These Gentle Wounds Read Free Page B

in unison and we all turn to look at Sarah, who blushes. I have to look away because looking at her is making me feel warm and cold all at once, like I have a fever or the flu.
    â€œYeah, sure,” she says to the group. I can tell she’s happier than she’s letting on. “Thanks,” she mouths directly to me, and it makes me feel even more feverish.
    We start discussing our plans. I offer to take notes because it will give my hands something to do. I write down everyone’s ideas in neat little columns. Andrew is going to the aquarium to photograph the whales. Scott is going to handle the “river as a place of transition” shots. There’s no chance in hell of me doing that.
    Which leaves me and Sarah.
    Some really, really freaky urge makes me volunteer to do something on prophesy and harbingers of doom. It would be funny if it wasn’t a subject I already knew too much about. I’m the poster child for things that can go wrong.
    Sarah says she’s going to tackle the bigger issues, all the “blasphemy” and “insurmountable tasks” stuff.
    By the time we sort all of that out, the bell rings. I’m buzzing hard from what I’ve just done (initiated this), from what it might mean (spending time with Sarah, who all of a sudden I want to spend time with), and from trying to figure out what comes next (no idea).
    I don’t even know that she’s standing next to my desk until I finish packing up my backpack and almost walk into her.
    â€œI’m impressed,” she says.
    I feel a smile dance across my lips and then stop it in its tracks. I don’t want to let her get to me like this. But at the same time, I do. And that confuses the hell out of me.
    â€œWhy?” I keep my head ducked down and fiddle with the buckle on my bag, hoping she can’t see my face.
    â€œThat was a really good idea you had. I didn’t think that would be your kind of thing.”
    I know it’s a good idea. That part doesn’t surprise me. And I knew she’d think it was one too, which is why I brought it up to begin with. But I can’t overlook the subtext—that she’d even bother to wonder whether it was my kind of thing or not.
    I don’t know what to say. Any words that come to my mind float right out as soon as they get there. “I don’t have a camera,” I blurt out.
    Sarah has a funny look on her face, like she’s trying to figure something out. Like she’s trying to figure me out, and it makes me feel really jumpy.
    â€œSo why did you suggest a photography project?”
    This whole conversation is reminding me why I avoid having them.
    â€œI … ” The words are getting stuck again and I’m having problems thinking straight. My bag is packed and I don’t know what to do with my hands so I shove them into my pockets.
    She watches me for a second and then reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. All I can focus on is her touch. Everything else flies out of my head. So I just shrug.
    She smiles, and I wonder if her fingertips are burning the same way my arm is.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she says. “You can use my camera, but I’ll need to go with you. It was a gift from my brother and he’d kill me if I let it out of my sight.”
    A million objections race through my mind at once. I don’t know if I can spend time with her outside of school. I mean, school is broken into all of these neat little boxes of time: class, break, class. And so on. All regimented and ordered. And class isn’t exactly social. I can sit and do whatever. But just hanging out with her? I’m not sure if I know how to do that. What would we talk about? What if she realizes that I’m really fucked up? What if I start spinning?
    â€œEarth to Gordie.”
    â€œYeah. Sure. Great,” I say, although really I’m terrified and my stomach is turning into jelly.
    â€œGood. I have to get to