“Hell if I care,” he says, shrugging and sitting on the stool at the counter.
Mercy walks by and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. “Be nice to your sister.”
I laugh because Georgia and Alex fight like actual brother and sister, even though Georgia has only been here about six months. She’s totally secretive and often bitchy, but then again, most fosters who come through start off like that. Alex and I were the only ones who became permanent. Neither of us ever had anywhere else to go.
“She’s not my sister, Ma,” Alex replies. “Not unless you’re going to adopt her, too.”
“Georgia has a family down south,” Mercy says, putting the Tupperware in her insulated lunch bag. “And if it weren’t a temporary situation, maybe I would.” She raises her chin defiantly and I can see in her eyes that she feels guilty. Sometimes I think that Mercy would adopt the whole world if she could.
“Charlotte,” Alex says. “Back me up here. Georgia sucks, right?”
I laugh. “I’m not saying a word.”
“Good girl,” Mercy calls out as she crosses the room to pause in front of me, purse and lunch bag in her hands. “I have to go,” she says, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry, I know I said I’d try to be around more.”
“It’s okay.” And it is, because if Mercy were around more I’d have fewer chances to sneak out and see Harlin. “Maybe this weekend?”
“We’re going to church on Sunday,” she says like it’s a warning. “Sister Catherine has been all over me about missing Mass.” As a family we consider ourselves part-time Catholics. We reserve church for holidays, baptisms, and funerals. It’s not that we aren’t religious; we just prefer to say our prayers before bed instead of in a cathedral full of people. But every so often one of the nuns at St. Vincent’s reminds Mercy that a scholarship is a “gift from God” and that we should give back by attending Mass. Basically they guilt us into going.
“Charlotte,” Mercy says, “are you feeling okay? You look sort of pale.” She reaches out to touch my forehead.
I nod, but now that she mentions it, anxiety begins to turn in my stomach. I’m resisting the Need by waiting, but I have to, even if it makes me a little sick. There’s not a lot of time and I still want to see Harlin.
“I’m just tired,” I say.
Mercy purses her red lips, lines of worry creasing her forehead. “You call me if you feel sick tonight. Monroe told me your asthma attacks have been kicking up.” Mercy and Monroe have been friends for years, ever since she brought me to his clinic when I was seven with a broken arm. And luckily Monroe buys my asthma story, at least for now. If he didn’t keep Mercy updated on it, I’m not sure my acting skills would be enough for Mercy to keep believing the story. How many asthma attacks can one person have?
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Good. Now go rest.” She leans forward to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll see you after school. Tomorrow we’re having a family dinner. Tell Georgia if you see her.”
“Su-ucks,” Alex sings from the kitchen, but we both ignore him.
“I’ll tell her,” I say to Mercy. “Night.” I turn to walk toward my small bedroom in the back of the apartment, but stop in the hallway to wait. The minute I hear the click of the front door shutting, I smile and go to change out of my uniform.
“Looking snazzy, Miss Cassidy,” Harlin says when he opens his apartment door. His vintage T-shirt and loose jeans hang on him just right, and his hair is messy in that I-don’t-care sort of way. As he smiles, his dimples deepen and I get butterflies all over, like I always do when he’s watching me like that. Like he wants me.
“Thank you,” I say, holding his stare, tingles racing up and down my body.
Harlin bites his bottom lip as he looks me over. “Where’d you get the jacket? It’s hot.”
“Sarah.” I spin around slowly, showing it off. “Cute, right?”
“So cute. Now come here.” He reaches out, putting his hands on either side of my hips to pull me toward him. When we’re against each other, he pauses just as his lips touch mine. “Don’t kill me,” he whispers, “but my brothers are home.”
Disappointment fills me, and I pout a little, moving back from him. “Both of them?”
“Yep.”
I sigh. Harlin’s brothers are both in their twenties, and even though they’re pretty cool, they aren’t exactly fine with us spending the entire time in Harlin’s bedroom. I glance around the empty hallway of his apartment building. Well, at least out here we’re alone.
I push him hard against the yellowed wall before pressing my mouth to his. He reacts immediately, pulling me into him, against him. I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair. He tastes like cinnamon, just like always. Just like he did that first time he kissed me nearly two years ago.
Before then we’d never spoken, only saw each other in the halls of St. Vincent’s. I would watch him, half-fascinated, half-intimidated. Because while all the other guys were acting like idiots—punching one another in the halls, pinching girl’s asses—Harlin kept to himself, always seeming lost in his thoughts. But when he looked at me, I got a rush. I felt alive.
Then Portland had this huge winter storm, the entire city blanketed in ice and snow. And when the power in the school went out, I found myself in the hallway of St. Vincent’s, rushing to class from the bathroom. The old hallways were dark and creepy. The usual humming of the lights silent. Dead.
I was nearly back to economics class when I felt someone touch my arm as I passed the art rooms. I spun, startled, and saw him. Green paint was smeared across his hands and now on the white sleeve of my shirt. When I looked into his hazel eyes, my heart started beating wildly, as if electricity was coursing through me.
Neither of us spoke as we watched the other. But in that moment I took in a long breath and it felt like my lungs were filling for the first time. As if I’d never truly breathed before.
Across from me Harlin shook his head quickly, his dark hair falling in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m Harlin.” His voice was soft and raspy and I realized that it was the first time I’d heard him speak.
“Charlotte Cassidy,” I answered, letting him take my hand. But he didn’t shake it. He just held it.