people, it’s as if I can feel their emotions. It’s hard sometimes because I don’t always want to. But when I saw you, I just sensed something was wrong, and I felt your sadness, too.”
“Wow. What am I feeling right now?”
“Right now, you’re not sad.”
He stared at me for a while before his mouth spread into a wide smile. “You’re right. I’m not
anymore.”
That night, Mrs. Mazza invited me over for a spaghetti dinner. She let me play in Mitch’s room
for a while afterward, and he showed me these comic books he made. He did all of the
illustrations and captions himself.
We hung out every day that summer.
Each afternoon at exactly three, we would meet at the hoop and play our game. After hundreds
of missed shots, we ended up knowing practically everything about each other: our likes, dislikes,
embarrassing truths and fears.
It turned out my biggest fear came true earlier than expected when one day in mid-August,
two weeks before Mitch was scheduled to go back to Long Island, there was a knock at the door.
Mitch looked morose when I opened it, his hair stuffed under a Yankees cap.
“Skylar, my Dad’s here. He’s taking me home. He made me pack all my stuff just now. My
parents didn’t agree on how long I should be here, and I guess he got his way, so now I have to
leave with him.”
It felt like a sucker punch. “Now? We were gonna do that goodbye party thing, and I still
haven’t made you your gift and—”
“I know. I’m really sorry. I don’t want to leave. I didn’t want to come here in the beginning.
But since I met you, now I wish I could stay…like forever.”
“Can you come in?”
“He’s waiting out in the car.”
The car horn beeped, and Mitch turned around. “Give me a second, Dad. Jeez.”
I was frantic. “I don’t want you to leave, Mitch.”
The tone in his voice broke my heart. “I don’t know how I’m gonna handle everything back
home. I wish I had you there with me. You always make me feel better about everything.”
“Will you keep in touch? Let me know what happens with your parents?”
“I will.”
I felt tears forming in my eyes. “What do we do now?”
His voice was low. “I guess we say goodbye.”
“I don’t want to,” I said as the first teardrop fell.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a large envelope he had tucked under his arm. “Here,
I made you something. I was going to give it to you at the end of the summer. Open it later, okay?”
I nodded through tears, “Okay.”
The horn beeped again. “Mitch! I don’t want to hit rush hour.”
Mitch leaned in and pulled me into a hug. Hot tears streamed down my cheek and onto his
shoulder.
He sniffled, but I couldn’t tell if he was about to cry. “Thank you, Skylar.”
“For what?”
“For giving me something happy to think about when I need it.”
That was the last thing he said before walking away and getting into the car. His face was
barely visible under the cap as he waved goodbye one last time before the car disappeared from
sight into the glare of the sun.
My mother’s wind chimes blew in the breeze as I stared out into the empty street and across to
our desolate basketball court. I was crushed.
I took the envelope straight to my room. Inside was one of the comic books he made. But this
one was different. The characters were…us. It was titled The Adventures of S&M. (The alternate meaning of which would not occur to me until several years later.) S had two long braids, could fly and had other special powers. M was an ordinary boy in a Yankees cap. M kept getting into
trouble and S would rescue him from harm in various situations. He had ended the book with To
Be Continued.
I never heard from him again after that day.
In the five years that followed, the boy with the Yankees cap and the big, blue eyes became
nothing more than a mere fond memory tucked inside my heart.
During that time, Mrs. Mazza moved to Florida, and her house was rented out to new tenants.
I assumed that meant I would never see Mitch Nichols again.
But life is full of surprises, and as promised at the end of the comic, our story was far from over.
CHAPTER 3
SKYLAR
“Angie, can’t you go anywhere without that thing?”
Click. Flash.
My best friend Angie wouldn’t leave the house without her SLR camera strapped around her
neck . Sometimes, people thought we were with the press.
“Are you kidding? This place is a mecca for photo ops,” she said.
Angie was odd, but she was a good friend. Because I could pick up on a person’s energy, it was