try to laugh quietly, the harder it is to stop. “I can’t stop laughing,” I gasp as we run through the
sliding doors and to the courtyard.
We’re both out of breath; we both stop short.
The ground is blanketed in thick white snow, thick as sheep’s wool. It’s so beautiful and hushed,
my heart almost hurts with the pleasure of it. I’m so happy in this moment, and I realize it’s because I
haven’t thought of Peter once. I turn to look at John, and he’s already looking at me with a half smile
on his face. It gives me a nervous flutter in my chest.
I spin around in a circle and sing, “Do you want to build a snowman?” And then we’re both
giggling again.
“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” he warns.
I grab his hands and make him spin around with me as fast as I can. “Quit acting like you really
belong in a nursing home, old man!” I yell.
He drops my hands and we both stumble. Then he grabs a fistful of snow off the ground and starts
to pack it into a ball. “Old man, huh? I’ll show you an old man!”
I dart away from him, slipping and sliding in the snow. “Don’t you dare, John Ambrose
McClaren!”
He chases after me, laughing and breathing hard. He manages to grab me around the waist and
raises his arm like he’s going to put the snowball down my back, but at the last second he releases
me. His eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Are you wearing my grandma’s nightgown under your coat?”
Giggling, I say, “Wanna see? It’s really racy.” I start to unzip my coat. “Wait, turn around first.”
Shaking his head, John says, “This is weird,” but he obeys. As soon as his back is turned, I snatch
a handful of snow, form it into a ball, and put it in my coat pocket.
“Okay, turn around.”
John turns, and I lob the snowball directly at his head. It hits him in the eye. “Ouch!” he yelps,
wiping it with his coat sleeve.
I gasp and move toward him. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay—”
John’s already scooping up more snow and lunging toward me. And so begins our snowball fight.
We chase each other around, and I get in another great hit square in his back. We call a truce when I
nearly slip and fall on my butt. Luckily, John catches me just in time. He doesn’t let go right away. We
stare at each other for a second, his arm around my waist. There’s a snowflake on his eyelashes. He
says, “If I didn’t know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you right now.”
I shiver. Up until Peter, the most romantic thing that ever happened to me was with John Ambrose
McClaren, in the rain, with the soccer balls. Now this. How strange that I’ve never even dated John,
and he’s in two of my most romantic moments.
John releases me. “You’re freezing. Let’s go back inside.”
We go to the parlor on Stormy’s floor to sit and thaw out. There’s only one reading light on, so it’s
dim and quiet. All the residents are in their apartments for the night, it seems. It feels strange to be
here without Stormy and everyone, like being at school at night. We sit on the fancy French-style
couch, and I take off my boots so my feet can get warm. I wriggle my toes to get the feeling back.
“Too bad we can’t start a fire,” John says, stretching his arms and looking at the fireplace.
“Yeah, it’s fake,” I say. “There must be some sort of nursing-home law about fireplaces, I bet... .”
My voice trails off as I see Stormy, in her silky kimono, tiptoeing out of her apartment and down the
hall. To Mr. Morales’s apartment. Oh my God.
singke
(singke)
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