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And, of course, she had friends at school too, but never in the way she was supposed to, which apparently involved pajama parties and makeup and going to the mall.
Sometimes Stevie felt bad for her parents. Their idea of what constituted interesting was so limited. They were never going to have as much fun as she did.
Stevie touched one with the tip of her finger as a physical manifestation of the question: What are you?
Where her books were, she was. Get the books right and the rest will follow. Now she could address the rest of the room.
The coat had deep pockets and a thick belt, and when she was wearing it, Stevie felt powerful, prepared, and extremely waterproof.
Stevie enjoyed Janelle’s brisk, confident positivity and she also liked Nate’s grumpy demeanor. She had a little bit of both of these qualities, and she fit between them very comfortably.
They didn’t seem to be a couple—more just two people who were really comfortable in their skin and not very conscious of what made other people uncomfortable.
Stevie wasn’t sure if the wooziness she felt around him was attraction, or just numb confusion as her brain tried to work out his exact species. “Looks human,” it was saying to itself, “but cannot be. Cheekbones not possible. Is simulation. Origin unknown.”
It was the kind of morning that mocked the fear of the night before. This kind of pleasantness almost made it worse. How could she be anxious when everything was so cheerful? Very easily, as it happens. Brain chemistry doesn’t care about how pretty things are.
Games are not fun when you don’t know you’re playing.
Nate was a rain cloud, but he was her friendly rain cloud, and the world needs some rain.
It was an aggressively pretty morning, as if the season wanted to show off before everything went to pieces and the trees got naked and everything died.
Alone, in this cart under the thick dome of trees, Stevie felt a creeping dread, the kind that comes from cold, untamed spaces and uninterrupted dark and trouble that had no name.
You have to take things as they are, not how you hear they’re supposed to be.”
“Thanks,” she said. “For what?” “I just think you get me,” she said. “I do,” he said, shrugging. “We have a limited emotional vocabulary. We’re indoor kids.”
The weather turned resolutely gray. Mountains are not kind when the season turns.
“Writing is a lot of sitting down,” Nate said, finally answering the question. “It’s a lot of trying things out and screwing up.
