“Nothing,” I mumble into my beer. “It’s dumb.”
“You have a diary, don’t you?” he asks, smirking at me. “I bet it’s pink and has a little lock on it. Do you use your glitter pens to draw my name in hearts on every page?”
“Shut up,” I protest, shoving his arm. “I don’t have a diary.”
A diary was dangerous in my house growing up. I never knew when Lee would go through my stuff, and I wasn’t about to leave any evidence of my hatred of him. He would have kicked me out of the house a long time ago if he knew how I felt about him.
Besides, I didn’t need a diary once I moved here. Poe was my confidant, the one I poured out my anger and anguish to, the one I told about my dreams and silly crushes. She never judged, not even when I told her I liked both North brothers.
“Unless you tell me what you write, I’ll never believe you,” Maddox says.
“Fine,” I say. “I write scary stories. Short ones, like Shirley Jackson. If I ever got famous, I’d want to be the girl version of Stephen King.”
“Cool,” he says. “Maybe I could read one sometime.”
“Maybe,” I say, my voice giving away my doubt.
“What?” he asks. “You think I’m a gangster, so I can’t read?”
“I was going to say dumb jock, but y’know. Whatever works for you.”
“You’re a bitch, you know that?” he says, but he’s smiling.
I smile back, feeling giddy and high. “Sometimes.”
“For real,” he says. “Why can’t I read them?”
“Do you even like scary stories?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “If they’re good.”
“Well, you might be waiting a while for that,” I say, leaning back on my elbows beside him. “I said they were short like Shirley Jackson, not that they were as good as hers. But hey, if I go to college, maybe I’ll study abroad one year and really learn to write. Maybe get a room in a hotel in Paris where Hemingway wrote, and I’ll write a great American short story that’s good enough for someone besides me to read without me dying of shame.”
“Damn,” he says. “You’d do all that for me?”
I roll my eyes and hide my smile behind my beer can. “Of course, Maddox. The world revolves around you, after all.”
“I know.”
I shake my head and lay back, setting my beer down so I can rest my head on my arm and stare up at the starry sky. “No, I’d like to do that anyway,” I say. “Travel. Eat croissants and drink coffee in a sidewalk café in Paris, just watching people until I was so inspired I couldn’t help but write something brilliant.”
“That’s a long way to go for inspiration.”
“Yeah, I told you it was stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he says, lying down beside me. “I could see you living in Paris. You’ll go over for school, meet some French dude named Pierre with one of those skinny mustaches. He’ll propose in front of the Eiffel Tower. You’ll get a French poodle and call it your baby and take it everywhere with you, even on your little Vespa.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, and you’ll go to wine tastings and lift your pinky when you take a sip.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing when he reaches over and wiggles my pinky finger between his thumb and finger.
“Oh, it’ll happen,” he says, then makes a terrible French accent. “Pierre, you simply must taste this one,mon chérie. The bouquet is simply divine. Notes of rusty barrels, lime, and Chi-Chi’s poo.”
“I hate you,” I say, covering my face with both hands. “I’m never telling you anything again.”
He laughs quietly, and then we fall silent, watching the clouds move. It’s well into morning now, but I’m too amped up to be sleepy. I can’t think of anything but the boy beside me, aching with anticipation of what comes next. I’m attuned to his every breath, painfully charged with expectation, with the wonder of the endless possibilities.