MILA Origins 2.0 - The Fire

toward him.
    Old denim, I decided. His eyes were the color of old denim.
    His long-sleeved white tee was paired with slim gray pants. And on his feet—checkered gray-and-black Vans.
    “No work boots,” I pointed out, for Kaylee’s benefit.
    “Duh. That’s the first thing I noticed.”
    I bit back a smile. Of course it was. Me, I’d noticed lots of things—as always. The gray along his jawline that hinted at five o’clock shadow. The way he leaned against the counter, poised but standoffish, his hunched shoulders not inviting anyone to chat. The way the left side of his upper lip was slightly higher than the other, saving his mouth from perfection in an intriguing way.
    And then a worker handed him a drink, and he was out the door.
    Kaylee broke the silence by banging her fist on the table, making our collection of cups jump. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly the kind of fresh blood we need at Clearwater.”
    “Too bad Mila scared him off with her booth dive,” Parker sniped.
    Kaylee jumped in, pointing out that any attention was better than none at all. While the girls’ chatter went from mystery boys to favorite actors, I burrowed into Dad’s shirt. My gaze found the window, but instead of pastureland, I summoned more memories, pored through images of Mom and Dad smiling and dabbing my nose with tomato sauce while we assembled a homemade pizza. Images of all three of us, curled up on our navy-blue sofa, playing a game of gin rummy.
    Kaylee’s fake swoon into my shoulder stole them away. “Oh my god, he was hot in that werewolf movie. But I still liked him better in Tristan James, Underage Soldier .”
    I stood up. On purpose, this time.
    “I’ve gotta go,” I said. Knowing Mom would probably be upset that I was breaking the rule by walking, and not really caring.
    I took off before Kaylee could even finish her startled good-bye or Parker her second eye roll. And then I was outside. Alone. Away from the girls, from the fried food smells, from the strangers and plastic booths and everything that wasn’t Philly.
    Away from any interruptions to the memories I continued to parade through my head.

THREE
    K aylee burst into homeroom the next morning in a bigger frenzy than usual, her brown hair fluttering behind her as she practically sprinted over to my desk. Only after she had smoothed down her homemade black dress—the girl could sew like anyone’s business—adjusted her sparkling aqua tights, and rubbed her index finger across her top teeth to erase phantom lipstick did she collapse into her spot next to me.
    “Have you seen him yet?” she hissed, craning her head to check out every corner of the room.
    “Him who?”
    When I performed my own room inspection, I didn’t see anyone—or anything—out of the ordinary. Same chalkboard spanning the opposite wall, same bulletin board fullof colorful flyers advertising SWIM TEAM TRYOUTS! and FREE TUTORS! and YOUTH GROUP CAMPING TRIP TO AJ ACRES! Same twenty desks, lined up in four rows of five across the industrial green carpeting, the color supposedly picked in an administrative spurt of school spirit. Same group of students settling into those desks. Same ammonia-mixed-with-sweaty-feet smell.
    Same sense of being stranded in a room filled with strangers. Kaylee assured me that Clearwater High was small compared to tons of schools, but since I’d been homeschooled back in Philly, the words did little to soothe me.
    “No fair.” She sighed, letting her backpack slip from her fingers and smack the floor.
    I ignored the typical Kaylee drama and pulled a pen from my backpack. “Who are you talking about?”
    I heard rather than saw Kaylee stiffen. “Oh my god, Mila, look!” she said, knocking my arm as she whirled in her chair. The pen flew out of my hand…and headed straight for the instigator of the “oh my god, Mila, look” comment’s gray-swathed chest.
    In a reflexive motion, my hand whipped out, snagging the pen-missile midair. Great save, until the hand connected to the gray shirt knocked into mine as it sought to do the same. The pen sprang loose and clattered to the floor.
    Shaggy dark hair. Lean face. Faded blue eyes—the color of Kaylee’s favorite old jeans—that widened briefly. I hadjust enough time to register the images before the boy from Dairy Queen dropped into a crouch behind my chair.
    He didn’t say anything as he extended the pen to me. Kaylee cleared her throat in a totally obvious um-hum ,