it.â
âYou could probably do something like this,â Kim said. Franklin had been gesturing a little wildly, and she was still looking at his hands, at his long tan fingers and the swirls of blond hairs on his wrists. âYou could be an artist like this guy. I could see that.â
âBut Iâm not mechanical. You have to be a craftsman to do this stuff.â
âI donât think you have any idea if youâre mechanical or not. Anyway, being mechanical isnât the rare talent. The rare talent is having a weird soul and also not being lazy and also being able to concentrate. Thatâs the combination.â
âItâs not polite to call people weird. Itâs not polite to talk about peopleâs souls like that.â
âThese days itâs not polite to call people normal, either. They get just as offended.â
Franklin looked at her appreciatively, ticking his head to the side like a dog. âI like you. I guess you already know that. I donât like many people and I like you a lot. Not that everyoneâs wishing I would like them or anything. And itâs not just because youâre pretty. I saw a study that said that good-looking people are 30 percent more liked by others, or 30 percent more people like them. But thatâs not why. Thatâs not what made me want to plan this day.â
He kept looking at her, pleased, like someone surprised not to be disappointed. The wind gathered steam, bringing a dull roar up from the trees in the hollow. Kim wanted to say she liked Franklin too, because it was true, but she stayed quiet. She felt the sun, soft but heavy, tightening the nape of her neck, but deep inside her there was another warmth, unwelcome: the sneaking perk of desire. She didnât want it, but there it was, tiny and unmistakable, shameless in its way, sure of itself. Kimâs hands were clasped behind her back, her fingers all squeezing each other. She felt ridiculous. Franklin hadnât even been flirting with herânot reallyâheâd just made an honest declaration of affection. He hadnât made a move to touch her. This nonsense was all on her side. It was her problem. It really was ridiculous. Was she this unhappy? Was this all it took? He was a teenager. He was a gawky kid. She could hear the correct and responsible words in her head. They had to go back home now. Thatâs what she needed to say. She wouldnât even have to give an explanation. She could just say they needed to start heading back and Franklin would have to do what she wanted. But she knew she wasnât going to say it.
He kept gazing at her, his arms crossed, his honey-colored stubble shimmering in the light, until he saw that she wasnât going to say anything. He gave one inscrutable nod and started walking back toward the dumpy split-level, weaving without hurry through the glinting sheds, reaching out as he passed each one to graze the baking tin with his fingertips.
* Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â *
This time they got onto a straight two-lane country road and worked up some speed, the townships petering into homely grain country, pockets of darkly shaded woods here and there. Kim watched Franklin guide the car, navigating through the minutes of his life. His existence was luxurious and vexing, and he was probably doing fine with it. The clock on the radio of the Audi was broken, reading 9:13 . More clouds had piled up, ragged and low like rocky hills, the sky like something you could march up into if you had the energy.
Franklin took his foot off the gas and let the car coast. There wasnât a park or even a kept glade in sight; the land had grown less tended. There were no cross streets, no signs. At a wide spot in the road, Franklin veered over and stopped the car. He seemed relieved.
âThought I forgot where it was for a minute,â he said. âMy memory is terrible these days. My teachers say itâs early-onset
âYou could probably do something like this,â Kim said. Franklin had been gesturing a little wildly, and she was still looking at his hands, at his long tan fingers and the swirls of blond hairs on his wrists. âYou could be an artist like this guy. I could see that.â
âBut Iâm not mechanical. You have to be a craftsman to do this stuff.â
âI donât think you have any idea if youâre mechanical or not. Anyway, being mechanical isnât the rare talent. The rare talent is having a weird soul and also not being lazy and also being able to concentrate. Thatâs the combination.â
âItâs not polite to call people weird. Itâs not polite to talk about peopleâs souls like that.â
âThese days itâs not polite to call people normal, either. They get just as offended.â
Franklin looked at her appreciatively, ticking his head to the side like a dog. âI like you. I guess you already know that. I donât like many people and I like you a lot. Not that everyoneâs wishing I would like them or anything. And itâs not just because youâre pretty. I saw a study that said that good-looking people are 30 percent more liked by others, or 30 percent more people like them. But thatâs not why. Thatâs not what made me want to plan this day.â
He kept looking at her, pleased, like someone surprised not to be disappointed. The wind gathered steam, bringing a dull roar up from the trees in the hollow. Kim wanted to say she liked Franklin too, because it was true, but she stayed quiet. She felt the sun, soft but heavy, tightening the nape of her neck, but deep inside her there was another warmth, unwelcome: the sneaking perk of desire. She didnât want it, but there it was, tiny and unmistakable, shameless in its way, sure of itself. Kimâs hands were clasped behind her back, her fingers all squeezing each other. She felt ridiculous. Franklin hadnât even been flirting with herânot reallyâheâd just made an honest declaration of affection. He hadnât made a move to touch her. This nonsense was all on her side. It was her problem. It really was ridiculous. Was she this unhappy? Was this all it took? He was a teenager. He was a gawky kid. She could hear the correct and responsible words in her head. They had to go back home now. Thatâs what she needed to say. She wouldnât even have to give an explanation. She could just say they needed to start heading back and Franklin would have to do what she wanted. But she knew she wasnât going to say it.
He kept gazing at her, his arms crossed, his honey-colored stubble shimmering in the light, until he saw that she wasnât going to say anything. He gave one inscrutable nod and started walking back toward the dumpy split-level, weaving without hurry through the glinting sheds, reaching out as he passed each one to graze the baking tin with his fingertips.
* Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â *
This time they got onto a straight two-lane country road and worked up some speed, the townships petering into homely grain country, pockets of darkly shaded woods here and there. Kim watched Franklin guide the car, navigating through the minutes of his life. His existence was luxurious and vexing, and he was probably doing fine with it. The clock on the radio of the Audi was broken, reading 9:13 . More clouds had piled up, ragged and low like rocky hills, the sky like something you could march up into if you had the energy.
Franklin took his foot off the gas and let the car coast. There wasnât a park or even a kept glade in sight; the land had grown less tended. There were no cross streets, no signs. At a wide spot in the road, Franklin veered over and stopped the car. He seemed relieved.
âThought I forgot where it was for a minute,â he said. âMy memory is terrible these days. My teachers say itâs early-onset
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