Mom hadn’t looked happy when I asked if Sam could stay for the evening. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Persephone,” she said slowly, right in front of him, then turned to Dad for his input. I think it was less about Sam’s boy-ness and more that Mom wanted to keep me away from other teenagers for at least two months before we went back to the city.
“She needs to have a friend, Diane,” he replied, to complete my mortification. Letting my hair fall across my face, I grabbed Sam by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs.
It took five minutes for Mom to check on us, holding a plate of Oreos like she did when I was six. I was surprised she didn’t bring glasses of milk. We were munching on the cookies, chests speckled with dark crumbs, when Sam asked about my name.
“It’s from Greek mythology,” I told him. “My parents are total geeks. Persephone is the goddess of the underworld. It doesn’t really suit me.”
He studied the Creature from the Black Lagoon poster and the stack of horror paperbacks on my bedside table, then fixed his gaze on me, one eyebrow raised.
“I dunno. Goddess of the underworld? Seems like it suits you. Sounds pretty cool to me . . .” He trailed off, his expression turning serious. “Persephone, Persephone . . .” He rolled my name around in his mouth like he was trying to figure out how it tasted. “I like it.”
“What’s Sam short for?” I asked, my hands and neck heating. “Samuel?”
“Nope.” He smirked.
“Samson? Samwise?”
He jerked his head back like I’d surprised him.
“Lord of the Rings, nice.” His voice cracked over the nice, and he gave me an off-kilter grin that sent another thrill zipping through my chest. “But, nope. It’s just Sam. My mom likes one-syllable names for boys—like Sam and Charles. She says they’re stronger when they’re short. But sometimes, when she’s really pissed, she calls me Samuel. She says it gives her more to work with.”
I laughed at this, and his grin turned into a full-blown smile, one side slightly higher than the other. He had this easy way about him, like he wasn’t trying to please anyone. I liked it. I wanted to be just like that.
I was polishing off a cookie when Sam spoke again. “So what did your dad mean downstairs?”
I feigned confusion. I’d been hoping he somehow hadn’t heard. Sam squinted and added quietly, “About you needing to have a friend?”
I winced, then swallowed, not sure of what to say or how much to tell him.
“I had some”—I made air quotes with my fingers—“？‘issues’ with a few of the girls at school this year. They don’t like me anymore.” I fidgeted with the bracelet on my wrist while Sam pondered this. When I peered up at him, he was looking right at me, brows drawn like he was working out a math problem.
“Two girls in my class were suspended for bullying last year,” he finally said. “They were getting the boys to ask this one girl out as a prank, and then they’d tease her for believing it.”
As much as she despised me, I don’t think Delilah would have gone that far. I wondered if Sam was part of the prank, and as if he could see my mind churning, he said, “They wanted me to get in on it, but I wouldn’t. It seemed mean and kind of messed up.”
“It’s totally messed up,” I said, relieved.
Keeping his blue eyes trained on me, he changed the subject. “Tell me about this bracelet you keep playing with.” He pointed to my wrist.
“This is my friendship bracelet!”
Before I was a social outcast, I was known for two things at school: my love of horror and my friendship bracelets. I wove them in elaborate patterns, but that was secondary to picking just the right colors. I carefully chose each palette to reflect the wearer’s personality. Delilah’s was pinks and deep reds—feminine and powerful. My own was a trendy mix of neon orange, neon pink, peach, white, and gray. Delilah had always been the prettiest, most popular girl in our class, and even though the other kids liked me, I knew my status was due to my proximity to her. When I got requests for bracelets from every girl in our class and even a few of the eighth graders, I felt like I finally had my own thing aside from being Delilah’s funny sidekick. I felt creative and cool and interesting. But then one day, I found the bracelets I’d made for my three best friends cut up in little pieces in my desk.
“Who gave it to you?” Sam asked.
“Oh . . . well, no one did. I made it myself.”