Jack folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the stars and water lilies swirling above him. The mural had taken a month and four king-size sheets to complete. His Aunt Linda had gasped when she saw it, her belief that he was well on his way to becoming a rich and famous artist confirmed yet again. His Uncle Nathan had asked what was wrong with a plain white ceiling before clapping Jack on the back and pronouncing it a fine job. But their reactions paled in comparison to Rose's. Just remembering it made him smile, the way her green eyes—eyes he had more than once tried to capture on paper—lit up, the look of pure joy on her face.
"It's wonderful," she said softly. "Jack, this is exquisite work!" She immediately scrambled up the ladder for a closer look. "Paint one for me?"
"Of course," he said. Their eyes met. A soft blush spread across her cheeks. Suddenly, Jack was very aware that they were alone for the first time since they went from friends to something else.
And then his cousin Cal's voice shattered the moment. "Don't tell me he's showing you that thing." Cal's rich tones echoed with barely concealed disgust. "Next thing we know, you'll think you're Michelangelo," he added, tossing a chuckle in Jack's direction.
"He'll be better," Rose said, climbing down the ladder.
"Not if he keeps doing these finger paintings," Cal snorted. "He'll never amount to a thing."
Rose's jaw tightened. Jack shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his fists. He and Cal had never gotten along, but their rivalry, for lack of a better word, hadn't mattered when they only saw each other a few times a year. But now that they lived together, the tension between them was like a brick wall. Jack breathed deeply, pushing aside the retort that lurked behind his firmly closed lips. He refused to be baited by Cal in front of Rose.
"The difference in your taste in art and your artistic ability," she said crisply, "is that there isn't one. You don't understand truth, just logic."
Cal hid his anger well. "What is truth if not logical?" he asked, a hint of condescension in his voice.
Laughing, Rose picked up the ladder and swept past him. She set it down with a dull plunk. Jack held in a smile as she scrambled back to the top. "Logic is for Vulcans," she said dismissively. "Miserable creatures who can't see the value of a single emotion." She glanced down at Jack. "I trust illogical—crazy—things more than anything else."
That had been February—two months earlier. Eight months since he moved to the suburbs outside Philadelphia, nine months since his godfather Claude decided he needed to be with real family, seven months since he met Rose, and one week since he took Rose's hand as they walked home from school. His heart beat faster just thinking about it. She smiled, but avoided his eyes as they walked. Her fingers curled around his hand. He slowly rubbed his thumb over hers. She responded by covering his hand with her free one and stroking his knuckles with her fingertips. With each step, they moved a little closer together.
"Guess this is where I leave ya," Jack said when they reached her house.
Rose's curls fell around her face. Smiling happily, she looked down at their clasped hands. "I never realized how big your hands are," she said, suddenly shy.
"Sorry."
"Why?" She pressed her palm against his. "I like them."
He brought his hand up to her face. "You're really beautiful," he said. "I should've told you that already."
She kissed his fingertips. His hands were softer than she had expected, yet there was a roughness to his skin that was not altogether unpleasant. It filled her head with images of him working outside with his sleeves rolled up. "I should've done that before now," she said. Their eyes met.
"Rose—"
"Jack—"
They dissolved into nervous laughter. "We never have trouble talking," he said.
"I know," she said, still giggling. "It's as if all the words I told myself I would say during this moment don't exist anymore."
Her lips were cool and soft when he kissed her. She tasted exactly the way he imagined she would, only better. She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him closer. He wanted to hold her in his arms and press her body to his, but he settled for letting one hand rest on her waist and the other on the small of her back. They kissed tentatively, yet with an undeniable hunger.
Everything changed after that. And now, lying in bed, staring at the mural he had painted with her in mind, Jack couldn't believe any of it. "She's my girlfriend," he said slowly, letting the words roll off his tongue. "Rose is my girlfriend."
He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. With a groan, he reached over and flicked off the alarm before it could sound. He sat up and took the telephone receiver out of its cradle. It rang nine times before Fabrizio answered.
"What? I'm sick."
"No, you're not. And neither am I."
"Jack, I'm sick. I'm home sick. You're fine. Go to school," Fabrizio said groggily.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Fabri, do you realize how few days we have left? We're graduating in two months. Two months, my friend, and then we are out of high school forever."
"Yeah, and that's why I don't want to screw up now by getting caught ditching school with you."
"They won't take away a scholarship because you skipped school, and even if they would, it doesn't matter because we won't get caught. Have I ever been caught ditching?"
"Doesn't mean it can't happen."
"It won't. Now, get up. You've got to come pick me up, or we aren't doing anything today." Jack fished in the bedside table drawer for the thermometer he kept there. While Fabrizio went over his many symptoms, Jack held the thermometer next to the light bulb in his lamp. "You've just described consumption," he said when the list concluded. "Do ya really think you've got consumption?"
"Here in the eighties, we call it tuberculosis," Fabrizio said drily.
"Well, here in Jack's room, we call it my best friend needs to come pick me up."
"I'm going back to sleep. Go to school. Rose will be there."
"Not for long."
"Damn it, Jack, don't tell me you've gotten her involved in these schemes of yours!" It was said with as much force as Fabrizio felt was possible in his weakened state.
"She wanted to be involved," Jack replied. "We already ditched once without you."
"Well, then, you don't need me."
Jack sighed. "C'mon Fabri. I—Shit! Got to go. Pick me up!" In one quick motion, he slammed the phone down and jumped back under the blankets. He popped the thermometer in his mouth. He hissed when it burned his tongue. As the doorknob began to turn, he took a deep breath. When the door opened and his Aunt Linda walked in, his eyes were half-closed, his jaw slack, and he was groaning.
She put a concerned hand on his head. "Jack, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Just having a little trouble getting up." He slowly moved to sit up, grimacing as if he were in pain. "Is it late?"
"Not really," she said. She brushed the hair away from his forehead. "But I'm not sure you should be going to school. Let me see that thermometer."
"Don't tell me you're letting him stay home," Cal said incredulously. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "Mom, seriously!"
Linda pursed her lips. "If he's sick, then he is most certainly staying home." She turned back to Jack, who was holding the thermometer in one trembling hand. She clicked her tongue. "A hundred and one. You're staying home."
"No," Jack protested. "I have a test. I can go."
"Not with that temperature you won't," she said.
"You never let me stay home!" Cal cried. "This is absurd. He's faking!"
"Aren't you going to be late?" his mother asked shortly.
Scowling, he turned to leave. "If I were an orphan, I'd get special treatment, too," he muttered.