Playing Keira Read Free

person on the planet who could possibly understand. But he wouldn’t have approved of some parts of the plan, and I couldn’t risk him spilling the beans.
    I’ve been keeping so many secrets lately that now, here with this stranger named Garrett, it feels terrific to spill. Even if they’re not real secrets, just made-up ones.
    As the bus travels closer to Manhattan and the address I have scribbled on a used gum wrapper in my purse, I tell Garrett more about Rayanne. Rayanne is from Rhode Island—I picked a place I know a little about, because every summer we visit my dad’s family in Providence. Rayanne likes sushi but not meat. Rayanne lives in a dorm now but next semester, she plans to rent an apartment near Main Street with her three very best friends.
    As Rayanne takes on flesh and bone, dimension and complexity, it feels good. I think of my mother again. The screaming freedom of leaving behind the person you were, or imagined you were, or others thought you were—what are the differences, anyway?—simply by changing your surroundings. Choosing to be someone new.
    I thought about giving Rayanne a boyfriend, but the window on that closed. I can’t give her a boyfriend now, after telling him all these other unimportant things first. It will sound made-up. I know: the irony.
    Garrett and I are silent for a while. We’re driving through a nondescript stretch of the Thruway, trees and hills and houses in repeating rotations. The kind of scenery that makes a trip feel long and aimless.
    Finally, I ask Garrett what courses he’s taking, too curious about whether or not he has my dad.
    “Victorian lit,” he says, and digs a tattered book out of his briefcase. He flips through the pages, many of which are dog-eared. For a second I think he’s going to read something to me, but then he just gives the book an affectionate glance and puts it away. Maybe he changed his mind about something. Maybe he’s realizing that chatting me up like this might seem like flirting, and Mary-Kate would be pissed if she knew. Garrett stuffs his briefcase near his feet and runs his hands through his hair, which is noticeably less wet than it was when he first got on the bus.
    I watch his hands as he does all this. He doesn’t realize how sensual the movement is, or that I’m a little obsessed with this particular body part. Garrett’s hands are good sized and his nails are trimmed, clean. They are not hairy. They’re not dry and cracked, so maybe he moisturizes. I imagine what it would be like to stroke the backs of them, and how soft the skin might feel.
    The only hands I let myself touch are Nate’s, and that’s because I know they are safe. They’re not going anywhere I don’t want them to. I often touch his knuckles and wrists when we’re talking, and he doesn’t take it the wrong way. He has huge hands, and I guess that’s part of what makes him a great swimmer; they’re like flippers, he’s said to me. Our friendship is the kind where he hugs me good-bye. It feels incredible, but I only let it last for a moment or two. When it gets to a third moment, I start to panic. I start to remember.
    I was fourteen, and my dad and I had been living outside Paris for two years while he taught on a fellowship. The fellowship was ending, and it was time to go home. Back to Mountain Ridge, back to the place where I had become the Girl Whose Life Fell Apart in Front of Everyone. My friend Alexandra decided to throw me a going-away party. Alex was the first friend I’d made when I’d arrived at the American school in France, officially American like me but for all intents and purposes, French. She taught me everything I needed to know, including the importance of accessories and how to order at a café so that you didn’t sound like a tourist. My father hadn’t let me go to any parties up until that point, but this one was for me, so how could he say no?
    Olivier was an older boy who lived in Alex’s building, and he showed up at