Our Chemical Hearts Read Online Free PDF Page B

w . .  . something about her.”
    I nodded, and said nothing, but because Lola was my best friend, and because we’d known each other all our lives, she smiled. Because, even without speaking, even without words, she knew exactly what that nod meant:
I like her too.

THAT AFTERNOON AFTER my last class, when the bell rang, I walked out of the classroom and—shoving my books into my bag—almost ran headfirst into Grace Town. I didn’t realize until later that she must’ve asked Lola where my locker was. I’d certainly never told her, and the only other human I’d seen her speak to was Mr. Hink, who didn’t know either.
    â€œHenry,” she said.
    â€œHello,” I said slowly.
    â€œDo you want a lift home?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œYou still have to drive yourself, though.”
    â€œUh. Sure?”
    Grace turned without another word and made off down the hallway without checking to see if I was following (I was, of course). When we made it to the football field, she sped up, which made her limp much more pronounced, her movements slightly wild. It was a stride I could only accuratelydescribe as Mad-Eye Moody–esque. I jogged every fifth step to keep up with her. At the edge of the school grounds I looked back to where Lola and Murray were waiting (as always) in the bus line to catch a ride to my house. I waved. They both raised their right arms and saluted me in unison. Grace Town did not see, thank God.
    Out on the street, the silence was broken only by the occasional passing car and the steady click of Grace’s cane against the road, until she eventually spoke. “So what’s your story, Henry Page?” she said. There was, once again, an undercurrent of anger that I didn’t understand, like Grace was disappointed in me for some reason. “Give me all the gory details.”
    â€œI, um. Well.” I got stage fright. “I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?” I said weakly.
    â€œDon’t you find it strange that whenever anyone asks you to describe yourself, you draw a blank? It should be the easiest thing in the world to talk about—I mean, you
are
you—but it isn’t.”
    â€œYeah. I guess. Although it’s kind of like asking someone, ‘How was Europe?’ after they’ve spent three months there, you know? There’s a lot to cover.”
    â€œThis is true. Shall we narrow it down? Let me ask you a question.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œIt’s going to be intensely personal, so feel free not to answer if you don’t want to.”
    â€œU h . .  . Okay,” I said, steeling myself for questions aboutmy sexual orientation or my unnatural predilection for wearing my father’s black coat even in the heat, which seemed to be, when meeting strangers, the two most popular courses of inquiry.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite color?”
    Not what I was expecting. “U m . .  .” I’d never really had a favorite color. Or maybe I had too many to list. All colors were created equal as far as I was concerned. “I don’t give colors preferential treatment? What about you?”
    â€œAlice in Wonderland’s dress blue.”
    â€œSo, like, sky blue?”
    â€œNo, not at
all
. I hate sky blue and baby blue and periwinkle, but Alice in Wonderland’s dress blue is perfect.”
    â€œIs that the technical name for the shade, then? Is that what they put on the color wheel?”
    â€œWell, I guess you could also say it’s vintage fifties car blue, but Alice is easier. I can handle cornflower blue in a pinch.”
    â€œYou’ve thought about this a lot.”
    â€œI like to have answers ready when people ask me about myself. I mean, if I don’t know who I am, how is anyone else ever supposed to?”
    I racked my brain, trying to pull something out of the black void it seemed to become when Grace Town was