back toward the fence, focusing on the chipped wood beneath my fingers. But she didn’t stop talking.
“You don’t really talk much, do you?” she mused.
“That’s fine. I’ll talk for both of us. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?
Which is crazy, because I can barely handle the one I have.
And sloths? So slow that algae grows on their fur.
Can you imagine if people had the same problem?
Like, ‘Oh, yeah, Steve hasn’t moved in two weeks. He’s growing moss now.’”
I exhaled through my nose. “What is wrong with you?”
She grinned. “No one knows.”
I shook my head, but she wasn’t as annoying as she should have been.
“Seriously, though,” she said after a pause, “what do you wanna be when you get older?”
I blinked. “What?”
“In the future. When you’re out of here. What do you want to do?”
No one had ever asked me that before. Probably because no one ever expected me to have a future worth planning.
“I don’t know,” I muttered.
She frowned. “You have to have something. A dream. A goal. Something.”
I didn’t answer.
She groaned dramatically. “Fine. I’ll guess.”
I sighed. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Nope.” She smirked. “Okay, let’s see... are you a secret artist? Do you paint at night, expressing your deep emotions with dramatic brush strokes?”
“No.”
“Fine. Music? Do you secretly play guitar? Serenade the moon with sad songs?”
“No.”
She snapped her fingers. “Oh! I’ve got it. You wanna be a ninja assassin.”
A snort slipped out before I could stop it.
Her eyes lit up. “Ha! That was a laugh! I won!”
I immediately forced my face blank again, but it was too late. She had caught me.
“See?” she said smugly. “Told you I’d make you smile.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t smile.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
I stared at her, then looked away, but I didn’t deny it.
She stayed for a while after that, just talking. About school, her best friend Olivia, her dog that was apparently too dumb to walk in a straight line. I barely said a word, but I listened. And somehow, even though she was the one doing all the talking, it didn’t feel one-sided.
And later that night, when I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized something that should have annoyed me.
I was looking forward to seeing her again.