Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
His words were delivered softly into Kyle’s ear as the pencil artfully danced over the paper. Kyle played it cool, as if none of this affected him.
Despite the way his breathing changed.
Despite admiring the smooth, fluid movements of Tristan’s hand, Tristan, who was always so graceful, so intentional.
“You’re good at this,” said Kyle. He was impressed at how calm he was acting, even with his hammering heart. “You’re a great teacher.”
Want me to let you try now? Have you learned enough?
Kyle kept his voice level. He wanted Tristan to stay close to him as long as possible. “Show me a little more. Like, how do you, uh … do the eyes? How do you make them right?”
Like this, said Tristan, guiding his hand.
Was it true that Tristan could hear the racing of someone else’s heart? Could Tristan hear Kyle’s right then? Maybe he could, and he was just being polite in not pointing out how fast it drummed as he held his hand, afraid of embarrassing him.
Maybe he knew everything, like what Kyle was doing under his bed sheets every night this week, who he thought of, what inspired his hand to move at night, as well as what inspired his hand to move right now.
One day, you will stop creating monsters, said Tristan.
Kyle bit his lip as he watched their hands move in sync, like a pair of lifelong dancers, like choreography.
The rest of that afternoon, Kyle felt like he was filled with an infinite supply of thrumming, electrical energy. Even during practice, his legs felt like they could run for miles, from one end of the town to the other, up a mountain and back down without breaking a sweat. His hands were quicker, catching every ball thrown to him. He laughed too easily at jokes.
It didn’t even faze him when he spotted his coach and a few of the cheerleaders in the hallway one afternoon, including the freshman brunette. Nothing seemed all that out of the ordinary to Kyle, but he couldn’t help wondering if he would be able to someday perceive what was so obvious to Tristan.
He smiled as he ate dinner that evening with his family, even if they were busy talking to each other and ignoring him. His dad mumbled to his mom, “Honey, have you seen the July edition? Can’t find it anywhere, not with the other magazines.” Kyle continued to eat, lifting his free hand to practice his pencil strokes in the air with an imaginary pencil, beautiful animals appearing over his green beans, the desert lions in his pride.
What was it about his new friendship with Tristan that gave him such life?
“Okay, are you ever gonna tell me how you did it?” asked Kyle one day at lunch, imitating the gesture with his left hand down his own face. “Something like that, then Brock was out. Is it some kinda secret pressure point thing? That’s my guess.”
Tristan gazed at Kyle across the table. Do you get your pretty eyes from your mom or your dad?
Kyle blinked. “Both, I guess. We have the same eyes, same color, all of us. Wait.” He stopped himself. “Did you just call my eyes pretty?”
So do you like your family?
“You didn’t answer my question. Either of them.”
You can be honest with me. Tell me everything, even bad stuff. I am really good with bad stuff.
There was a burst of laughter from the football table. Kyle looked in their direction. He couldn’t tell what was funny. He didn’t care, either. “I guess I like them, sorta, but … they don’t pay attention to me much.” Even when his father’s magazines go missing and Kyle’s the only obvious culprit.
Why not? I feel like an adventurer when I’m around you, said Tristan, studying Kyle’s face. Everyone else is boring. You are not. I don’t understand how your family can regard you so little.
“How am I not as boring as everyone else? I’m, like … the most boring. I don’t host parties. I don’t have some cheerleader girlfriend. No sex life. Don’t even have good grades. My lions look like Medusas with paws.”
Where did you get that pinky ring?
Kyle set down his chicken tender and lifted his finger. “Oh, this? It’s … well, here’s the story. My younger brother Kaleb, as a kid, he had this obsession with jewelry, this crazy obsession. He’d steal Mom’s rings and wear them. So they started buying him his own. Cheaper ones that weren’t family heirlooms … or wedding bands or however many karats.” Kyle shrugged. “This one, he outgrew, and he gave it to me. Fits on my pinky. Here.” He pulled it off and offered it over the table. “Wanna see it?”
Tristan took the ring.
Then emitted a shriek of pain.
The ring flung from his palm and landed in Kyle’s cup of chicken gravy.