“What?”

“Roll down your window and ask him if he wants a ride.”

“Scarlett,” I said, suddenly nervous, “I don’t even know him.”

“So what?” She gave me a look. “It’s pouring. Hurry up.”

I rolled my window down and stuck my head out, feeling the rain pelting the back of my neck. “Excuse me,” I said.

He didn’t hear me. I cleared my throat, stalling. “Excuse me.”

“Halley,” Scarlett said, glancing into the rearview mirror, “we’re holding up traffic here. Come on.”

“He can’t hear me,” I said defensively.

“You’re practically whispering.”

“I am not,” I snapped. “I am speaking in a perfectly audible tone of voice.”

“Just yell it.” Cars were going around us now as a fresh wave of rain poured in my window, soaking my lap. Scarlett exhaled loudly, which meant she was losing patience. “Come on, Halley, don’t be such a wuss.”

“I am not a wuss,” I said. “God.”

She just looked at me. I stuck my head back out the window.

“Macon.” I said it a little louder this time, just because I was angry. “Macon.”

Another loud exhalation from Scarlett. I was getting completely soaked.

“Macon,” I said a bit louder, stretching my head completely out of the car. “Macon!!”

He jerked suddenly on the sidewalk, turning around and looking at me as if he expected us to come flying up the curb in our tiny car to squash him completely. Then he just stared, his shirt soaked and sticking to his skin, his hair dripping onto his face, stood and stared at me as if I was completely and utterly nuts.

“What?” he screamed back, just as loudly. “What is it?”

Beside me, Scarlett burst out laughing, the first time I’d heard her laugh since I’d come home. She leaned back in her seat, hand over her mouth, giggling uncontrollably. I wanted to die.

“Um,” I said, and he was still staring at me. “Do you want a ride?”

“I’m okay,” he said across me, to Scarlett. “But thanks.”

“Macon, it’s pouring.” She had her Mom voice on, one I recognized. As he looked across me, I could see how red his eyes were, swollen from crying. “Come on.”

“I’m okay,” he said again, backing off from the car. He wiped his hand over his face and hair, water spraying everywhere. “I’ll see you later.”

“Macon,” she called out again, but he was already gone, walking back into the rain. As we sat at the stoplight, he cut around a corner and disappeared; the last thing I saw was his shirt, a flash of white against the brick of the alley. Then he was gone, vanishing so easily it seemed almost like magic—there was no trace. Scarlett sighed as I rolled up my window, saying something about everybody having their ways. I was only watching the alleyway, the last place I’d seen him, wondering if he’d ever even been there at all.

Chapter Three

When I think of Michael Sherwood, what really comes to mind is produce. Deep yellow bananas, bright green kiwis, cool purple plums smooth to the touch. Our friendship with Michael Sherwood, popular boy and legend, began simply with fruits and vegetables.

Scarlett and I were cashiers at Milton’s Market, wearing our little green smocks and plastic name tags: Hello, I’m Halley! Welcome to Milton‘s! She worked register eight, which was the No Candy register, and I worked Express Fifteen Items and Under right next to her, close enough to roll my eyes or yell over the beeping of my price scanner when it all got to be too much. It wasn’t the greatest job by a long stretch. But at least we were together.

We’d seen Michael Sherwood come in to interview at the end of June. He’d been wearing a tie. He looked nervous and waved at me like we were friends as he waited for an application at the Customer Service Desk. He got placed in Fruits and Vegetables, his official title being Junior Assistant to Produce Day Manager, which meant that he stacked oranges, repacked fruit in those little green trays and sealed them with cling wrap, and watered the vegetables with a big hose twice a day. Mostly he laughed and had a good time, quickly making friends with everyone from Meat to Health and Beauty Aids. But it was me and Scarlett he was drawn to. Well, it was Scarlett, really. As usual, I was just along for the ride.

It started with kiwis. During his first week, Michael Sherwood ate four kiwi fruit for lunch each day. Just kiwis. Nothing else. He’d stick them on Scarlett’s little scale in their plastic bag, smiling, then take them outside to the one little patch of grass in the parking lot and cut and eat them, one by one, by himself. We wondered about this. We never ate kiwis.

“He likes fruit,” Scarlett said simply one day after he was gone, having smiled his big smile at her and made her blush. He came to my register once, but by the third day he was standing in line at Scarlett’s, even when my overhead light was flashing OPEN NO WAITING.

I looked out at Michael, in his green produce apron, sitting in the sun with those tiny fuzzy fruits, and shook my head. It would always take at least fifteen minutes for Scarlett to stop blushing.

The next day, when he got to the front of the line with his kiwis and Scarlett was ringing him up, she said, “You must really like these things.”

“They’re awesome,” he said, leaning over her little check and credit-card station. “Haven’t you ever tried one?”