"Wait, where are you going?" Mom asks me as she clears the dinner plates from the table.

"Mom, it's okay, I am just going over to Thatcher's house to rehearse our scene," I say, helping her clear the table of the bowls of tofu fried rice and ginger dressed salad.

"And he is just around the corner?"

I set the bowls down on the kitchen counter and pull my phone out of my pocket to read the address. "163 Chestnut."

"What time are you supposed to meet him?"

I shrug and grab a tupperware container from the cabinet. "I told him I would message him after dinner," I say, shoveling the bowl of fried rice into the container. I pick out a kernel of corn to munch on, forgetting momentarily that I'm already full.

"Thank you for letting us have our time together first," Mom says without turning away from the dishes.

This makes me pause. It's the first time she's thanked me for something in a long while.

"You're welcome," I say as I snap the lid on the tupperware.

"But I do want to walk you there."

And there's the catch. "Mom, c'mon."

"I just want to make sure you're safe."

I cover the salad bowl in plastic wrap and consider my mom's request. It wouldn't be so bad for Mom to walk me. It is dark outside, after all, and this neighborhood isn't bad, but it also isn't the greatest. If Thatcher doesn't judge me for fumbling over my words, he won't judge me for having a protective mom, especially since I'm all the family she has.

"Okay," I say, and I put the bowls of leftovers in the fridge. "I'm just going to go upstairs and throw on a sweater, then I'll be ready."

"I'll be waiting," Mom replies, still working over the sink. She doesn't say it now, but I know she appreciates me not putting up a fight about this. I know she is thanking me in my head.

I run upstairs and change into a sweater, my comfy blue and green striped one that I got for Christmas this past year. My hair is dark, but I feel like when I wear blues and greens, the red undertones sort of stand out. Who knows. Either way, I feel pretty in this sweater. Not that it matters with Thatcher, but... I feel confident when I feel pretty. With the sweater, my jeans, and my converse, I'm ready to go.

Downstairs, my mom is already in her cream-colored, puffy winter coat and black knit scarf. She's holding my black winter coat and maroon scarf and gloves, and when I start down the staircase, she extends them out for me to take.

"Bundle up," she says. There's a bit of sadness in her words.

I do as she asks, and we head out, down the street, around the corner, and onto 163 Chestnut St.

When we reach his house, nearly identical to ours in architecture but without painted bricks, Mom joins me on the stoop. Before I ring the doorbell, she pulls me in closer to her. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right?" she asks.

"Yes, Mom. Thank you."

I ring the doorbell, my body pulsing with nerves. Everyone has been speaking to me about Thatcher all day like they expect something to happen between him and I.

Thatcher is a perfectly nice guy and lots of fun to work with, but like I told Gina and Patti, I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now. I have too many other things on my plate.

Thatcher's dad answers the door. I can tell he is Thatcher's dad, because he and Thatcher look nearly identical except for his dad's patches of grey hair on either side of his head. "How can I help you?" he asks. I'm a little taken aback that he doesn't exactly seem to be expecting us, but then Thatcher comes to the door.

"Dad, that's my friend. I told you she was coming over." He peers around his dad's wide shoulders. "Hey Janie. Hi Mrs. Myers."

Mom smiles and raises her gloved hand to wave. "Nice to meet you, Thatcher."

"You can't be here long," Mr. Gorsky says.

I glance at my mom, whose eyes peer at the older, grumpier Thatcher look alike in front of us.

"They are always free to practice at our house if my daughter isn't welcome," she says.

"No, no, it's fine, I have the scene all set up," Thatcher says. "We won't be late."

Mr. Gorsky huffs and opens the door wider, ushering me into their house reluctantly. There's a beer in his hand.

Mom turns to me and asks under her breath, "You have your phone, right?"

"Yep, I'll be home soon."

"Call me when you're ready to leave so I can walk you home."

"I can walk her home," Thatcher suggests.

"Come on in, it's cold out," Mr. Gorsky grunts as he abandons his post at the door and retakes a well-worn spot on the cracked faux leather couch in front of a TV in the living room.

Thatcher leans out of the doorway and whispers, "Sorry about him. I will make sure Janie gets home safely and not too late."

"Thank you," Mom tells him. She kisses the top of my head and says, "See you later. Text me when you're heading out."

"Will do."

I step up Thatcher's stoop and into his house. The scent of old cigarette smoke immediately attacks my nostrils, and I'm a little wary of leaving my coat and scarf downstairs on the coat rack Thatcher suggests I use.

"I'm still pretty cold," I say. "I'll just keep these with me."

"Okay, that works too," Thatcher tells me. He turns around to face his dad, who has slumped in his seat on the couch. The sounds of screaming boys echo from upstairs, but down here, nearly all you can hear is the TV. He's watching some action show I've never seen. "We're going up to the attic," Thatcher tells him.

"Leave the door open," his dad calls to us as I follow Thatcher to the staircase.

"Yeah, I know," Thatch says.

We walk up creaky, scratched wooden stairs. I can tell the walls were once white, like, years and years ago. Now they're vaguely dirty with black scuff marks like you see on gym floors from shoes all over them. The sounds of boys yelling becomes louder as we reach the second floor, accompanied by the sounds of video game guns shooting. Thatcher must have brothers, and white and blue television glow shines from what must be their room at the end of the hall.

"Up here," Thatcher says under his breath.

We walk up another flight of scratched, creaky wooden stairs and another wall covered in scuff marks and dirt to an attic space. It's open with unevenly finished wooden flooring and random furniture. An old exercise bike literally covered in spider webs, a disgusting looking sofa that I can only describe as something an old person would die in, and an old TV from back when they made TV sets as thick as the tables they sat them on.

In the center of the room though is a patio table set. A white plastic table and two white plastic chairs. His script is on the table in front of one of the chairs, so I set my backpack down and retrieve mine from my bag too.

"Sorry about my dad," Thatcher says, sitting in the chair.

"What about him?" I ask, even though I know that at the very least, he is an unwelcoming grump.

"That he was rude to you downstairs. I don't think he means to be most of the time. He just is."

"It's okay. So, it's you, your mom and dad, and how many brothers?" I ask, taking a seat across from him with my script.

"Two brothers, but actually, my mom doesn't live with us. She and my dad have been divorced for years, and I don't talk to her. It's kind of a long story. I don't like to talk about it."

My cheeks heat with guilt. I of all people should know not to ask too many personal family questions. "Sorry."

"Not your fault my family is screwed up," he says, shrugging. "Anyway, yeah, two younger brothers who are horrible."

I smile. "Isn't that the job of younger siblings? To be terrible?"

"If so, they're succeeding," he says with a smile. "Anyway, you want to get started?"

"Yeah."

Thatcher takes the lead with blocking, thank goodness. We run through the blocking and then the lines, all business. I'm glad he's so serious, because we have a lot of work to catch up on. And like I said, I don't need a boyfriend. Still, I find it a little strange how stiff Thatcher is behaving tonight. It makes me wonder if I did something to make him mad.

"Are you okay?" I ask after our third time through the scene.

"Huh?"

"You seem mad."

"Oh, no," he says. "I just want to get this done."

Now I really feel like he's mad. He's probably annoyed that it's taking so long and that I'm still using my script and that he got stuck with a partner that's so bad at reading. My cheeks flush again, this time with embarrassment, and an overwhelming urge to get out of his house as soon as possible comes over me. I feel exposed, like there's a spotlight right on me in center stage.

"Okay," I manage to say, though my breath is thin with embarrassment and something else. Sadness? Yes, I'm sad. I'm sad that my new friend, who I trusted not to judge me, is annoyed with me. And there's nothing I can do.

We run through the scene again. I want so badly to put down my script. I could probably recite most of the lines without looking, but any confidence I've gained this week has been sucked from me. I stumble over words I haven't stumbled over before, and by the end of the scene, my eyes are hot with tears building up behind them.

Thatcher stops mid-line. "What's wrong?" he asks gently. I turn my head down so he can't see my reddening eyes, and I see his long fingers reach across the table to touch my arm. His fingertips are cold.

"I'm going to go," I say, springing up from the table. I dart down the stairs, past the blue glow of video games, and down to the first floor. Thatcher's dad is still on the couch watching TV and doesn't seem to notice me at all as I hurry out the door.

I run into Thatcher's backyard and across some of his neighbor's yards, over a fence, and finally into my own yard. At the back of my yard are azalea bushes, so I hide behind them and finally let myself cry. I can't let anyone see me. Not my mom, not Thatcher. I decide to sit back here until a believable amount of time has passed and I can pretend Thatcher walked me back. The snow freezes my butt, which I'm sure is going to be soaking wet from sitting here, but at least it cools me down after that embarrassment.

I lean against the chain link fence separating my yard from our backdoor neighbor's yard and cry openly. Tomorrow I will tell Mrs. Thomas to put me back in sewing class. Gina will be happy to hear that. Patti will be mad, but who cares? She's only been my friend for a few days. She will get over it and soon, she'll forget me. I don't care about Moth, and Thatcher will probably be happy that he can just join Patti and Moth in a scene instead of taking full control over ours.

I hate my brain.

Then I hear snow crunching behind me. I hide my face in my hands, but I feel the fence move as someone climbs over it. I know it's Thatcher, so I don't dare look up until my eyes are free of tears. I feel his heat next to me, and then his hand is on my knee.

"Janie," he says, his voice low and serious. "What is wrong?"

I decide to be honest. What does it matter anyway if I will be leaving theater tomorrow?

"I'm sorry I suck. I'm going to quit theater tomorrow, so don't worry. I won't hold you back anymore."

"What?" he asks, and his tone actually sounds surprised. "No, don't quit theater."

I wipe the tears from my cheeks and look up. His plain face is painted with worry in the darkness, and for some reason, it loosens my heart to him. Actually--I know why. His face gives away that he cares about me. Was I wrong before? He cares that I'm upset right now.

"You said you just want to get through the scene, and I'm holding you back," I say. "I'm a terrible reader, and I'm an idiot. I'm failing like all of my classes. You don't want to work with me."

"Janie, I did not mean it like that. I am really enjoying working with you, much more than I like working with Patti or Moth. You and I have fun together. I was just in a bad mood, because I felt like my dad was really rude toward you. He is a shit to everyone who comes over, and no one ever wants to stay, so I hate it. I was embarrassed, because you kept your coat on, so I felt like you just wanted to get out as soon as possible."

"Oh," I say. Yeah, your dad is a jerk, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. "No offense... but I just didn't want my coat to smell like cigarette smoke. It was really strong on your first floor."

"I'm sorry. He smokes all the time." Thatcher moves his hand over my knee as if to warm me up. "I really like working with you. Please don't quit theater. I'm sorry I made you feel like I wasn't happy with you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says. He stops to look at my hand, which rests on my shoulder as I try to conserve heat. He moves his to hold mine, and my heart works overtime to heat my entire body.

He stands up and pulls me up with him.

"You're not stupid. Sometimes it takes people a while to memorize lines," he says. "It's okay. That's how I was at first. You'll get it, though. I will help you."

Standing up, he towers over me. I feel like Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas, looking up at my tall, skeleton man. For some reason, it reminds me of Thatcher reading Romeo and Juliet last year in English. I remember how when he read, it was the only time I understood the play. I can understand emotions, and he read it so well, I knew exactly what Romeo was feeling. Everyone in the class hated Romeo, because they said he was immature and impulsive and that's why everything happened at the end of the play. But I loved Romeo. I wanted so badly for someone to come to my bedroom window and call me the sun. I wanted someone to love me like he loved Juliet.

I don't know what comes over me, probably the cold, but I wrap my arms around Thatcher's thin chest and hold my head to his chest. I half-expect him to push me away--we just met, basically--but he holds me too.

"Thank you... for coming to find me and for making me feel better," I say.

"So, you won't quit theater?" he asks.

I shake my head. "But you should know," I say, pulling away from him. I step back so I don't have to look up at him at such an extreme angle, "there is something wrong with my brain. I can't read well. The words confuse me, and it takes me a while to understand. It's going to take me longer to read in class."

"Is that why you never said anything in English last year?"

I nod. "I was always so embarrassed."

"How are you doing this year?" he asks.

I tell the truth before my stupid brain can stop me. "I'm failing a lot of my classes."

"You're reading Catcher in the Rye too?" he asks.

I nod.

"I'll read it with you. One of my brothers is dyslexic," he says. I don't want to tell him that's the diagnosis I'm probably going to officially be given by Alice. "He likes it when people read to him. I'll read the books with you."

"Really? You would do that?"

He smiles. "Yeah, I'm reading them anyway."

"Why are you so nice to me?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Because we're theater weirdos together." He smirks and shrugs again. "Because we're friends. I don't know, I want to help you."

I push thoughts of Romeo and Juliet from my mind and re-focus.

"Thanks," I say.

Thatcher looks over at my back patio. There are some patio chairs around a table, and he walks over to grab two of them. He brings them back behind the dead azalea bushes and sets them down for us to sit. "I don't have the scripts with me, but we could practice the blocking. What do you think?" he asks.

I want to say yes, but it's definitely below freezing out here. "How about we go inside and work in there? My mom said it was cool."

"Better idea, yes," he says. Together we slush through the snow back to my front door, and when we are about to walk in, Thatcher says, "I saw pop quizzes about tonight's chapter in Catcher in the Rye on Mr. Taylor's desk on my way out of class today. Do you have him?"

I nod.

"Yeah, so let's read instead. You're not going to fail English this year."

I smile and thank him as I open the door.

"Back so soon?" Mom asks.

"Yeah, but Thatcher is here too. We're going to work on some homework. Is that okay?"

Mom smiles from her space on the couch, where she's reading a book, sans cigarettes and rudeness. "Stay down here," she says.

"Fine," I say, rolling my eyes, but I appreciate her being more welcoming than Mr. Gorsky. I hope Thatcher feels more welcomed. I grab my backpack from the corner of the living room, and we sit together at the dining room table, where Thatcher catches me up on everything that has happened in the book so far, and then he reads the fourth chapter to me, stopping every now and then to explain.

I get it. Don't worry, Holden, I think, I may have feelings for someone I shouldn't too.