Revived (Cat Patrick)

rush like I want to reach out and stop it from happening. He takes another step, our eyes still locked. Two more, and I feel bound to move with him, but somehow I manage to stay still.
    He walks backward all the way to his room at the end of the hall, his eyes holding mine the entire time. When he reaches his door, he smiles and holds up a palm. I hold mine up, too. He dips his chin once before stepping inside; the door barely audibly clicks behind him.
    And then—only then—do I start breathing again.

sixteen
    Monday is Hooky Day. Cassie already had me excused from school because of the trip to Kansas City, and Audrey’s still technically home sick, even though she’s out of bed and claims to be feeling better. Matt’s the only one who has to go to school today. At breakfast, I fight off a perma-grin every time I look at him, with his still-dripping wisps of hair clinging to his neck. I want to reach over and blot them, just for an excuse to touch him. Last night is fresh in my mind; I can still feel his lips on mine, and I have to try very hard not to stare at his mouth.
    At least he seems to be into me, too.
    Every time I look at him, he’s either looking at me already or he feels my stare and looks up. He’s moving a little quicker than usual and his dark eyes are sparkling. It’s hard to eat.
    Then it gets even harder.
    Audrey starts humming into her cereal bowl and immediately I recognize the tune to Ingrid Michaelson’s “The Way I Am.” At first I think she’s merely chirping, but then I realize that it’s much more.
    “If you are chilly, here take my sweater,” she begins to sing, swaying overdramatically. Matt scrunches up his face in confusion.
    “Did you take too many painkillers this morning?” Matt asks. “Why are you singing to your Cheerios?”
    Audrey looks at him with a weird smile on her face. She rolls her eyes and looks at me, amused. She tilts her head to the side and raises the volume, singing the next two lines with her hand on her heart.
    Matt gets that Audrey is serenading us just as their mom cuts in.
    “What a pretty song!” Mrs. McKean says, thankfully interrupting the hazing ritual.
    “Oh, yeah, lovely,” Matt says, blowing out his breath. He looks embarrassed but plays it off. “You should try out for show choir.”
    Blushing, I stuff a piece of toast in my mouth. I chew until Matt abruptly stands to leave, then I look at him, surprised.
    “I have to meet Drew,” he says in explanation even though he’s looking at his mom, not me. But then his eyes meet mine and we’re locked there for a moment, silently saying goodbye. He breaks the hold when he turns toward Audrey. “Later, Thelma.”
    Audrey rolls her eyes at him again. Matt walks over and hugs his mom, then he’s gone.
    “Sorry,” Audrey says after he’s gone. “But I couldn’t resist. You two are disgustingly cute.”
    “That’s okay,” I say, taking another bite. “What’s with ‘Thelma’?”
    She shakes her head. “That’s what my dad wanted to name me. Matt thinks it’s the nerdiest name ever, so when I annoy him, he calls me Thelma.”
    Audrey and I look at each other for a beat before we both burst out laughing. The name isn’t that funny, but it’s one of those times when the other person’s giggles make yours multiply. I think I’m still delirious from seeing Matt this morning after last night, and Audrey’s silly in general. Five minutes later, we both have tears streaming down our faces. After trying to talk to us but getting nowhere, Audrey’s mom shakes her head and leaves the room, which only makes us laugh harder. I feel a little bad, but I don’t calm down; instead I clutch my side and keep rolling.
    Because sometimes, laughter is what you need.
    Audrey and I spend the morning watching talk shows and painting our toenails turquoise. After lunch, despite my general aversion to direct sunlight, she drags me to the pool in her neighborhood. It’s late September yet unseasonably warm enough for us to lie in the sun. My fair skin is slathered in SPF 50 sunblock, and Audrey’s is utterly exposed to the elements.
    “I might as well die tan,” she says lazily, an arm draped over her eyes.
    “Don’t say things like that,” I reply without looking at her.
    “Why not?” she asks. “I speak the truth.”
    “I hate the truth,” I mutter. “And besides, you never know—someone could cure cancer tomorrow.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous, Daisy,” Audrey says. She