I was at the back of our crew, and I didn’t break stride as I held up my hand, waving goodbye to him with one expressive finger.

CHAPTER THREE

“He’s more myself than I am.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

~Emily Brontë

PAST

The first time we ever really talked to each other was right outside of the vice principal’s office in fourth grade.

We’d both just been busted for fighting.

It wasn’t the first time we’d met, or even the first time we’d been forced to spend time together, but I remembered very clearly that it was the first time I realized we were alike.  That there was another kid like me, someone who could relate to all of the rage, all of the insecurity and anger I carried around with me every second of the day.

On the outside, we were opposites in almost every way.

I was skinny.  He was strapping.

My clothes were too small and threadbare; his fit him perfect, and looked so expensive to my young, untrained eye that I’d have been afraid to touch them with my grubby hands.

Even his hair was perfect.  Not short like the other boys, but not long either.  Styled with gel and parted on the side.  No other boys had hair like him, like a grownup tended to it every single day before school.

Mine was a long, tangled mess that I hadn’t brushed in days.

He smelled like soap, fancy soap, something spicy and pleasant.

I just smelled.

He was filthy rich.

I was dirt poor.

But we did have a few, crucial things that matched:  Bad attitudes and worse tempers.

I swear I was born with a chip on my shoulder.  Full of more hard things than soft ones.  And so when there was a soft thing I was doubly defensive of it.  Willing to fight for it.  Hard and often.

Willing to pull that stupid girl’s hair until I ripped great big hunks of it out to make her sorry for pointing it out.

I looked down at my hands.  I was still holding some of the long blonde strands, and I hadn’t even known it.

Glancing around, I gathered it all into a ball and slipped it behind my chair.

Like it mattered, at this point.  I’d already been busted.

And I wasn’t sorry.  The little brat had deserved it.

But boy was I in for it this time.    My grandma would make me sorry I’d lost my temper again, there was no doubt.

“Were you fightin’ again, too?” I asked Dante.

We rarely spoke to each other.  I had mixed feelings about him.  My grandma worked for his mom and he’d always been standoffish to me and, well, everyone.

His family had more money than anyone else around.  I figured maybe he thought we were all beneath him.

I was pretty sure he was probably a snob.

He grunted in answer.

“Why?” I continued.  I felt a rare burst of friendliness towards him.  This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him get busted for fighting.

It made me like him, maybe even respect him a little bit.  I got caught fighting a lot too.  So much so I was almost positive I’d get kicked out of school for it this time.

He shrugged, not looking at me.

“Were they makin’ fun of you for bein’ rich again?” I asked him, watching his face.

He shrugged.

“Were they makin’ fun of your nice hair again?” I tried, making my voice soft so he knew I wasn’t trying to knock him.

He finally looked at me.  The rage in his bright eyes made something swell in my chest.

I was pretty sure he was mad at me for saying that, but that look, those eyes, the way it made me feel, was thrilling.  Magical.  Like I’d just discovered something to do.  Some bright new adventure.  Some task that gave me purpose.

I smiled at him.  “I like your hair.  I think it looks really nice.  Those little shits,” I was proud of myself for pulling out a good curse word for him, “just wish they had your hair.  Wish they had anything of yours.”

His jaw clenched, and I thought how handsome he was.  No one else looked like him.  His solemn face was without flaw.

“Nothin’ they say should get to you,” I continued.  “You’re better than them.”

“Same to you,” he finally spoke back.  “Nothing they say should get to you, either.”

I was straight up beaming at him.  I’d never felt my face move like that, like it couldn’t smile big enough.

“I like your gram,” I said, and it was true.  She always gave me candy and told me I was pretty.  She was the nicest grownup I’d ever met.

“Gram likes you, too,” he returned.  His voice wasn’t how I’d heard it before.  Usually he was yelling at people.  Now, when he was talking softly, it was really nice.  I decided I liked it.  A lot.

“Wanna know why I was fightin’?” I asked him.  I wanted to tell him the story.  I wanted it to impress him.

But the fact was, it didn’t take much to get me fighting.

Grandma always said I was a prickly little thing.  She was not one for kind words, but even I knew that was the nicest way you could put it.

I was a mean little ball of hate.

He shook his head.  “I know why you were.  As far as I’m concerned,” he said, speaking in that way he had, like he only knew how to talk to grownups, “you had every right to do that.”

My heart swelled with pride.  Not once, in my entire wretched life, had anyone ever offered me encouragement like that, let alone for doing something that even I knew was naughty.