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  “Khi?” Warmth rushes to my cheeks. “About me?”

  “Of course. He said he couldn’t reach you. I think he was worried something might have happened to you.”

  I reach for my phone and scan through the pile of recent notifications and texts. “He hasn’t texted me.”

  Gentle laughter jostles Nadia’s body. “Oh, my dear, he wouldn’t text. He doesn’t have a cell phone.” She glances over her shoulder, likely to check my reaction, which is to let my mouth drop so wide flies could make a home inside if they weren’t already hibernating. “What? I mean excuse me? Are you saying he doesn’t own one?”

  “Not yet, at least. He only arrived in Canada last month. I think his exact words were he’s ‘enjoying being with people rather than texting with people.’”

  “I guess that makes sense.” I furrow my brow and begin checking my missed calls. One of the numbers I hung up on at least twice in the last week. “I’m such an idiot. I thought he was a telemarketer.” I bite my lip hard.

  “He is definitely not a telemarketer.” Nadia gives me my two teas. She accepts my change and drops it in the register without counting it. She mumbles to herself as it closes, “But a ljómandi … Well, that he is.”

  “Did you say yomandi? Is that Spanish?”

  “It’s Icelandic. Khi’s English is better than mine, but sometimes he prefers to use his home language. I think it translates to luminary.”

  I nod slowly, attempting to hide my obvious ignorance of Khi’s nationality. How did I not ask him about this? “What does he mean by luminary?”

  “Oh sweetie, explanations are not my forte.” She grins, more to herself than to me, then grabs a fresh washcloth from a drawer. The sun seems to trace a path for her as she ambles back to her cleaning. She inclines her head in my direction, instructing me to follow. “I’ll let him clarify when he thinks you’re ready.”

  “Ready?” Okay, now I’m confused, and she knows it. I follow after her as though she is my tour guide in a foreign country. “Ready for what?” She sways gently to the bossa nova-style jazz song on her playlist as she leads me back across the cafe. “I think you should call him. Leave a message if he doesn’t pick up.”

  I rest my teas on a shelf, then wrap my scarf back around my neck. The shelf is filled with an assortment of turquoise- and coral-painted frames with black-and-white photos. “Yeah, unlikely he’s going to pick up at this point.” I scan the photos. They are of musicians … none that I recognize. “I hung up on him twice. I wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

  “You may be surprised. Some people choose not to judge a person from a mistake or two.” Nadia lowers herself back to the couch and begins to hum along to the song, her spray bottle squirting to the beat. Her jovial spirit is infectious.

  “All right, I’ll call and let you know what happens.” I pick up my London Fogs.

  “Yes, when I see you on Saturday perhaps,” she sings, stopping her circular wiping as though her towel hit an invisible wall. Her gaze rises to meet mine with purposeful intensity. “Please take care of yourself, Thea.”

  There is an obvious change in her demeanor. Her words, always carefully chosen, show her genuine care for others. I wait for her to say something more, to explain her caution. But before I can start to question, the crinkles around her eyes and mouth reappear, her natural glow absorbing any fears. She resumes her circles as though nothing has happened. I open my mouth to probe her then decide against it. I want to leave M&H with her care and warmth and nothing more.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The tea does its job. Or to be more accurate, while the tea is comforting, in that jumping-back-into-bed-after-you-realize-you-can-sleep-an-extra-half-hour kind of way, Nadia did the more important job. She replaced my irrational qualms with a more concrete anticipation. Also known as a chance to talk with Khi.

  My steps are lighter, more confident, and may attract a few stares as I skip back to school. But I don’t care if I emulate a giddy schoolgirl. Whatever. I’m allowed to be wound up about this. The fact that an Icelandic foreign exchange student who knows nothing about me still reached out after a five-minute conversation is a huge win for my fragile ego. Maybe it should be sending off warning sirens, but for some reason, it leaves me feeling elated. He wants to talk to me. He understands my compassion glitch. And he’s so different, but in a good way. Why do we text people so much anyways?

  When I arrive, the hallways still swarm with students exchanging books at their lockers and posing within their social cliques. I stretch above the gaggle of groups to see if Evan has reappeared with his friends near the far exit, but he is not amongst the vapers sneaking in after their last drag. My intention was to give him his journal and the extra tea, but instead, I pass the hot drink off to an acne-prone grade nine girl, whose whole demeanor appears heavily cloaked by the thick layer of foundation she wears. She accepts the tea with trepidation radiating from her hands. A trepidation that quickly transfers to tingles down my own back. I can’t be that intimidating. Once she realizes I’m not using the tea as an intro to some putdown, a portion of her mask breaks away. A tentative smile brightens her entire disposition. I can do this whole compassion thing. I should write a book about the power of tea and superpowered empathy.

  The rest of my day goes like this: Find trig assignment stuffed inside my locker, compliments of Jade. Recopy sevens en route to math and submit what will inevitably be a fabricated A. Recover from guilt of this admission through contemplating possible conversation with Khi. Copy a plethora of triangles. Escape the triangles while still awake (thanks again to the tea) and arrive for gym with a nice, caffeine-induced energy rally. Silently thank Dad for good cardiovascular genes when gym teacher announces the oh-so-highly anticipated 3000-meter endurance run. Chuckle to myself while most of the girls panic. Spend the next twenty minutes jogging fast enough to demonstrate my one athletic strength, but slow enough to not lap the rest of the girls and subsequently acquire new frenemies. Get into a rhythm perfect for daydreaming. Contemplate possible conversation with Khi. Remember the more immediate conversations that will be necessary with Gavin. Begin to freak out all over again. Lose rhythm as a result of rehearsing much-too-verbose Shakespearian-like lines. Can’t catch breath. Legs develop burning sensation. Start to hyperventilate. Arrive at finish line wheezing like Grams did when putting on any clothing with a zipper in the back. Nice, Thea.

  After changing back into my oversized sweater and leggings and getting the wheezing under control, I fix my curls into a messy topknot, hoping to achieve an artsy performer vibe. Reality: messy topknot is the only flattering option available after 3000 meters of running in single-digit temperatures. At least I have a nice windburned glow. After the last girls leave the changeroom, I rehearse lines without the oxygen deprivation and feel more mentally prepared for my rehearsal. Well, at least prepared for being in character. What I’m never prepared for is staying in character when I see Gavin.

  I was so pumped to get the lead role for the festival this year I didn’t even consider who I might be performing with until I saw Gavin’s name above mine on the cast list. He was in my drama class the past two years, so I knew he could act, but I didn’t think Shakespeare was really his thing. So, when he stepped into the drama room ready to audition for the modern portrayal of Romeo, I nearly peed myself. Luckily I didn’t, because that doesn’t do much to impress your unhealthy crush obsession. And that is what he is.

  When Gavin enters a room, I can’t help staring at him and getting sucked into his bottomless hazels and chiseled jawline, and I can only imagine chiseled six-pack, and then there is his— Okay, you get the point. He has this way of returning my gaze just long enough to make my skin shiver, and then, half smiling, he continues on his path. I am all too aware he is way beyond my social rank and likely has no interest in me, but I can’t help dreaming.

  As I leave the changeroom, I drift back into my happy fantasy world, where Gavin and I realize how perfect we are for each other. Okay,
he realizes how perfect I am for him because the other half of the equation is already cemented in my mind.

  The chime of my cell alarm brings me back. Gah. Only two minutes to weave through the entire stretch of the school. I speed up to a light jog, jockeying around the usual hallway stragglers. Jade is amongst them, shoving what looks like every textbook assigned to her into her backpack.

  “Hey, Miss Math Elite.”

  Jade’s body stiffens as she pivots to find the voice. My voice.

  “It’s just me,” I say. I jog up to her locker. “Thanks for the special delivery.”

  Her body jerks. “Don’t scare me like that.” I didn’t think I had. She resumes squeezing in textbooks. “And I assume you mean the assignment. You’re welcome.”

  “You are the best. Sorry, gotta run.” I resume my pace. “Leave a study break open for M&H’s open mic night, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s blocked off as promised. I’ll meet you out front promptly-ish at eight.” In other words, she will arrive within an hour of the intended -ish.

  “Earlier than later would be appreciated.” I jog in reverse to make sure she heard my plea.

  “Yes, Juliet. Have fun today,” she sings, off key. And yes, that is possible with two notes for Jade. Neither singing nor acting are her artistic strong suits.

  “Ha, ha,” I say, pivoting around and narrowly avoiding Nish. He turns and evaluates me, but doesn’t seem to have caught enough of our conversation to get what Jade was implying. I dash around him and then skid to a stop. This time he rams right into me.

  A light shimmers ahead of me, as though a single ember is traveling from a fire tucked around the corner of the hallway.

  “What is wrong with you, Thea?” Nish’s abrasive voice jars me back to social graces.

  “Sorry.” The spark slowly dissipates into the air. A handful of people shuffle in different directions, bundled to embrace the chilled November afternoon. But there are no flashlights, phone screens, or raging fires in the hallway to explain the light that I swear was floating a few feet away. “I must be dehydrated or lightheaded from gym.” I say the words, trying to convince myself more than Nish, but they seem to justify my clumsiness.

  With his departure, I step to the side of the hall, take a sip of water, and scrutinize the air. What would Dr. K think if I shared I’m now seeing things even when I’m not stressed?

  As I reposition my bag, the stench of teen body odor stops my rehydration mid-gulp. That is not just any teen body odor; that is my own unique mix of kielbasa and sauerkraut body odor. Dang it, I stink. The natural deodorant Mom insists I use is hitting the trash tonight. And I am becoming a vegan. I’d rather smell like fermented cabbage than deli meat any day. A quick rummage through my bag leaves nothing to help with the smell other than strawberry lip gloss, which I coat on in desperation.

  Inside the auditorium, I spot Ashley a few rows back from the stage and scoot into the seat she saved for me. Some of the other cast members have arrived, but not Gavin. We’ve been practicing our lines for the past few weeks, but as of today, we are blocking the scenes on the stage. Of course, the one day I will be close to—if not touching—Gavin, I am a sweaty, delusional mess.

  “Ash, any chance you have any body spray stuff?” I whisper.

  “Um, yeah, I think so.” She rifles through her oversized purse. “Vanilla bean or Victoria’s Secret ‘Scandalous Dare’?”

  “I’ll take anything. Do I stink?” I lean close to her and stretch my arm overhead.

  Just as Ashley’s wrinkled nose confirms my fear, Gavin saunters in. He leans his longboard against the wall, scans the rows, and pauses on my armpit. He has enough awareness of what is happening to purse his lips in obvious amusement. Cue melting into a puddle of stankish shame.

  “Fast, pass over the Victoria one. I need something strong.” I reach down into my bag for my script and blast the nozzle at myself. The spray radius covers my neck, chest, mouth, and nose. “Ah-choo.” That is overpowering, even for Ashley’s standards. Though I wish it was just my sneeze, the reality is the competing-with-Axe-strength perfume draws the attention of the row in front of us. They, and I mean the entire row, turn as one for optimal embarrassment right when Gavin passes by. His adorable half smile—and even his previously somewhat considerate suppressed grin—have been replaced with an incredulous stare. He sits next to Declan, the grade twelve student playing Paris, and there is no subtlety left. He leans in, likely to discuss my shoddy attempt at stench coverage.

  My entire face warms and likely takes on a whole new level of windburned glow. “What advertising campaign prompted you to buy this?” I whisper while taking in the black-lace-covered bottle. “And for what kind of scandalous dare?”

  “It was on sale, and wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Innocent.”

  “I am not that innocent.” I pass the bottle back with two fingers.

  “Yes. Yes, you are. C’mon, it’s like you are straight from the ’80s.”

  I shift away, heat continuing to rise from my freshly coated neck.

  “C’mon, Thea, it’s a good thing. You are one of the few people at this school who is not completely obsessed with sex or drugs. You actually have a chance of making it out of here without—”

  “Without what? Having lived? Having fewer stories to reminisce about than my grams did?”

  Ashley rolls her eyes.

  Ms. Vosper strides to the front of the room. “Cast from scene two, make your way to the stage, please.”

  “Well, maybe I should take some scandalous dares too.” I rise with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much, and strut toward the stage with every intention of embodying a Victoria’s Secret angel. The reality verges closer to a five-foot-seven toddler in a tiara, but I am motivated to at least perform with more “umph” than someone ... well, someone like the usual me.

  Maybe this is why I love drama so much. I can pretend to be someone completely different from myself, with no repercussions. I admit my life is not exactly soap-opera worthy, but I would like to think I focus on more important things, like getting good enough grades to …

  Dang it, Ashley is right. But doing drugs seems stupid. Why would I fry my brain and waste my money for a short high I can get for free being on stage? And as far as my sex life goes? Okay, so I need to start dating before I can consider that, but I am waiting for the right guy. The guy. And maybe he is standing in front of me, and I just need an overpowering floral mess to get me noticed. Here goes nothing.

  “Thea and Gavin, can I have you both take stage left by those chairs.” Ms. Vosper lifts her arm toward adjacent chairs as though each finger is part of a ballet performance. “Today, we’ll work with scene two, where you are seated on the bench by the river.”

  She gives some background suggestions to the other students in the scene, and I take the moment to gather some fragrance-inspired courage.

  “Hey.” I sit down, untie my hair, and attempt a more successful hair flip. “Did you hear about the coffeehouse happening at M&H this Saturday?” I then pretend my nails are much more interesting than any of his flawless features.

  “Yeah, Lennox was talking about going.” He doesn’t shift his focus from his script.

  I resist the urge to plaster on a fake grin and ask the obvious next question. Instead, I continue to consider my cuticle health, remembering Ashley’s sage advice—make a guy wait long enough to sweat a little before you respond. I feel my own stench fighting through the bouquet of seduction and prepare to discard this advice.

  “My next question starts to form in my mouth, and then Gavin glances up at me. Thank you, Ashley.”

  “Do you know who’s playing?” he asks.

  “I think it’s open mike, but I heard The Hazmats might come.”

  Gavin follows the local indie band on Instagram, and even if I didn’t creep online, I might have seen their band sticker on his locker. Not that I notice details like this or anything.

  “Cool.” He nods
and returns to his script.

  Cool? That’s it? That is all he is going to give me? I can’t wait him out much longer. Ms. Vosper’s collection of spirited suggestions for ways to amble in the background of a park appears to be coming to an end. Think fast, Thea.

  “Well, I’m going with a few friends, so maybe we can meet up if you go?” I flip my hair again, as casually as I can manage.

  He closes his script and leans back into his seat. “Yeah, sounds good.” A glorious crooked grin emerges.

  Do not ogle the poor boy, Thea. I pivot frontwards and nod with a pressed smile.

  “I like the new perfume. Not something I’d expect on you.”

  What? He likes this disgusting floral vomit from a panty-hose-covered bottle? And he knows what I normally smell like? Is that a good thing? Do I normally smell bad? Does my hipster deodorant remind him of an ex, or worse, his mom?

  “Thanks.” I rally, after the shock of his response has settled. “It’s Ashley’s.” Why did you say that? “She loaned it to me because, you know, I had gym class …” Stop talking, Thea. “And we had the 3000-meter run today. But it’s growing on me ...” Like kielbasa? “Not literally. The smell, I mean. Like I am not gagging from it anymore. It’s from Victoria’s Secret.” I shut my mouth. Finally. A minute after I told myself to stop talking in the first place. Talking without concern for my social well-being is another impulse-control issue I can add to my diagnoses.

  Gavin’s pristinely sculpted jaw tightens in an obvious attempt to not burst spits of laughter into my face. Thea, you have even affected the beauty of Gavin with your rambling. You are pathetic. Perhaps I should stick to words someone else has written for the rest of this rehearsal.

  The sound of Ms. Vosper’s projecting voice draws our attention from my downward spiral toward social ruin. My wish is granted. I am no longer given a chance to speak, except through the very well written and eloquent script of some random grade eleven English savant. And, now that I can firmly plant myself in the role of Juliet, I too can at least act eloquent.