Infinite Risk (5 page)

“Oh my God, look…” He showed me a beat-up album with three guys on the front, clad in strange costumes sporting facial hair and shaggy beatnik style.

I'd never heard of the band, but apparently they were British, and this was hard to find. “You should totally get it.”

“It's twenty bucks.”

From what he'd said, his uncle wasn't well off and his aunt disliked him, so they probably didn't give him much allowance, if any. It looked like his aunt had spent five dollars at Goodwill for Kian's current wardrobe. But one problem at a time.

“Maybe he'll make us a deal.”

The beardo behind the counter flicked a look at Kian, as if to ask me what was up. “It's cool. I'm here to pick up, and he's interested in additional services.”

“Chest,” the guy said.

“Flash him,” I told Kian.

“What?”

“Come on, hurry up. I'll turn around.”

A few seconds later, the owner said, “Okay, what do you need?”

Kian shot me a helpless look, so I answered, “Basic ID, over twenty-one.”

I handed over half the cash for Kian's ID and my two, which cut significantly into my stash. At the rate I was spending money, I wouldn't last long on my own. But budgeting wasn't a skill my mom and dad taught me before everything went pear shaped.

The owner handed me an envelope; then Kian headed back for his quick photo session. Afterward, I confirmed, “Pickup on Friday afternoon?”

The guy nodded. “Thanks for the referral, but don't post a flyer at school.”

“After this, you won't see me again,” I promised. “But I was wondering, is there any way you could give us a discount?” I held up the album.

“Sorry. If this town wasn't such a shithole, I could probably get more than twenty.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Disappointed, I put the record back. Unfortunately I couldn't grant all of Kian's wishes like a fairy godmother; my resources were decidedly limited. I had to save bus fare to get to school, which was a huge priority. Skipping would not only get me in trouble but it would also limit my access to Kian. How else could I see him every day without it being weird?

“I'm so excited. I wonder what's playing,” I said.

“I can check tonight if you want.”

“That would be awesome.”

The wind was cold, and we really needed to get on our respective buses. But as we walked toward the stop, I could only think of keeping him with me a little longer. Inviting him to my place would probably make him call family services or at least open the door to some serious concern on his part. Yet I wished we could hang out like we did before, none of the barriers between us. Now I understood how Kian must've felt, falling for someone he'd watched on Wedderburn's orders.

“I can't believe we're doing this.” His words came out in a rush. “It's like something I'd read about, happening to
me
.”

“Life should be an adventure,” I told him.

Not a constant struggle for survival.

“It must have been awesome in California,” he started, and then he appeared to remember the lie I'd told. “Oh, wait, fourteen schools, two years. So you probably didn't leave a ton of friends behind.”

“Not many. Do you still have time tonight? There's somewhere else I want to go.”

He raised a brow at me. “How exactly do you envision my social calendar looking?”

“Well, you might get in trouble for being late.”

“It's fine. I already texted my uncle that I was hanging out after school, and my aunt probably wouldn't care if I didn't come back at all.” Those words should've been laced with bitterness, but instead, there was only this matter-of-factness that bothered me more.

I ignored the implications, however, because he didn't want sympathy. “On the plus side, it means you can do what you want, right?”

But I'd been on that side of parental freedom, and it sucked because it meant nobody gave a shit.

“I guess. But mostly all I do is go to school, read, and watch movies in my room.”

That's a lie. You write poetry too.
But that wasn't something he'd tell me so fast because it wasn't cool and he was probably still focused on how I might judge him, like friendship was a chipped porcelain cup—one wrong move, and it would all be shards on the floor.

“Come on.” I dragged him on the bus and dinged my pass twice.

Since he had no idea where we were going, there was no reason for him to pay. Hopefully, this idea wouldn't hurt his feelings. It wasn't like I planned some big makeover or that I didn't like him exactly as he was. But to fit in a little better at school, he needed to dial down the vintage.

“You know, I'm not big on surprises.” But he settled beside me without further complaint, and I totally noticed when his knee brushed mine. He jerked back, though. “S-sorry. I didn't do that on purpose.”

“Relax. A little human contact won't hurt us.” Teasing, I tilted my head to the side to let it rest on his shoulder for a few seconds.

Kian froze. Then he slowly turned his face toward mine, so I could see the ridge of his nose, his inky lashes, all the imperfections in his skin. Mostly, though, I saw the stunning disbelief in his jade eyes behind those lenses. I didn't pull back, though I shouldn't be close enough to kiss him. It was kind of weird, and he was too young, which made me feel like a creeper. I mean, obviously
he
thought I was only a year older, not four.
Okay, three and a half.
At Blackbriar, there were seniors who dated freshmen, but everyone kind of side-eyed over it because it seemed like they only did it because it was easier to get into their pants.

But he didn't lean in, exactly. He rested his head on mine briefly and then dug into his backpack. “Not sure if you're interested but I have some music we can listen to…”

I took the earbud and put it in my left ear, leaving him the right. It didn't surprise me to learn that his favorite listening could've been featured on the soundtrack of Fallout: New Vegas. As the bus carried us closer to our destination, I listened to a mad soulful version of “I Had the Craziest Dream.” The song would've been the perfect choice for him to make a move, but Kian didn't have the confidence for that. His gaze lingered on my lips for a few seconds, but I made the decision to shift away.

You can't.

“You like it?” he whispered.

“It's fantastic. Who is this?”

“Nat King Cole. He's best known for ‘Unforgettable.'”

“Oh yeah. I've heard that one.”

We listened to another song before I nudged him that we had to get up. Kian glanced out the window in surprise. Apparently, he would've been happy to ride around the city with me all night on this crappy bus. My heart turned over.
Don't let him fall for you all the way.
But I didn't listen to that cautionary voice; I grabbed his hand and towed him toward the doors. The solitary point of contact made me feel like singing. His fingers were cold when he wrapped them around mine.
He's holding my hand. Not dead. Not gone. Not in extremis.
The tears I couldn't cry in the tub last night threatened at the worst possible time. I couldn't let him think I was unstable; it might scare him away.

“This way,” I said, swinging our hands like little kids.

There, that's the opposite of romantic.

When he saw the neon
MADAME Q'S HOUSE OF STYLE
sign, he paused. “Are we actually going in here?”

The wigs in the window were a little creepy, but … “My wardrobe could use some augmentation, and my budget doesn't stretch to the mall. I didn't want to go shopping alone, though. Do you mind?”

“I guess not,” he said.

The bell tinkled when we stepped inside. A willowy woman wearing one of her wigs—or so I suspected—came out to greet us in a drift of colorful scarves and lilac perfume.
This must be Devon's mom.
She beamed as she realized she had two customers.

“Anything I can help you find?”

“T-shirts, if you have any.”

“Sure, over here.” She forged a path through the racks to a table near the back.

The store was crammed full to the point it was hard to maneuver with racks of old dresses rubbing up against vintage suits. If I ran the place, I'd organize the clothes by style instead of putting all the pants together. But maybe space didn't permit a better system. I glanced at Kian, still standing awkwardly by the door, and beckoned.

“Help me pick something out.”

“You don't want
my
help,” he mumbled.

But he still came over as I picked through the offerings. Eventually, I dug up a couple of cool ones near the bottom, one black Grand Funk Railroad, one white Who shirt. They were priced at five bucks each, though, so I hesitated.

“I need to move some merchandise to make room for stock in back,” Mrs. Quick said. “So if you want them, I can cut you a deal. Two for six?”

That seemed like a good deal. “You have three bucks?” I asked Kian.

He nodded. “But I don't listen to either of those bands.”

“It's a shirt, not a testimonial.” I paid for my part in crumpled singles; then Kian added his bills.

“Need a receipt?” Mrs. Quick asked.

“No, it's fine. Do you take stuff as trade-in or on consignment or…” I was already plotting to get Kian into some better-fitting jeans.

“As long as the clothes are clean, I can sell them for you on consignment or I can give you store credit.”

“That would be cool, thanks.”

“Do you want a bag?”

I shook my head, taking the Who shirt and stuffing it into my bag. Kian did the same with his black one. With a pair of Chucks instead of those grubby white Walmart sneakers, skinny jeans, and that band shirt, he'd fit in better at school. A wardrobe change didn't require a ton of money, but I could tell his aunt didn't care by what she bought for him and Kian probably felt too guilty to object.

As I headed for the door, I had to step out of Devon's way. He looked straight up horrified to see me here; then he noticed Kian. “Can I talk to you?”

He dragged me out the door into the bitter wind before I could protest. “What?”

The neon threw an orange glow over us, making our skin look ruddy and weird. It was starting to get dark, and a few flurries swirled down, shining as streetlights caught them. I rubbed my hands together and stuffed them in my jacket pockets. Gloves would've been a smart investment; I didn't even think to look.
Next time.

“How come you're here?”

“I got a shirt. Is that okay?”

“You promised you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“And I didn't. We're shopping. But you acting like this is more likely to tip Kian off than anything I say. Plus, it's kind of weird that your friends don't know—”

Devon sighed. “Of course
they
do. But assholes like Wade Tennant give people shit all the time for less.”

Since I had been the Teflon crew's favorite target, I understood his concern. Once bullies locked you in their sights and saw wounds appear, it was like some kind of collective madness infected them. Individually, they might not even be that bad, but combine mob mentality with peer pressure and shit got scary.

“I understand, but we're just shopping. I swear.”

Since it was true, I had no other defense. Devon studied me for a long moment, then appeared to believe me. “Okay. You like my mom's store?”

“She's got some cool stuff.”

“Vonna and Carmen shop here too, to be honest.”

“So you're protecting them. Well, no worries on my account.”

We exchanged a tentative smile then. Kian stepped out and pulled up the hood on his puffy maroon jacket. He started to ask me a question, but it was like his voice shriveled up and died when he realized I wasn't alone.
Wow, he really
can't
talk to people. So why didn't he clam up at lunch that first day?

To smooth the awkward moment, I said, “Devon's in my English class; he had a question. Do you know him?”

Kian shook his head, not making eye contact. The pavement might've been inscribed with hieroglyphics based on his intent fascination. I stepped closer so he had no choice but to look at me, and I tipped my head in encouragement.

“Hey,” he finally mumbled.

Devon's eyes widened. “Hey.”

“Happy shopping,” I said. “We're out of here.”

Devon waved, seeming surprised. “See you.”

Kian let out a long breath as we moved away. “I hate seeing people from school. It's like, I don't know, a sudden punch in the face when you least expect it.”

“I'm from school,” I pointed out.

His eyes lit on my face, skimming my features like he still couldn't believe I was real. “You're different.”

“How?”

“I'm not sure. Just…” He stopped talking and shrugged, unable to put it into words.

It seemed better not to press, as he was just getting comfortable with me. “Okay. I live near here, so I'll walk you to the stop.”

“Wouldn't it make more sense for me to see you home?” he asked.

“It's okay.”
Because then you'd see where I live.

We walked in silence for those two blocks, his expression pensive. Finally, he said, “So we're going back to Psychedelic on Friday … and to the movies on Saturday. Right?”

“That's the plan.”

“Sweet.” It was like he just wanted verbal confirmation or something.

Though he said I didn't have to, I waited with him. The bus shelter was open to the wind on one side, so after he sneezed the first time, I huddled against him, remembering when he held me like it was the most natural thing in the world. But he was so nervous with each puff of breath that I feared he'd hyperventilate.