Something slams. A door? I grab his hands and pull us both flat against the side of his house. “What was that?”

“Jesus. A door. From my house.”

I press myself flatter against the wall, trying to disappear. I peek over to the path leading from my house, fully expecting to see my mother coming down it. But she’s not there.

I close my eyes. “Take me to the roof.”

“Maddy—”

“I’ll explain everything.”

My entire plan hangs on him helping me. I didn’t really consider what would happen if he refused.

We are quiet for one breath. And then two. And then three.

He takes my hand and guides me around to the side of his house furthest from mine. There’s a tall ladder leading to the roof.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I start climbing.

I duck down as soon as we get to the roof, but Olly says there’s no need.

“Most people don’t look up anyway,” he says.

It takes a few minutes for my heart to return to normal.

Olly folds himself down with his usual unusual grace. I’m happy to watch him move.

“So, what now?” he asks after a time.

I look around. I’d always wanted to know what he did up here. The roof is gabled in parts, but we’re sitting in a flat section toward the back. I make out shapes: a small wooden table with a mug, a lamp, and some crumpled papers. Maybe he writes up here, composes bad poetry. Limericks.

“Does that lamp work?” I ask.

He wordlessly turns it on, and it casts a diffuse circle of light around us. I’m almost afraid to look at him.

The crumpled papers on the table are fast-food wrappers. Not a secret poet, then. Next to the table there’s a dusty gray tarp covering something, or somethings. The ground is littered with tools—wrenches, wire cutters in various sizes, hammers, and a few others that I don’t recognize. There’s even a blowtorch.

I finally look over at him.

His elbows are on his knees and he’s staring out at the slowly brightening sky.

“What do you do up here?” I ask.

“That can’t possibly matter right now.” His voice is hard and he doesn’t look at me. There’s no trace of the boy who kissed me so desperately a few minutes ago. His fear for me has crowded everything else out.

Sometimes you do things for the right reasons and sometimes for the wrong ones and sometimes it’s impossible to tell the difference.

“I have pills,” I say.

He’s barely moving as it is, but now he grows completely still. “What pills?”

“They’re experimental, not FDA-approved. I ordered them online. From Canada.” The lie is easy, effortless. “Online? How do you know they’re even safe?”

“I did a lot of research.”

“But still, you can’t be sure—“

“I’m not reckless.” I hold his eyes. These lies are for his own protection. Already he looks relieved.

I press on. “They should give me a few days outside. I didn’t tell my mom because she wouldn’t want to risk it, but I—”

“Because it’s risky. You just said they’re not FDA—”

“They’re safe enough for a few days.” My tone holds no doubt. I wait, hoping that he will swallow the lie.

“Jesus.” He drops his face into his hands and holds it there. When he looks up, it’s a less obstinate Olly staring back at me. Even his voice softens. “You could have told me this five minutes ago.”

I make my best effort to lighten the mood. “We were kissing! And then you were getting angry with me.” I’m blushing from the talk of kissing and from my easy lying. “I was going to tell you. I am telling you. I just did.”

He’s much too smart to fall for this, but he wants it to be true. He wants it to be true more than he wants the truth. The smile that breaks across his face is cautious, but so beautiful that I can’t look away. I would lie to him again for that smile.

“Now,” I say. “What’s under that thing?”

He hands me a corner of the tarp and I pull it aside.

At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s like reading a seemingly random collection of words before the sentence becomes clear.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“It’s called an orrery.”

“This is what you’ve been doing up here? Making universes?”

He shrugs.

A small wind blows and the planets spin slowly. We both watch their motion without speaking.

“Are you sure about this?” Doubt has crept back into his voice.

“Please help me, Olly. Please.” I point to the orrery. “I need to escape, too, just for a little while.”

He nods. “Where do you want to go?”

Aloha means HELLO
AND good-bye, Part TWO

Happy Already

“Mads, be serious. We can’t go to Hawaii.”

“Why not? I got us plane tickets. I booked us a hotel.”

We’re sitting in Olly’s car in the driveway. He puts the key in the ignition, but doesn’t turn it.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, scrutinizing my face for evidence that I’m kidding. He doesn’t find any and begins shaking his head slowly. “Hawaii is three thousand miles away.”

“Hence the airplane.”

He ignores my attempt at levity. “You’re serious? When did you do this? How? Why?”

“One more question and you’ll have a Fast Five,” I say.