“My mom and I made it.”
“Youwhat?” he asked, licking the side of his mouth. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“I spent a lot of time with my dad’s family when I was a kid,” I said.
“Wow. So, you travel a lot.” He lifted his head and placed what was left of the sandwich on the plate.
“We used to. When I was a kid, we went abroad every Christmas and during summer break. But we don’t travel much anymore.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I do. But then when I’m there too long I want to come back. I don’t feel like I belong there. Nor here actually. I feel like I should live somewhere in between. If that makes sense.”
“Yeah. I think it does.” He grinned.
He and I stuffed everything we possibly could from the plate into our pitas, leaving no trace of food. We had been skating in the early afternoon, then swimming afterward without stopping anywhere to eat. And trust me, swimming drains your body.
He asked where the restroom was as I began cleaning up the mess. I made sure to leave behind no trace of a second person being there with me.
Where is he?I turned around after loading the dishwasher and seeing that he hadn’t returned from the bathroom. I peeked around the corner into the front sitting room and the bathroom door was open at the end of the hall.Shit, he’s in my room.
“Thad,” I said, dashing over to the end of the hall.
He was sitting on my bed reading one of my notebooks. “Your room is so clean. It’s kind of scary.”
“Please. Don’t.” I reached out to grab it.
“Who’s P. Antoine?” He looked up at me after I yanked the notebook out of his firm grip. “Oh come on. Sit. Relax,” he said.
Relax? This is my room.
The notebook was a science fiction story I created while daydreaming. I didn’t know if I’d ever become an author. Or ever be able to write an entire book. But I liked creating stories. You couldn’t imagine how often I’d zone out in class while creating a new story in my head. It was my way of escaping the world. I hadn’t written much in the months after my dad died. I continued to daydream but chose to let the thoughts pass through me without writing them down.
“Well, uhh. P. Antoine would be the pen name I’d pick if I ever became a writer,” I whispered.
“But you are a writer. That notebook is filled with writing.”
“I mean… These are stories I made up.”
“Yeah, and writers turn their stories into books and other things. Tell me about the story I was looking at. It saidAnoriat the top of the page.”
“I don’t know. You’ll probably think it’s really geeky.” I was not okay with this attention.
“Try me.”
I introduced him to a story I’d created while zoned out at work one day doing inventory for Jason. “This is going to sound so weird.” I paused. “It’s a story about a technologically advanced alien civilization that colonized a planet which was beginning to show signs of intelligent humanoid life.”
The actual story I wrote takes place far into the future after the colonization. It recounts how these invaders disrupted the evolution of the original ecosystem. I’m not going to continue describing the details of my story, you’ll just have to read it yourself one day when I finish writing it.
“Okay.” He pursed his lips and rested his elbow on my bed. He seemed to think it was interesting but questioned me again on why I wouldn’t use my own name if I ever became an author.
“I’m not sure I like my name. I mean, it’s okay. But it’s not a name I would have chosen.”
“But I like your name.”
You like my name? Okay, now you’re really crossing the border. Maybe you do like me in that way.
I tried convincing him that P. Antoine sounded better in the mind of a reader than my name. I don’t think he agreed though.