Carrie Jones - Need

"You were standing in the middle of the road," he argues, hustling me inside.

"You were speeding," I tease.

I open the door to Betty's house and turn.

"I was not speeding," he says, fixing his hat. It has a bigB on it for Bedford.

"I'm sorry," I say. And I am. I lean against the door that is quiet and doesn't complain about things or your behavior or anything like that. Doors are very good that way. Blood has seeped through the tissue. I hold it against my cheek.

He watches me and doesn't move. So I add, "I went out in Charleston all the time."

"This is not Charleston."

I laugh. "That's for sure."

"Zara, this is serious." He pushes me lightly into the house.

"Why, because it's about pixies? 'Zara, this is serious,' " I turn and walk toward the sofa, feeling ridiculous because I've totally lost my cool and acted like some diabolical dictator or something, and I've got to hold on to some dignity. I plunk myself onto the corner of the couch. I grab onto the armrest. He stays standing. Of course. Not like he'd want to hang out and stay awhile, maybe have some hot cocoa, talk about why everyone in this annoying town is so deranged and paranoid and can run so darn fast.

"What?" I manage to say. "Aren't you leaving?"

"I promised Betty." His jaw firms up and then he says in a calm but forceful tone, kind of like an actor trying to play a cop, "You can't go out after dark."

"I'm not a boy."

"No? Really?" His mouth loosens up. "But you are what the pixie guy wants."

"You think so? Then why doesn't he just grab me? Why does he just call my name?" I pull the tissue away from my face. Blood drips.

"Maybe that's the rule. I don't know. I feel like I don't know anything." Nick yanks me up by the arms and brings me into the kitchen. It still smells like spaghetti.

He grabs a dish towel and shoves it under the faucet, then presses it against my head. The water drips down my face.

"Sorry. Forgot to wring it out," he says and blushes, actually blushes, as he wrings it out over the sink.

His fingers twist and squeeze the cloth. Then he brings it back up to my skin. His touch is actually almost tender and his eyes seem to soften a little. I stare up at him, leaning against the counter. He is so very close. With his free hand, he cups my uninjured cheek and tilts his head, staring at me, staring into me.

"I can't figure you out," he says.

I swallow. His eyes watch my neck move and then they harden as they look at the dish towel over my cut.

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he says.

"No."

If I keep my eyes open and take a little time maybe I could figure him out, but do I really want to try?

Probably.

"Betty is going to kill you." His thumb moves slightly against my cheek but it's enough to make me tremble, and not in a bad way. Something is so going on but I don't know what.

I reach out a hand. "I was scared. I was scared before you came. I thought I heard… I think I'm going crazy. Does Maine make people crazy? Does the cold or something get into people's brains and not allow them to think rationally or I don't know, maybe freeze their neurons or something?"

I stop talking because even I can hear this sort of hysterical edge taking over my voice. My hands grab onto air, nothing but air, looking for words or something to hold on to.

He shakes his head and his hair moves in the air the way a dog's does. "You're not crazy."

"I feel crazy."

"Why?"

"It's just… I don't know what's going on. Ask me about the situation in Darfur, I can tell you all about it.

You want to know how many people are waiting on death row in the United States? I know that too. But no, I can't understand why there are pixies in some hick Maine town."

"I don't really understand it either."

I sigh and touch my hand to my cheek, then rub it across my eyes. I'm so tired. The floor sways a little and I manage to shuffle into the living room and flop down on the couch. He moves beside me instantly, putting his hand on my shoulder, peering at me. He moved so fast I hardly noticed it.

"I'm a little woozy," I say. "Which is probably why I'm acting like… like…"

"Woozy?"

"I know, it's a dumb word. My mom says it all the time. My mom sent me here, you know. She said that word, woozy."

He pulls a wool blanket from the back of the couch. "You miss her?"

"Yeah. She was spunky before my dad died. I'd like to be spunky. Do you like spunky girls or unspunky girls? I always wondered that. Not about you, but about guys in general. Am I spunky?"

"You're spunky."

"Yeah, right. I feel the opposite of spunky."

"Which would be, what? Spunkless?" He wraps the blanket around me and sits down next to me, right next to me. I move closer to him without thinking about it.

"I hate this," he says, "not being able to figure out what's going on."

"Because it makes you feel helpless?" I ask.

He touches the thread on my finger. "Yeah."

"We'll figure it out." I inhale the pine smell of him, like Christmas trees.

"We better."

"I was scared," I say, remembering the voice.

"You said that." He puts his arm around me. Right over the top of my shoulders the way Blake Willey did on our first date in seventh grade when we went to see one of theShrek movies.

I let him keep his arm there and bite my tongue so I don't start babbling again. And I don't think about what Ian would think. Ian, who wants to go out with me. Ian, who, despite his weird friendship with Megan, is always nice, totally unlike Nick.

Nick.

Nick has thick dark hair.

Nick has big chestnut eyes.

Nick has nice white teeth.

Nick has a big chest with runner's lungs so he could huff and puff and blow my house in. And I do not care. I lean in. He's so cozy warm but I shiver anyway, remembering the woods. My eyelids just don't want to be open and I really want them open, because Nick is so cute when he isn't bossing me around.

"Thank you for getting me," I try to say. My lips are so tired they don't want to move.

"Anytime, Zara. Really. I mean it." He seems to be smelling my hair.

"I know you hate me and everything but we should be friends," I tell him, closing my eyes.

"I don't hate you," he says. "That's not it at all."

"What is it then? Are you a victim of parthenophobia?"

"Parthenophobia?"

"Fear of girls."

"You are so strange." He moves back even closer to me, this wicked glint in his eye like he's trying hard not to snort-laugh at me. His hand presses against the side of my head. Nobody has ever touched me like this before, all gentle and romantic, but strong at the same time. "I'm not afraid of girls."

"Then why haven't you kissed any?"

For a second his eyes Hash. "Maybe the right one hasn't come around yet."

"That is such a line," I say. I watch his lips. For some bizarre reason I say it again. "We should be friends."

"Yeah, we should," he agrees and something warm seeps over me, making me nestle even closer.

"I mean, I'm not going to be like one of those annoying women in movies who falls in love with the guy who rescues her, because I don't think you even rescued me, okay?"

"Rescued you?"

My stomach cramps. "Whatever."

He starts laughing. I tap him on the thigh. "Stop it."

"I can't."

His whole body just bounces up and down and he looks little and younger and cute. Once when my dad and I were watching this silly NASCAR movie my dad transformed like that. It was like he was a little boy all of a sudden and everything he was worried about-like bills, and me, and human rights relief-was all gone, lost in a fart joke.

Nick takes in a deep breath, so deep I move with it too, since I'm leaning on him. When he exhales he says, softly, almost so low that I can't hear it, "I don't want to hurt you, Zara. I don't want anything to hurt you."