Sharing Sam Read Online Free PDF Page A

map of Paris.
    She stared at the map, her index finger slowly tracing the
P
in Paris over and over.
    I hugged her and we both started to cry. Izzy pulled away, scooping up the gifts, and ran out the door to her parents’ waiting car.
    “It’ll be okay,” I called, but the door had already closed, and Mr. Lutz was the only one who heard me.

Chapter 4
    I WAS FUMBLING with my locker combination the next morning when Sam emerged out of the river of students surging through the hall. “Hey,” he said. He had this low, reined-in voice that made you want to listen harder.
    “Hey,” I said brilliantly, still struggling with my lock.
    “I brought you this.” He passed me a rolled-up wad of gray fabric. It took me a second to realize it was a T-shirt. “I felt bad, you know, about your shirt. And I’m kind of strapped for cash until I get my bike fixed.”
    I unrolled the shirt. It was huge and smelled of Tide.
    “It’s almost new. I only wore it twice. And I washed it.” Sam shrugged. “Anyway … I just, you know, wanted to pay you back.”
    I held the shirt by the shoulders. A guy’s shirt,
Sam’s
shirt. Preworn. I would wear it to bed until it was nothing but shreds, threads, subatomic particles of cotton.
    Sam grimaced. “You’re right, what a jerk.” He grabbed the shirt away. “Man, what was I thinking?”
    “No.” I grabbed it back. “I want it. Really.”
    He relented. I rolled up the shirt and stuffed it in my backpack before he could change his mind.
    “Thanks. Now you’ve more than paid me back.”
    He hesitated. “You hear anything about your friend?”
    “Izzy? She called me from her hotel last night. They’re doing lots of tests, then she gets admitted Sunday for surgery Monday. She’ll be fine.” I nodded, convincing myself. “Izzy’s tough.”
    “I hope so.”
    “Well,” I said, displaying more of my verbal virtuosity.
    “I guess I’ll see you around, then.” He shrugged. It was a shy little-boy gesture, but his smile was more knowing. I sensed he was waiting for something, but what?
    Before I could decide, he was gone.
    I opened my backpack and stared at the shirt. A shudder of guilt went through me. I was playing tug-of-war over a T-shirt while Izzy was lying in an exam room somewhere, being poked and prodded and scanned.
    Suddenly I started to cry. I ran to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. It was stupid, my crying like that, stupid and self-indulgent, but it was all I could do for Izzy just then, and besides, I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to.
    After a long while I took out Sam’s shirt. I breathed in the comforting scent of the soft gray fabric. Then, feeling like an incredible idiot, I wiped my eyes and headed for class.
    The rest of the week it rained like crazy. The snowbirds down for a taste of Florida sun were devastated, but I liked it. It seemed right, under the circumstances.
    Saturday afternoon I drove Sara to a friend’s. Traffic on themain drag moved in fits and starts, aggravated by lost tourists and senile locals. The windows were fogged up and the defroster didn’t work. We cracked the windows and the rain poured in, magnifying the wet-dog smell of the carpet.
    We slowed to a creep. Bridge construction over Phillipi Creek. Sara cleared a window with her arm. “Look at that poor guy hitching,” she said. “Give it up, already. Who’s going to let you in their car, all soaked?”
    Somehow I knew, even before I looked. It was Sam.
    I concentrated on the I ’ M NOT A TOURIST—I LIVE HERE bumper sticker on the Honda in front of me. A huge, urgent hope filled me. It seemed to take up all the room in my body.
    We came to another stop. He was ten feet up on the shoulder. Our eyes met. I closed mine and waved him in.
    “What are you doing?” Sara demanded. “You can’t let him in the car. They’ll find us in little pieces in Oscar Scherer Park ten years from now.”
    “I know him. He’s okay.” Understatement of the