Even If the Sky Falls (5 page)

“Not much, people tend to use them to refer to one
another . . . or maybe that was a trick question and your name is really Rose . . . is your name Rose? Do you smell as sweet?”

His face inches closer.

“No, though that is a good guess.”

“I try.”

A group of papier-mâché oysters stop in front of us, offering a strand of pearlescent green beads. Before I can reply yes or no, one of them drapes it around my neck and runs away.

“Thank you!” I shout after them, marveling at their paper-shaping talents.

“Suits you,” Electric Blue says, fiddling with the beads—
be cool—
before he takes another swig from the already empty cup. “Okay, okay. So, no name. No place to call home. You're a real girl, right, not a figment of my imagination?”

I choke on my beer at the implication that he would ever imagine me.

“I have a name and”—I pause—“a home; I just don't want to think of either tonight, if that makes sense.”

“Complicated?”

I swirl the beer in my cup, barely half gone. “So complicated thinking of it just a little causes it all to come crashing down, you know? I thought maybe . . . maybe New Orleans could drown it out, at least the parts I don't like.”

I take a last sip, sticking out my tongue. Never really liked the taste of beer—I'm usually ready to throw it out after one mouthful.

He looks at me then, a slow nod. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah—feels like, every time you think about it you're just like that, straight in the deep end, drowning.” He reaches over for my cup and tosses both in a nearby trash can that's minutes away from overflowing. “How about a deal?”

“Deal?”

He jumps up to face me, excitement in his eyes. “Just for tonight. No real names, no baggage—unless we want to—no ‘I'll text you later' or promises to call. Just two people—”

“Two people?” Taj interjects. “What are we, chopped liver?”

“Fine, just SOME PEOPLE in the general vicinity enjoying New Orleans and their company together for one night and nothing else. You can leave at any time—and vice versa, should you turn out to be a crazy sociopath, have unsavory intentions toward my person, or should you just be very, very boring. How about that?”

He holds out his hand, offering up a night of peace and freedom. I shake on it.

“But for serious, what should I call you, Sunshine? I
can't be yelling out ‘hey you' or ‘hey girl' or ‘hey fairy girl' in this crowd—it might be funny for the first minute until I get slapped in the face or something.”

“Why would you get slapped in the face?”

“It would be a misunderstanding, obviously.”

“Obviously.” I tuck a hair behind my ear. “You could call me Sunshine if you want.” I like the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “I like that.”

He considers this. “Maybe.” Suddenly his eyes still on mine. “But only sometimes. Sometimes Sunshine and sometimes . . . Lila.”

“Why Lila?”

“Um.” He clears his throat. “Means ‘night' in Arabic. Figured sometimes sunshine, sometimes night.” He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes finding mine, lingering. “Too silly?”

“No.” My breath catches. “Not too silly.”

He beams. “Fantastic! My name is—”

“Miles,” I finish for him.

“Miles?” He feels the name out on his tongue. “Like Miles Davis?”

“Um, yeah, and Miles Kane. Both of them actually. The way you play reminds me of them. I mean, I've only seen you play once, but it made me think of this recording my dad has of Miles Davis, but, like, I have a really good friend who's into British music, and she used to show these videos of Miles Kane and . . .” Now I'm babbling. “Um . . . yeah, like Miles Davis. Cool?”

He's trying not to laugh. I can tell.

“Cool.”

I smile and forget that my hand is still warm in his, up until Taj and Danny interject once more.

“How come we don't get fancy code names?”

Miles lets go, and for a moment my hand feels cold and alone. I shrug away the thought and put it back in my pocket.

“You've already been introduced.”

“I think we should get fancy code names, and backstories, don't you, Taj?”

Taj puffs out his chest. “Absolutely; I'd like to be Denis.”

“Denis?” Danny says. “What? No, man. Pick something decent like Clark Kent or Conan.”

“Fine, I'll be Kent.”

“Nah, man. Clark Kent. You can't just be Kent—shit's too white.”

“Man, you white,” Taj shouts.

“Exactly, I should know.”

They continue on like this for a bit, and I swear my heart grows lighter by the minute. I look up to see Miles staring at me, a soft smile on his lips, like he'd planned this all along. He reaches his hand out to me, and for a moment I see all the possibilities waiting. I take it.

“Let's go, Midsummer Boys. The night awaits.”

“M
AN, WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
D
ANNY YELLS OVER THE WAVES
of sound that flow around us.

“Gotta find a prime spot before the parade starts.” I feel the tug of Miles's hand pulling me along; to my left Danny keeps the crowd from tearing us apart and setting me adrift at sea. Taj takes the rear. If the night is truly awaiting, we are going to be so late.

I push against the people around me, still in a bit of shock. How does New Orleans have this much energy? Above us the electricity flows in a web of cables that cut across the sky and swing back and forth with the wind. Should I get lost, I wonder if the pattern above me will be
just as useful as the stars were to those sailing across the seas?

After what feels like an eternity of weaves and sharp turns and wings getting snagged, Miles stops and I collide into his back. “Sorry!” I push myself away and try not to think of how close we were and how good it felt. His body is firm and warm, and I wonder if I could stage another collision just to bump into him again. I force the edges of my mouth not to form a smile and look down at the ground. It's still there, good.

“Why did we stop? What's the plan?” Oh God I sound lame.
Just go with the flow, Jules.
“Not that there needs to be one for everything, you know?”

The corner of Miles's mouth quirks. “Relax, I have a strategy.”

Taj rolls his eyes.

“What's your plan then?” Miles retorts.

“It's Mid-Summer!” Taj motions around him as if we'd somehow walked through all these people and missed that fact. “Go where the mood takes you. Not everything has to have an itinerary, maestro.”

Miles claps Taj on the shoulder. “All right, does your going where the mood takes you include getting some sustenance?”

As if on cue my stomach grumbles, thankfully drowned out by the sounds around us.

“It does now,” Taj replies.

S
EVERAL BUMPS AND
close calls where wings snagged on strangers' costumes and we're leaning over the rooftop of one of the buildings along Oak, looking down at the street below, then out to the burning sunset. There have been several fires in New Orleans history—what we stand on now is built over the ashes of one of its previous incarnations. I wonder if at some point the people who lived here could not bear to watch the sun set, as it lit the sky on fire.

Miles nudges my shoulder, motioning to where the night has taken us. “Not bad, eh?”

Not bad? “It's amazing.” I can see everyone and everything. Two more baby floats pass by as I watch. One's a crazy-looking octopus painted in fluorescent colors—I have a feeling it's made to really shine later in the night—and I can't figure out the second float, but it looks like someone took a lot of paper flowers, threw glitter on them, and set them on wheels.

A man with a glitter tartan looks up from the flower float. Finding my eyes, he smiles and winks. Charming.

“How did you get them to let us up here?”

Taj plops down behind me. “You know how it is. Some smooth talking. Promises you don't intend to keep.”

Danny weaves around Taj, rustling his hair before jumping away from his swinging hand. “Or a friend of my mom's owns the building.”

“Ah.”

“Come on.” Danny motions to the bundles of lumpy paper bags we'd scavenged before coming up, and we pile around them. “Let's eat before it starts.”

There's a particularly oil-soaked bag right in the middle of the others that I don't recognize. Must have come from Danny, who'd disappeared for twenty minutes before we reunited. Taj leans down and tears it open. “Café Beignet or Du Monde?” he asks Danny.

“Beignets?” I've been dying to try beignets—fried dough is one of my favorite things in the world—but hadn't had the chance. Another one of Tavis's promises not delivered and number one on my list of things to do in New Orleans. “We are going to have beignets?” I perk up, ready to tear into whichever bag holds those delicious little treats. I hadn't noticed any of the boys stopping to buy them, and I have no idea how they managed to sneak it by me.

“Hell yeah.” Danny wags his eyebrows then turns to Taj. “Neither. Too far. These are from the local joint a couple of blocks away.”

We begin to break into the bags, arranging the food in front of us. Along with the beignet there are some deli-meat-type sandwiches called mufa-something or other.

“But just to be clear, if I had, I would've gotten Café Beignet,” Danny says.

Taj checks his head in mock disgust. “Why are we even friends, man?”

“Aww.” Danny takes Taj down with a giant hug.

“Hey, man, be cool!” Taj shouts from the ground. “Be. Cool.”

There's an ache in my stomach. Watching Danny and Taj joke around makes me miss Kara and Em so much. For a moment I try to forget how much I've screwed up my friendships as Taj pushes Danny off him, straightening his shirt and pretending to be mad as hell. I watch Miles smile at his friends, chuckling; when he catches me watching the grin gets even bigger. He gestures toward his friends as if to say, “What can you do?”

“How many shifts did you have to promise for all of this?” Miles asks as he takes the Bottom hat off and tosses it down next to him.

“Just one,” Danny replies, then pauses, “on Saturday.”

“Ouch.” Miles pats Danny on the shoulder. “A great sacrifice.”

Indeed, but looking around at the awesome spread I kinda think it is worth it. “Thanks, Danny. These look amazing.”

“It's so beautiful it's making me cry,” Taj jokes, holding back fake tears as he basks in the glory of our feast.

“Thank you so much, really; you didn't have to bring me along and feed me.”

“You're welcome!” Taj says as Miles hits his shoulder.

“Don't worry about it. My mama always said you can learn a lot from a person by breaking bread together,” Miles says.

“You can? How?”

“Actually I have no idea. But she's really big on the idea, and my mama is never wrong. So, who's going to dive in first?”

No one makes the first move, and I don't know why. This has to be the most delicious array of delicacies I've seen in a long time. I break the trance and dive for a beignet before the sugar becomes an oil-soaked glob. I open my mouth to take a bite of the delicious goodness, and a puff of powder shoots up into my lungs, making me cough for a solid minute.

Danny pats me on the back, offering me water. “Rookie mistake. Don't breathe in before taking a bite, you'll have sugar in your lungs for days.”

After my embarrassing first try I finally get it right, and when I bite through the mountain of sugar into the crisp skin of the beignet I am automatically in love.

“I could eat these until I die.”

“Not a bad way to go,” Miles says as he watches me lick the remainder of the sugar from my fingers. I'm not sure if he's talking about the beignets or me. The blush in my cheeks says the latter.

I
T
'
S LESS THAN
an hour till the parade starts. I am stuffed as I help the boys gather all our garbage, shoving it into a plastic bag before anything gets carried off by the wind.
I can still taste the delicious sugar on my lips when Miles asks, “Salty or sweet?”

“Hmm?”

He motions to where moments before our feast was laid out for us. “Salty or sweet?”

“Sweet.” My tongue darts out, licking the side of my mouth, a bit of sugar still stuck to my lips.

Miles's gaze lingers. “Yeah, me too.” He looks away, a playful smirk on his face. “I can down at least a dozen beignets if no one stops me. What's your favorite sweet?”

“Oh, I'm really bad at favorites.” I trace the silhouette of his face as the lights from below play across his skin. I turn away before he catches me staring.

“That's what people say at first. Then before you know it they're going on and on about pecan pie.” Sticking his hands in his pockets—looking ever the rogue—Miles leans over the edge and grins at me. “Or should I say
peeee-can
pie.”

I shake my head. “I'm not kidding, I have a hard time picking just a few of my favorite things.”

He chuckles, singing, “‘Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,'” before shrugging. “My mom loves musicals.” He taps a finger against his temples. “Pretty much have them all memorized.” At the edge of the building the world below bustles with life. “We've got time to kill, Lila. We can sit around and enjoy the silence, or we can get to
know each other.” He whistles, calling over Danny and Taj.

They trudge over. “Hey, man. I told you we don't answer to whistles,” Taj says.

“You literally just did,” Miles points out.

“To tell you it's the last time.”

“Whatever.” Miles waves away the argument. “Favorite dessert. Go.”

Taj licks his lips. “Fried bananas with a scoop of ice cream. My dad learned to make it when we lived in DC. There was this little Thai shop a couple blocks away.”

“Peach cobbler,” Danny chimes in. “The way my gran used to make it, with tons of sugar.”

“See?” Miles turns back, waiting for me to join in, amusement in his eyes. “Not that hard. Let's try it again. Favorite dessert?”

Taj hops up and down. “Oh yesss, we playing Questions, Questions?”

“Questions, Questions?”

“Just like it sounds,” Taj says. “Helps pass time.”

“So does a book.”

Miles perks, leaning in closer. “You got one in that bag?”

“No.” I playfully shove him away with a finger. “But I know some by heart.”

“Do you now, which ones?”

Oh God, which one is least embarrassing? I run through the list—none, awesome. A sigh. “Harry Potter.”

“Yo, I took that damn Pottermore test and it told me I was a Hufflepuff. What kind of bullshit is that?” Taj shouts.

“You don't want to be a Huffle?” I ask.

He puffs up his chest. “Slytherin all the way, baby.”

Behind him Danny shakes his head and mouths the word “Hufflepuff.” I snort, covering my mouth.

“What, you don't think I have Slytherin tendencies?” Taj asks.

Miles tugs at my shirt, touching skin to skin. It sends a shock down my body. “What else?”

I rub my shoulder, tapping down the thousands of tiny hairs standing on end. “Well, I don't actually like the play, but I played Juliet in our school production of
Romeo and Juliet.”

Perking up, a sly smirk spreads across his lips. “Oh really?”

M
OMENTS LATER
I'
M
dead—well, fake dead, roofied by a priest who “meant well” (Did I mention I'm not a huge fan of this play? Made for a lot of arguments between me and the so-called director)—regretting the angle of my body on Danny's lap.
This will hurt later.
Performing an abridged version of
Romeo and Juliet
on a rooftop was not where I thought this night was going, but new Julie doesn't back away from a dare. Danny was tumbling through his best Romeo-in-the-crypt speech, bawling, holding my dead body, which shakes with such a force every time he
cries that it is nearly impossible not to dissolve into church giggles, but I manage.

“‘Here's to my love,'” Danny bellows, fake agony ringing from his voice. He is the worst actor, and it's fantastic. “Oh true, uh, crap.”

“Apothecary,” I stage-whisper from my fake coma.

“Right,” he breaks, his muffled laugh tickling my belly. “‘Oh true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.'”

I did not think this through. My eyes open just a bit, trying to sneak a peek at Miles. My heart flutters. If I was going to kiss someone I just met, I'd rather it be . . .

I feel Danny lean down, pressing a quick peck on my cheek before he lets out a death gargle and keens forward on top of me. I wait a moment, composing myself before my eyes open.

To my left, Taj gasps. “She's alive. Damn.” Which almost sends me back into a fit of giggles. Miles swats him in the belly, and he quiets down.

“‘O comfortable friar!'” I continue. “‘Where is my lord?'”

“He's, like, right there,” Taj whispers to Miles, earning him another swat. He quiets down, but it's too late. Danny has the church giggles, and now I'm infected as well.

He rolls off me just as Taj and Miles jump to their feet, clapping. Danny helps me up, and we take a bow.

“Not bad, Juliet.” It's so close to my actual name that my breath catches for a moment when Miles says it. I try and shift the focus, watching the way his hips move and angle toward me; I let my cheeks flush watching how his finger hooks in his belt loop.

“That's exactly what my drama teacher said,” I reply, hopefully not sounding horribly bitter. “I was the understudy, but I think, like, the pity understudy.”

“I don't believe it.” His hand leaves his hip, touching my arm for a moment, before he pulls back, sticking his hand in his hair. It's a move I recognize; the want, need, to keep touching, skin to skin, but knowing that it's probably not a good idea. “When you said, ‘O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb. Lest that thy love prove likewise variable,' it took my breath away
.”
The words flow like he's said them all his life.

“Whoa” escapes before I can stop myself. “I mean, you trying to get the job?”

“Only if you'll be my Romeo,” he says. A quick smile reaches up to his eyes, an invitation. Damn, the guy is pure charm. I wish I had a cup or a scarf or a friggin' sweater to hide my blushing face in because I am not smooth enough for this boy.