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Pop Rocks and how, when you’d crunch down on them, it sounded like all your teeth were breaking.
    â€œMy turn to ask the questions,” said Silas, polishing his apple on his shirt. “Tell me what you like to do.”
    â€œI read a lot,” I said, my feet dragging in the sand beneath them as I bit into my apple—Gala, sweet.
    â€œI knew it. Like what?” Silas grinned as he took a bite of his own.
    â€œKind of everything. Contemporary, historical, fantasy, sci-fi.”
    â€œNice. Have you read C. S. Lewis’s space trilogy?”
    â€œLike a million times,” I said.
    Silas’s eyes grew wide with childlike excitement. “I’m making Laurel read it this summer!” he said, waving around the hand that held his apple. “He has total command of language. Gosh, such great alliteration. There’s this part with all these k sounds . . . stops you like a king in the road.”
    I smiled at him, a little skeptically.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, eyes wide and beatific, and I burst out laughing.
    â€œI’ve just never heard anyone talk affectionately about plosives.”
    Another grin from him. That same walloping one that made me stagger. It was wide and warm and in his eyes as much as on his lips. It was playful and had just the smallest hint of mischief. The gulf between this boy and the one who’d been so cold the day before spread wider, confusing me.
    â€œSo, you read,” he said. “What else?”
    â€œI also have this weird penchant for Australian authors.”
    â€œNo, I mean, what else do you like to do? ”
    Oh. That.
    â€œMmm, I don’t know,” I said, munching on my apple, trying to appear thoughtful—but really, frantically searching for a response. I hated questions like this; while they gave definition to other people, they reminded me that my outline was fuzzy and gray. What did I like to do? I didn’t play sports or music, didn’t follow fashion, had no crazy obsessions, wasn’t extreme in any way. Around town I was known as “Pastor Beck’s daughter” or “Elliot Thomas’s girlfriend.” Stories were my one real love, and Silas had just asked what else I did besides read.
    I stretched to fill in my own embarrassing blanks: “Um, I listen to the radio. Avoid thinking about college. Con people into telling me their secrets.”
    â€œHow do you do that?”
    â€œWith my long eyelashes,” I said, batting them at him. “Now spill your guts.”
    He laughed, then looked at me through narrowed eyes. “You know, you’re all right.”
    â€œI’m so glad I have your approval,” I said, half annoyed that he was allowed to issue this verdict and half grateful it was—sort of—positive. “Daily validation, check! So, what about you?”
    â€œOh, I write,” he said, tossing his apple core toward a garbage bin about fifteen feet away. It went in easily. “Yesssss.”
    â€œEpic adventures of danger and daring?” I teased, glad toredirect the focus onto him as I opened the bag of almonds. He let me shake some into his open palm.
    â€œNah, I’m no good.”
    The humility shocked me.
    â€œI’m a seventeen-year-old poet; what do you expect? My poems are shit.”
    â€œFavorite poet?” I asked.
    â€œBilly Collins,” he said. “Though when I read his stuff, I want to light myself on fire.”
    â€œI guess I should be happy I stand on the reader side of literature,” I said, savoring the sugary crunch in my mouth. “The writer side sounds like masochism.”
    He looked at me, eyes wide in understanding. “Absolutely. Why do you avoid thinking about college?”
    â€œI guess I don’t know what to do with my life,” I said. Then, before he could ask any more questions, I held up the bag of nuts. “Actually, I just had an epiphany. I think I’m gonna major in