“Fucking Christ,” Murray said, pulling another cigar from his trench coat pocket. I didn’t stop him when he went to light this one. He took a long draw, like he really was some hard-ass detective from a crime novel.

“Secondhand smoke, in the flesh,” he said in his American accent as he breathed out, swirling gray eddies slipping from his lips. “I didn’t want to say nothing to the kid, but I thought, as we watched her, that the more he breathed her in, the sicker and sicker he’d get.”

WEDNESDAY

“Ask her out,” Muz said to me the next afternoon. We’d decided not to tell Lola about seeing Grace at the track because a) she’d point out the obvious—that Grace was deeply emotionally damaged and clearly bad news—and be far too rational about reasons why I should stay away from her, and b) we already felt bad enough about what we’d done, what we’d seen. The memory of it had clung to me all day, sticking to my skin like I’d walked through a spiderweb, so now, like the graveyard, I was trying to repress it entirely. “You’re never gonna get in her pants if you mope around like a delicate sunflower all the time. Stop being such a pussy.”

“Murray,” snapped Lola. “We talked about the ‘pussy’ thing.”

“Oh, shit, right,” Muz said, genuinely apologetic. He left his CoD game and twisted around on the couch to face where Lola and I were lying in my bed. “Vaginas are pretty gnarly, and in no way was I insinuating that the female reproductive organs are weak. I was using it as it’s understood in its colloquial terms, but I realize that this might’ve been construed as offensive. I shall cease and desist from such usage in the future.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway, you gotta do a grand gesture. That’s how I bagged Sugar Gandhi.”

“Sugar Gandhi almost punched you in the face at Heslin’s when you started crying.” Lola shook her head and turned to me. “Henry, you need to tell her how you feel. None of this cryptic bullshit. If you want something, you say something. Send her a message right now that says: ‘So I liked kissing you and would be super into doing that again sometime. Sound good?’”

“Do you even know what you want from this broad?” Murray said. “Like, do you really wanna start a relationship now when you’re going away to college next year anyway? Or are you only after a root?”

“Eloquent as ever, my Australian friend,” I said. The trouble was, I did know what I wanted from Grace Town. I wanted to sleep with her, sure. I wanted her to be my girlfriend. A few years from now, I wanted to marry her. And then, when we were old, I wanted to drink peppermint tea and read Harry Potter to our grandchildren with her on the veranda of an old house out in the countryside as we watched a summer storm roll toward us. Was that so much to ask?

“Maybe I’m doomed to be alone forever.” I pulled out my phone, opened the Notes app, and started writing.

Draft Four

Because it seems like a lot of hassle, liking someone. Your brain runs hot, the cogs inside your mind jarring together until all the oil of your thoughts is burned away. The fire spreads to your chest, where it chars your lungs and turns your heart to embers. And right when you think the flames have burned away everything but your skeleton, the spark skips from your bones to immolate not only your flesh, but your entire life.

“Jesus, Henry,” Lola said, rolling her eyes as she read over my shoulder. “Very dramatic.”

“Shut up, dude. You don’t know my struggle.”

• • •

Later in the afternoon, I messaged Grace and used the only excuse I could think of to start a conversation:

HENRY PAGE:

Is the first touch game tomorrow, do you know? Should I come prepared to kick ass and take names?

GRACE TOWN:

Yeah, it’s at 4 p.m. Start getting angry. I want to see you bring it.

Oh, I’ll bring it. Maybe. Possibly.

Your confidence is infectious.

Okay, how about: “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to obstruct and forcefully contact my touch team. And you will know my name is Randy Knupps when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” Better? Better.

Well, I’m glad you’re on my touch team, Mr. Winnfield.

Say “touch” again. I dare you. I double dare you, motherfucker, say “touch” one more goddamn time!

THURSDAY

The afternoon rolled around far too quickly, as I’ve learned things you aren’t looking forward to tend to do. After last period, I went straight to the guys’ locker room and changed into what few pieces of clothing I owned that could pass for “athletic.” I’d hit the six-foot mark about a year ago, but my weight had yet to catch up with my height, despite the fact I consumed food like I was a garbage disposal. I looked especially lanky in my gym gear, all limbs, and I hoped Grace wouldn’t be too repulsed by my pale, spindly body.

“This is not going to end well,” I said with a sigh, wishing I’d conned Muz into joining the team so everyone would be so awed by his athletic prowess that they might not notice me slinking away to hide under the bleachers.

“Very fetching, Henrik,” Grace said with a suppressed grin when she saw me in my sports gear. Her limp was distinct again, like some kind of old-school Bond villain, and she winced when she walked. (“My rehab is really pushing me,” she’d explained the day before. I’d nodded and pretended not to notice how easy it was for her to lie.)

“I hate you,” I said.

The teachers organized friendly recreational games between themselves and teachers from other high schools on a weekly basis, but frequently brought along students to give their team an edge. Hink—who’d never played before and apparently had a competitive streak—thought injecting some young blood would be a good idea, so there were two other students on the team apart from Grace and me. Suki Perkins-Mugnai, who was apparently some kind of touch football whiz kid, and a dude who was repeating senior year for like the third time and who I’d only ever known as “Buck.” Buck, who was small and nuggety and had an even seedier teenage mustache than Murray, was, I suspected, only on the team because he looked like a thirty-year-old convicted felon.