Between by Jessica Warman Page B

entire time, I’ve been skipping school to take care of him. Every morning, Josie and I walk down the street together, heading toward the high school. Then I double back, taking alleys and side streets so my dad and Nicole won’t see me going through the porch door into Richie’s house.
    Now I watch my younger self as I push Richie’s bedroom door open. I am holding a steaming bowl of broth in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He’s in so much discomfort that he barely acknowledges me. There’s a bucket beside his bed. I can smell the room; it reeks of sweat and vomit.
    “Hey,” my younger self whispers. Even though Richie is the only one around, I’m still dressed to the nines, with a full face of makeup, my hair wound into a carefully tousled fishtail braid that hangs over my shoulder and dangles at my side. “How are you doing?”
    “Uhhh,” he moans. He pauses, taking deep, labored breaths. Then he says, “Better. I feel a little better.”
    I take a careful seat beside him on the bed. For just a second, my gaze flickers to the bucket, noting its contents, but it doesn’t seem to bother me a bit. I put the bowl and glass on his nightstand and press my palm to his forehead. When I pull it away, it’s almost dripping with his sweat. Without any hesitation, I wipe my hand on my black capri pants.
    My sixteen-year-old self stares at Richie with what can only be described as real love. As a ghost, I watch the two of us, so touched by the palpable tenderness in the room that I almost forget to breathe. Not that it would matter.
    “Can you sit up?” I ask, touching him lightly on his back. He glistens with sweat as he lies on his side.
    “Yes.” He nods. He sits up. With a shaky hand, he lifts the glass of water from his nightstand and takes a few sips.
    Wordlessly, I slip my arm around his bare waist. I press my free hand to his forehead. “You feel warm,” I murmur.
    “It’s just food poisoning. I don’t have a fever, Liz. I’ll be fine.”
    I pull him a bit closer. “You should go to the doctor.”
    “No.” He takes one last swallow of water, returns the glass to the nightstand, and falls back against the mattress, pulling me with him. “I’m getting better. I have to. I’ve got a ton of homework to catch up on.” He pauses. “So do you, by the way.”
    I ignore the comment, clearly unconcerned about homework. “We could have someone come over and check you out. What about Sharon Reese’s dad? He would stop by, I’m sure of it.”
    “Elizabeth.” Richie half smiles. “He’s a veterinarian.”
    I sigh as I lie down behind him, my body curled against his frame, our arms wound together, hands interlaced against his stomach. “What can I do to help you?”
    He closes his eyes. “You’re doing it. You’re here. But Liz, you have to go back to school tomorrow. You know they’ll call your parents if you miss three days in a row.”
    “Mmm. It won’t matter. My dad will be at work. Nicole never answers the house line. If they leave a voice mail, I’ll delete it.” I close my eyes, tugging our bodies closer together. As I watch the two of us, I can remember the way his body felt. I remember that I could see each individual pore on his shoulders and back, the tiny hairs growing down his neck, the way his skin seemed to breathe in relief from exposure to the cool air. I remember it all so clearly.
    “But you’re missing class.”
    “Shhh. I’m not leaving you.”
    He takes another deep breath. A light wheeze sounds from his chest. “Thank you.”
    “Don’t thank me. Sleep. I’ll be here.”
    “Liz?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Why do you care about me?”
    The question seems to startle me. It’s uncharacteristic for Richie, who is usually so cool and self-assured. I open my eyes. “Why would you ask me that?”
    “Because I don’t understand. We’re so different.”
    I reach around the side of his face. Once again, I wipe fresh beads of sweat from his forehead. This time, I