scuffed across the kitchen floor. Cisco followed her brother into the dining room. Kurt sailed through the room and flopped onto the living room couch. Cisco pulled out a dining room chair and straddled it backwards. He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Hey kid, what’s with the shy girl thing? Red face, looking down, the whole bit.” He’d shoved her out of her comfort zone by walking into the room. She scraped the shavings into a pile and glared at him. “I’m sharpening a pencil.” She knocked the sharpener against the table, trying to dislodge the lead. “I meant at dinner the other night.” “I embarrass easily, okay?” “Hey—” He held up his hands. “I’m not dissing you. I’m all about being embarrassed.” He reached across the table and took the pencil sharpener from her. He pried the lead out with the paper clip from her report and handed it back. “Homework?” He jutted his chin toward her papers. Breathe in. Breathe out. They were just having conversation. She relaxed her shoulders, softened her tone. “Report on Y2K.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “You wanna hear embarrassing? My pop holed up with some dude in an underground house—stockpiled food, water—then Y2K was a bust.” “Everybody’s dad has idiosyncrasies.” She shrugged. “Mine alphabetizes cans in the pantry.” “My dad ditched his family.” “My dad counts things.” “My dad lives on a sailboat behind the boatyard.” “When I was a baby, Dad counted all the hairs on my head. He said God does it, and he wanted to see if he could do it.” He stretched across the table and fingered her hair. “Sounds reasonable. I could get into that.” He tugged and released the tendril as he stood. Her scalp tingled. She didn’t want him to leave. “Lots of people are left by their fathers.” He flipped his chair around to push it under the table. “Easy for you to say. Things function at your house. At mine, they dysfunction.” “You do have a perfect Dad.” Her voice was quiet. Cisco grunted. “You’ve never met him.” “I’m talking about God.” “Man, Avra, you’re hitting me out of left field. What’s God got to do with this conversation?” Make him understand . She bit her lip, staring into the deep brown of his eyes. “God will never ditch us.” “Listen, I know you’re sincere, but it just sounds so out there. Not where I live.” “Check out church sometime.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Your dad invited me.” He moved toward the door. “I think he likes me.” “What’s not to like?” Cisco’s eyes swerved to hers. He lifted his brows. Her face heated under his gaze. “That’s not what I meant—” “See ya, Avra.” He pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. The screen door squeaked open, then shut.
Jesse’s gut clenched as he slid into his seat one second before Professor Marquez cleared her throat to begin class. In the flurry of notebooks popping and paper shuffling, Kallie dropped a folded sheet of paper on his desk. He covered it with his Lit book and grinned when she returned from the waste basket. Her face gave nothing away. What did Kallie think about You’re Callin’ My Name? Did she guess he’d written it for her? He scanned the paper. Promise ... delves below the superficial ... melody brings out the pathos— what the heck was pathos? He thumbed to the glossary of his Lit book. Pathos—expression of strong or deep feeling. He rubbed his thumb across his chin, reading the rest of her comments. She liked the song. His jaw relaxed. Kallie’s affirmation rubbed salve into the part of him Dad rejected. Dad would never hear his songs. Creating music, or any art form, was pretty much loafing in Dad’s mind. A man labored hard with his hands or his intellect. That much he’d absorbed from his father. He worked hard at his music. Not that he ever expected to see any appreciation from Dad. After class, Jesse stood