Ship of Souls

maybe Nyla has only been nice to me in order to get close to Keem. But Nyla’s the prettiest girl in the whole school—she doesn’t need my help to hook up with anyone. And she has to know Keem’s into her…
    Suddenly Nyla grabs my hand and pulls me into the street. “Move it or lose it, D!”
    We run across the street, laughing at our recklessness. Keem’s trapped on the island and has to wait for the light to change. While we’re waiting for him, Nyla turns to me and says, “Do you mind if he comes with us? I can tell him to get lost if you want me to.”
    I’d much rather be alone with Nyla in the park, but Keem will be destroyed if Nyla tells him to go. “Keem’s a good guy,” I say. Not a ringing endorsement, but true.
    Nyla watches Keem as the light changes and he does the jock-trot over to where we are. “Ready to spot some exotic birds?”
    Before Keem and I can say anything, Nyla turns and heads into the park. We follow her knowing full well that Nyla’s the most exotic creature we’ve ever seen.
    I figure this is my chance to learn more about her, so I start with some small talk. “You’ve traveled a lot, huh?”
    Nyla shrugs and then pulls her ringed fingers out of her pockets and counts off all the places she’s been. I don’t even have a passport, but Nyla must have stamps on every single page of hers.
    “It’s easy to get around when you live in Europe,” she says. “Everything’s close by, more or less.”
    “Is that how you learned to speak German?” asks Keem.
    “ Natürlich, dumm .” Nyla laughs at the confused looks on our faces. “I came here from Ramstein, but before that we moved around a lot. My dad’s an Army engineer. Or was—he retired last year, so we came back here.”
    “Brooklyn must be kind of boring compared to Europe, huh?”
    Nyla looks at me like I‘m crazy. “Are you kidding? Brooklyn’s the world.” She throws out her arms and twirls around and around. Then, staggering dizzily, she says, “Everyone who’s anyone lives here.”
    Keem’s phone goes off, and he steps away to take the call. I catch Nyla watching him, trying to hear who he’s talking to.
    This is my chance—I’ve got Nyla all to myself. “So…what are you?” I ask.
    Nyla’s dimples vanish as the smile slides off her face. I rush on to fix my mistake. “I mean, are you, like, Goth? Or punk?”
    Nyla’s smile returns, and she flips her hair out of her eyes. “What you see is what you get, D. I’m me —take it or leave it.”
    Nyla watches me, her onyx eyes sparkling with unloosed laughter. She reaches out a hand and rubs it over my thick hair. I haven’t had a haircut since I moved in with Mrs. Martin but plan to spend some of my tutoring money at the barbershop—soon.
    “You’d look good with a faux-hawk,” Nyla tells me.
    “Can’t—my mom would freak out,” I say. Then I realize I’ve done it again—used the present tense for someone who’s no longer present.
    I try to look away, but Nyla sees the change in my face. “You and your mom don’t get along?” she asks softly.
    “We used to,” I say, fingering the pink ribbon pin in my coat pocket. “But…my mom died a few months back. She had breast cancer.” I press the sharp pink ribbon pin into my thumb, knowing Nyla will see me wince.
    “Oh, God, D—I’m so sorry.” Nyla reaches out and puts her hand on my face this time. I try not to sigh as the cold silver of her rings presses into my cheek. “It’s just you and your dad then?”
    I shake my head, and Nyla’s hand falls away. “I never knew my dad.”
    “So who takes care of you now—your grandmother?”
    I shake my head and decide not to tell Nyla about my bizarre lack of family. “I live with Mrs. Martin. She’s my foster mother.”
    I never know what to do with other people’s sympathy, but I like the way Nyla’s looking at me now. Like she wishes she could give me something that would fill up the hole in my heart. Instead Nyla’s puts her arms around me and holds me close for five full seconds. I know because I was counting!
    Once Nyla takes her arms away, I feel sort of free inside—brave enough to admit the truth. “Sometimes I forget that my mom’s gone. This past year feels like a bad dream that just won’t end.”
    Nyla nods to show that she understands. “Some people say that life is just a dream—we only wake up when we die. The ancient Egyptians believed the dead weren’t really dead. I think they were right—the