I latch the door shut. “Well, have fun reading those,” I say.
She points at the library. “Aren’t you going to take a book, dear? The rules are ‘give a book, take a book.’？”
“There isn’t one to take,” I say.
“Are you sure? I’m certain someone left one earlier.”
I reopen the door and spy the book she’s talking about in the back left corner.
The book is called Instructions for Dancing. It’s a slim paperback with water-damaged and dog-eared pages. Underneath the title there’s a simple line drawing of two sets of footprints facing each other.
I flip through the pages reading chapter titles: “Salsa,” “Bachata,” “Waltz,” “Tango,” “Merengue,” “East Coast Swing,” “Lindy Hop.” Each dance has its own sequence of numbered diagrams with arrows pointing from one set of footsteps to another.
“Maybe I should leave this for someone who wants to learn how to dance,” I say, and start to put it back.
“That someone could be you, dear.” She comes closer to me. “I insist,” she says.
It seems so important to her that I take the book and drop it into my backpack. “Nice meeting you,” I say as I hop onto my bike.
“You too,” she says. “Take good care.”
At the end of the block, I turn to wave goodbye.
But when I look back, she’s no longer there.
* * *
——
I ride for two blocks before realizing that I’m heading east instead of west, toward home. How did I get so turned around? I pull off to the side of the road and check my phone. It’s already after three. I’ve been meandering for four hours. My stomach growls, like it too just realized how late it is.
I take the nonscenic route home, pedaling fast while still being careful. LA drivers sometimes act as if bicyclists don’t exist. I lock away my bike and turn the corner to my apartment. Danica and Ben are on the stoop. They’re so busy staring into each other’s eyes, they don’t realize I’m only a few feet away.
There are some things you don’t need to see in your life. Your little sister making out is one of those somethings. I’m about to clear my throat and spare us both the trauma. But before I can, she leans in and kisses him.
My vision goes black, like the moment just before a movie begins.
And I see.
CHAPTER 4
Danica and Ben
DANICA IN OUR school cafeteria. She’s sitting at her usual table, surrounded by her friends. The cafeteria is bustling in the usual ways. Some kids are talking, eating, laughing. Some kids—the always-alone kids—are not talking, not laughing. Danica’s ultrabright today in a fuchsia outfit that was probably once someone’s prom dress.
From the right, a tray slides over and bumps into hers. Ben is on the other side of the tray, smiling.
“I was thinking about asking you out,” he says.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Danica asks.
“Not anymore,” he says, and leans in. “If I did ask you out, what would you say?”
She leans in too. “You actually have to ask to find out.”
“Want to go out with me?”
“Sure,” she says. “Why not?”
* * *
—
This moment right now, the two of them kissing on the stoop like no one can see them.
* * *
—
Danica on a beach at night surrounded by firepits, and the firepits themselves surrounded by her friends, who are partying or warming their hands and faces or just watching sparks fly up and away. She stumbles through the sand, away from all that. Her eyes are restless, searching. She walks past lifeguard station twenty-three and then twenty-four. At station twenty-seven, she finds Ben, but he’s not alone. He’s kissing his ex-girlfriend who, it turns out, isn’t an ex after all.
* * *
—
Danica lying in bed in her room, alone. She scrolls through her social media, deleting photos and posts and comments. She changes her relationship status to Single. She unlikes and unfollows until there’s no evidence to be found anywhere that she and Ben were ever together.
CHAPTER 5
The Bonfire
THE VISION ENDS and the real world comes back into focus. I’m back where I was, standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment.
Danica and Ben are still on the stoop, but they’re no longer kissing. They’re both gaping at me.
Ben looks confused.
Danica looks outraged. “What the hell, Evie?” she demands, and stomps down from the stairs. “Why are you staring at us like a creeper?”