The Other Side of Infinity by Joan F. Smith

Author:Joan F. Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

* * *

My parents fawned over December. I could hardly blame them.

My mother over-complimented her hair—its length, color, and (apparently high) degree of shine. It was true that her hair was like something out of a movie, I guess. I know it smelled of sunlight and something herbal, like basil. My father kept asking December questions about her uncle’s favorite gardening hacks (??), feigning interest.

A new ice age happened, a thousand children shouted are we there yet? from their parents’ back seats, hell froze over, and finally, we were alone.

Our condo was big enough for the four of us Irvings, but it wasn’t abundant in privacy. My parents’ bedroom was in our loft, which took open concept to a whole new level. I don’t know how they got any sleep—a giant shade-free skylight hung over their bed. Facing east.

Tonight, they had graciously “gone to bed” in Sophie’s room to let us hang out. My sister was sleeping over Trista’s, probably trying to convince her friend the dance team was useless. And here I was, my leg sidled alongside December’s, jean to jean but somehow burning together on our microfiber couch, trying as hard as I could to focus on the movie in front of us.

December poked me. “Remember when you didn’t like me?”

I pretended to flinch at her touch. “What makes you say that?”

“Just thinking.” She pulled the blanket to her shoulders and snuggled into my shoulder. Her head rested there, inches away from my heart, which had picked up tempo.

What do I do here? I put my arm around her shoulders and sort of squeezed.

She sighed what I hoped to be a contented sigh. “Are you watching this?”

“Barely. But let’s keep it on.” So my parents couldn’t hear us, I didn’t say.

“Hey, what were you doing earlier today?”

Trying to secretly find your mom. Why? “Hung out. Watched a Netflix doc.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering, I guess.” She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Oh. And why the bread?”

“It’s a surprise.”

She wrinkled her nose. Her nose wrinkles were even cute. “Wanna play a game?”

“What game?”

“We say a thing, then we either say love or dislike. Ready?”

“Why not love or hate?” I asked, stretching my arms above my head.

“Evan doesn’t like the word hate.”

“Okay. Pancakes,” I said.

She smiled. “Love.”

“Not me. Dislike.” On the television, Will Ferrell waved frantically at a man coming down an escalator.

“Who doesn’t love pancakes?” She shook her head in mock disbelief. “Chicken piccata.”

“Is this all supposed to be food? I’ve never had it, so pass.”

“Ugh. Love.”

“Night or day?”

“Incorrect way to play the game much? Though I love the stars. And how people feel braver after dark. So, night.”

Sun. SPF. The swish of the water in the lanes. “Day for me. Okay, back on track. Uh. Pumpkins?”

Her eyes leveled me with a look I couldn’t measure. “Dislike. I don’t like the color orange.”

I nudged her shoulder. “My favorite shirt is orange! But light orange.”

“That sherbet-orange monstrosity?” Her smile was syrupy. “I mean I love it so much.”

I mimed a dagger going into my chest.

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