Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda

unusual tire markings near where Winston lived,” I said. “Somebody came and picked him up. Or kidnapped him. Or lopped off his head and carried him in, piece by piece, if you want. But it’s probably that simple: he was whisked away, willingly or not, by a car. That’s where the police should be focusing their attention. On those tire marks, on a car.”
    “Oh, that is so five minutes ago, Xing. Of course they’ve already done that. And the fact that they haven’t fed the media a description of a car just goes to show that there’s nothing there. It’s been too quiet. No word on anything. I think they’re totally perplexed over the whole thing. Personally,” she said breezily, “I think they need to be focusing on the students. It’s one of us. There’re enough oddballs and nut jobs walking around school.”
    “You should speak,” I said.
    “Oh, shut up,” she replied tersely. “You’re my number one suspect, truth be told. Or should be. Quiet, withdrawn, inscrutable. In fact, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d really think you were a ticking time bomb, like that Seung-Hui Cho psycho. You know, the Virginia Tech guy.”
    Her words stung. Quickly, I said, “Yeah, right, you have no—”
    “Why are you like that, Xing?” she asked, suddenly serious. There was a long, torturous pause. I could feel her eyes turning to me. “Why can’t you just be normal with everyone the way you are with me? Why do you clam up at school so much?”
    “That’s not true; I get along fine with everyone.”
    “You so do not. Honestly, sometimes even I look at you and think you’re a freakball. And the thing that gets me is you’re not. But you skulk around school barely saying anything; some people don’t even think you speak English. They think you got off the boat yesterday. You don’t know how many times I’ve heard people making fun of you behind your back, saying you’re stockpiling guns at home. You should hear the stuff that’s said.”
    “Haha dee ha ha, you’re a bucket of laughs today. What gives you the right to take the social high ground on me? It’s not like you’re swarmed by friends at school, is it? Who made you Miss Congeniality?”
    “Yeah, right,” she spat out, and her words hung between us.
    For a few minutes we did not speak. The sun fell behind the woods, and the air noticeably chilled. Faint etches of color still painted the sky, but they were fading. Our steps, once hurried in anger, gradually slowed.
    Naomi took an apple out of her backpack. “Didn’t have time to get to this over lunch.” She took a few more bites, then handed me the furrowed remainder. Little spittles of saliva dotted the edge of her bite marks. I devoured the apple, savoring every bite, and threw the rutted core into the woods on our right.
    “Litterbug,” she said softly. She didn’t say more, but it was enough. She glanced at me briefly; her brown eyes were startling against the snowy background.
    “You should zip up your jacket,” I said. “Getting cold.”
    “Can’t,” she said. “It’s jammed.”
    “Here. Let me.” And she did, to my surprise. I whipped off my gloves and placed my hands on her jacket. She looked down at my hands, chapped coarse at the knuckles. The zipper was ensconced with snow, and I had to brush at it, softly. I pulled hard, and the zipper came free.
    “You need hand cream,” she said softly.
    I nodded in agreement; we started to walk again, this time slower.
    “You need a new jacket,” I said. She smiled sadly. We both knew that there would be no hand cream for me, and no new jacket for her. Neither of us had the money.
    When Naomi first appeared at my elementary school years ago, it was already halfway through the academic year. A total FOB, not a lick of English, her hair still done up in Chinese ponytails, for crying out loud. She had worn a pink winter jacket, a bright puffy jacket in which she took obvious delight. She loved the shine of it, the little