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By the time Andy reached his locker, the stupor was wearing off and the lump in his throat was trying to dissolve into tears. But he wouldn't cry at school, he told himself, he wouldn't . After he closed his locker, he made his way to the main exit.
For the second day in a row, he came home from school straight after the last bell, and alone. Aunt Reese would not be able to cope. But when Andy reached his house, Aunt Reese's car was not in the driveway; Reese and Sarah must have driven to the market. The house was quiet and peaceful as Andy let himself in.
He was glad of that silence; he wanted to be alone at the moment. But then again, he wasn't sure what to do with himself.
Now that he could finally cry, he found that the tears didn't want to come. He lowered his backpack to the floor in the entrance hall and slowly walked into the living room.
It was a stately, impressive room, the only part of the house besides Andy's bedroom that was still part of the original structure. This first house had been built before 1861 and had been almost completely burnt down during the Civil War. All that could be saved was this room with its ornate fireplace framed by ornate mouldings, and the large bedroom above. Andy's paternal great-grandfather had built a new house, and the Fowlers had lived in it ever since.
Andy turned and looked out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass was so old it was thick and wavy, and everything outside was distorted and looked slightly tipsy. He remembered the first time his father had shown him this billowing old glass, when he had been younger than Sarah was now.
The fullness in hid throat was back, but still no tears would come. Everything in him was conflicted. He didn't want his company, and yet he was painfully lonely. He wanted to think, but now that he tried, his thoughts eluded him like mice running from a white owl.
White owl ... Hunting bird ... Carnivore ... Crow, he thought to himself. "The biggest crow I've ever seen," Brooklyn had said.
His eyes pierced him again. Poor Brooklyn. He had hurt him, but he had been so nice about it. He'd even been nice to Rye.
Rye. His heart pounded hard once, squeezing two hot tears from his eyes. There, he was crying at last. He was crying with anger and humiliation and frustration - and what else? What had he really lost today? What did he really feel for this stranger, this Rye Beaumont? He was challenging, yes, and that made him different, interesting. Rye was exotic ... exciting.
Funny, that was what the boys had told Andy sometimes. And later he'd hear from them, or from their girlfriends or sisters, how nervous they were before they went out with him, how their palms got sweaty and their bellies were full of butterflies. Andy had always found such stories amusing. No boy he had ever met in hislife had made him nervous.
