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Scott McCall is one of the weirdest boys in school. Lydia supposes he’s not as weird as his annoying, talkative friend.
And two years ago, Lydia had been the weird know-it-all who always raised her hand to answer questions and ignored the looks of the other girls.
At some point, she’d realized the way those other girls saw her was far more important to her social status than the ability to excel in class. Besides, she learns a lot more reading on her own than she does from any of her teachers.
She’s not at home, studying her Latin book right now because her dad had been yelling at her mom again. She can’t really explain why she’s found her way to the Preserve.
Or why the weird boy is sitting against a stump rubbing at red, puffy eyes and sniffling.
He’s holding a brown leash in his hands. It’s really too big for him to use, no matter the size of his dog.
“Has your dog run away?” Lydia demands.
He wipes his eyes with a red sleeve and sniffles. “She died.”
Lydia considers this piece of information. Her grandma had died. There had been a funeral full of her dad’s stuffy relatives. She remembers trying to get a peek in the casket, curious as to what a corpse looked like.
“Did you get to see her body?”
Scott frowns and shakes his head.
“That’s too bad. Well. Come on. We need to have a funeral.”
Scott blinks and stands. He holds the leash coiled in his hands and nods at her.
Lydia remembers the exact words at her grandma’s funeral, of course, but they don’t seem right for this occasion.
Since they didn’t have the body, she’s had Scott lay the leash out on the tree stump. The brown leather blends into the wood a bit, but it will do.
“I think,” Lydia points out, “that you should say a few words.”
“Roxie was a good dog. The best. She always knew the best places to run. She died. Saving me.”
They stand silently while the wind blows through the trees. When Scott reaches for her hand, Lydia takes it.
“I don’t want to bury it,” Scott says.
“Of course not. My grandmother came home in an urn. It’s normal to want a memento of our loved ones.”
Scott grabs the leash, then.
“Why are you out here?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
It had been like something called her.
“You talk like a grownup.”
“I do not.” Lydia sticks her tongue out at him to emphasize her immaturity.
His face breaks into a small grin. “I liked it.”
Lydia looks over his shoulder, into the trees. “My parents were fighting. I didn’t want to listen.”
“Mine fight a lot, too,” Scott answers. “I’m sorry yours do too.”
Lydia shrugs. “Statistically speaking, about nineteen of every thousand marriages ends in divorce. I doubt my parents will make it to their twentieth anniversary.”
“I don’t want my parents to get one.” His face scrunches up like it pains him to say it. “But I wish my mom was happier.”
“Do you think she’d be happier without your dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Being an adult seems complicated.”
Scott twists the leash in his hands. “Don’t you think being a kid is complicated, too?”
Lydia doesn’t answer.
“Like, you’re a lot nicer than you act at school.”
“And you’re every bit as weird as I thought.”
She turns to leave the Preserve and go home. It’s probably been long enough that her parents have stopped arguing.
“Hey, Lydia,” Scott calls.
She turns back. His smile is brighter. He’s actually cute when he smiles.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says, turning away again. “Really.”
-
Eight years later, when Scott McCall holds her hand at Allison’s funeral, she still thinks he’s one of the weirdest boys she’s ever met.
She’s proud to know him.