what do you know about him?”
I wanted to tell Raphael that his first impressions of Conn were wrong, as mine had been. That Conn was kind, thoughtful. A good listener. If he kept his feelings close to his chest, who was I, of all people, to blame him? But instead of saying any of this, I focused on preparing the drinks.
“Darcy,” Raphael said in a gentler tone. “We don’t want you to get hurt.”
I slammed down the tamper. “Well, maybe it hurts that you think I’ll get hurt.”
Raphael held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Forget I said anything. I’ll leave you alone.” He started to walk back to Taylor.
“Wait,” I called. He turned, and I saw how worried his eyes were. “I spend a lot of time with Conn because of our project.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Also … he helps me.”
“Helps? With what?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who I was before the DCFS picked me up. Conn wants to get to know me. Is that so bad? I want to get to know myself . When he asks me questions, I want to know the answers. I want to remember , Raphael.”
He reached across the counter for my hand. “I know you don’t remember a lot about your childhood, but maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s a good reason for it.” He let go. “Will you at least tell me what this morning was all about?”
Conn had been waiting for me outside the school entrance. He had waved, beckoning for me to leave my friends and join him. His chameleon eyes had been green with sunlight and excitement.
“It was about our class assignment,” I told Raphael. “No, really,” I spoke over his sputter of disbelief. “We’re building a sculpture about the meaning of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Conn had an idea. In the poem, J. Alfred repeats ‘there will be time.’ So, this morning, Conn suggested that we build a sculpture that’s also a working clock. Because of phrases like ‘time for you and time for me.’”
“He does take up a lot of your time,” Raphael muttered. “He’s always hanging around you. We miss you, Darcy. We were your friends first.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“Do you remember this summer, when we went to the Water Tower?”
Usually when people talk about the Water Tower, they mean Water Tower Place, the mall that’s right down the street from one of the oldest monuments in Chicago. But Raphael was referring to the nineteenth-century pumping station, which looks like a miniature cathedral surrounded by concrete pavement. In the summer, the pavement is covered with tables and chairs where sharply dressed business people take their lunch breaks. Musicians play and kids in sweatpants break-dance on cardboard.
“Your chalk art was beautiful,” Raphael continued, “swirling over that plain concrete. You signed your name and made me sign mine, too, even though I hadn’t done anything but keep you company. Darcy Jones and Raphael Amador.”
“I remember.”
“Hey!” Taylor called. “Where’s my mocha latte? How long does it take to foam milk?”
Raphael shrugged helplessly and reached for the drinks.
I raised one brow. “Do you really want to have a chat about keeping bad company?”
“Maybe not.” He smiled. “See you later, Darcy.” He headed back to Taylor, who snatched her mug from him. Brown froth sloshed onto her skirt.
I tuned out her outraged cry and Raphael’s protest of innocence. My attention was drawn to something else: the rack of tiny demitasse spoons to be served alongside espressos. J. Alfred says, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” and it struck me that they would make perfect hour and minute hands for the clock sculpture. I stuffed two of them in my pocket.
Riding around on a motorbike. Cutting class. Petty thievery. I was well on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Though that wasn’t what got me arrested the weekend before the English project was due.
13
Conn stopped me in the halls. It was
I wanted to tell Raphael that his first impressions of Conn were wrong, as mine had been. That Conn was kind, thoughtful. A good listener. If he kept his feelings close to his chest, who was I, of all people, to blame him? But instead of saying any of this, I focused on preparing the drinks.
“Darcy,” Raphael said in a gentler tone. “We don’t want you to get hurt.”
I slammed down the tamper. “Well, maybe it hurts that you think I’ll get hurt.”
Raphael held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Forget I said anything. I’ll leave you alone.” He started to walk back to Taylor.
“Wait,” I called. He turned, and I saw how worried his eyes were. “I spend a lot of time with Conn because of our project.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Also … he helps me.”
“Helps? With what?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who I was before the DCFS picked me up. Conn wants to get to know me. Is that so bad? I want to get to know myself . When he asks me questions, I want to know the answers. I want to remember , Raphael.”
He reached across the counter for my hand. “I know you don’t remember a lot about your childhood, but maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s a good reason for it.” He let go. “Will you at least tell me what this morning was all about?”
Conn had been waiting for me outside the school entrance. He had waved, beckoning for me to leave my friends and join him. His chameleon eyes had been green with sunlight and excitement.
“It was about our class assignment,” I told Raphael. “No, really,” I spoke over his sputter of disbelief. “We’re building a sculpture about the meaning of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Conn had an idea. In the poem, J. Alfred repeats ‘there will be time.’ So, this morning, Conn suggested that we build a sculpture that’s also a working clock. Because of phrases like ‘time for you and time for me.’”
“He does take up a lot of your time,” Raphael muttered. “He’s always hanging around you. We miss you, Darcy. We were your friends first.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“Do you remember this summer, when we went to the Water Tower?”
Usually when people talk about the Water Tower, they mean Water Tower Place, the mall that’s right down the street from one of the oldest monuments in Chicago. But Raphael was referring to the nineteenth-century pumping station, which looks like a miniature cathedral surrounded by concrete pavement. In the summer, the pavement is covered with tables and chairs where sharply dressed business people take their lunch breaks. Musicians play and kids in sweatpants break-dance on cardboard.
“Your chalk art was beautiful,” Raphael continued, “swirling over that plain concrete. You signed your name and made me sign mine, too, even though I hadn’t done anything but keep you company. Darcy Jones and Raphael Amador.”
“I remember.”
“Hey!” Taylor called. “Where’s my mocha latte? How long does it take to foam milk?”
Raphael shrugged helplessly and reached for the drinks.
I raised one brow. “Do you really want to have a chat about keeping bad company?”
“Maybe not.” He smiled. “See you later, Darcy.” He headed back to Taylor, who snatched her mug from him. Brown froth sloshed onto her skirt.
I tuned out her outraged cry and Raphael’s protest of innocence. My attention was drawn to something else: the rack of tiny demitasse spoons to be served alongside espressos. J. Alfred says, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” and it struck me that they would make perfect hour and minute hands for the clock sculpture. I stuffed two of them in my pocket.
Riding around on a motorbike. Cutting class. Petty thievery. I was well on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Though that wasn’t what got me arrested the weekend before the English project was due.
13
Conn stopped me in the halls. It was
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