She slowly shut her door behind them, breathing a sigh of relief at the absence of her parents.
"What's this color? It looks like foxglove." He was brushing his hand along her walls, which were a rosy purple/pink from when she was eleven.
"Oh, that? It's like a pink." She said absently, looking at her room through the eyes of a stranger. There was her small white desk in the corner, stacked messily with notebooks and small relics from her childhood. She saw a pile of clothes on the carpeted floor and self-consciously kicked it out of view and into her closet. A corkboard was stuffed with paintings and photos and birthday cards, and was next to a poster of kittens wearing headphones. Her bed took up most of the rather small room, with a simple white headboard and a black and white polka-dotted bedspread. Her closet was boxy, like a tiny elevator, and was sparsely filled with a rainbow of clothes (t-shirts and jeans, mostly.) She had a small white nightstand with a black and white polka-dotted lamp to match the bedspread, and a clear vase of giant fake purple flowers. Above her bed was a fading Divergent poster and to the other side of the bed was a ruched purple beanbag, on which a fat Pillow Pet and an entire book shelf's worth of library books (mostly novels, some Calvin and Hobbes) were piled.
"What's this for?" He asked, studying the bed and punching it a few times, looking quite surprised at its plushness.
"It's a bed. You sleep on it." She said hastily.
"Like a nest?" He asked, nodding.
"Sure." She said, looking a little puzzled. "You can sleep on the trundle." Lily said, pulling out the trundle from underneath her mattress. He went over and sat on it, frowning.
"It's like moss, a little. Only lots of it." He ran a hand down the bare sheets, a faded floral pattern in hues of blue and yellow.
"You slept on moss?" Lily asked, surprised. She had earlier resolved not to ask him much of his past life, one because of the fact he couldn't remember anything, and two because it had ended him up as an amnesiac sleeping naked in a stranger's backyard. Not the best life story, now was it?
"I must've." He said. He looked a little uncomfortable, suddenly, as he spoke. "Your parents… they don't like me?" He asked, his yellow eyes looking a little hurt.
"They're just getting used to the fact that you're different." Lily said gingerly, sitting down beside him on the mattress. He nodded and lapsed into silence, his head tilted up at the ceiling where a clump of glow and the dark stars were pasted next to her ceiling fan (white with fancy fringe.)
"Whitestorm." Lily started, and he looked over, his pale eyebrows shooting up, "Do you know how to read and write?" She asked. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he thought.
"I don't think I know what that is." He said. Her heart sunk. A tiny little part of her hoped he could come to school with her. Now that she thought of it, he wouldn't last a minute. He'd be as bullied as she was. Worse, even. She shuddered just imagining it. "I could try." He offered, seeing her disappointed expression. She shot, grabbing a thin novel from the beanbag depository.
"A Wrinkle In Time." She said, shoving it into his hands. "One of my favorites." She added, as he ran a hand along the book and cracked it open, the thin pages leafing in the wind coming from her open window. He studied the tiny black words, his eyes lighting.
"'Thinking I'm a moron gives people something to feel smug about,' Charles Wallace said. 'Why should I disillusion them?'" Whitestorm read, and then looked delighted.
"You can read!" Lily cheered. Some part of her awoke as he read that. That quote, it's perfect for him, in a way. She shivered and then felt bad about basically calling him a moron. He was just different and he didn't know any better.
"Do you know where you learned to read?" She prompted him.
"No. I actually don't think anyone taught me." He looked puzzled again.
"Can you write something for me?" Lily asked hastily, eager to take his mind off things. She jumped up, grabbing a piece of notebook paper from her favorite Five-Star one with the all-black cover and thick metal binding. He nodded, and she handed him a #2 pencil. He put the paper on his knee, sitting cross-legged, and slowly wrote I can't remember. She was delighted to see he could also write and had correct punctuation and spelling, but she was sad when she contemplated what he had written. He stared at the words, and then slowly crumpled up the paper. "Whitestorm, how would you feel about going to school with me tomorrow?" She asked, staring at him attentively. Some part of her thought about the look on other people's faces when she brought this foreign, wolf-eyed boy to school, his hand in hers. Her cheeks flooded with color when she realized she might already have a tiny crush on him.
"Are you sick? Your face is red." Whitestorm asked in concern, breaking her out of her thoughts.
"H-huh?" She stammered, unable to look him in the eye.
"Nothing. I said yes, by the way." He looked amused.
"Good." She smiled, feeling the blush getting even redder. Whitestorm grinned lopsidedly.
"You have to tell me what school is first, though." He laughed, and his laugh was like the wind chimes at her grandmother's house in a windstorm.
"Of course." They sat cross-legged on her mattress as Lily explained animatedly about what school was, and they stopped when they were called down to eat.
"What if I do something awful in front of your parents?" He asked worriedly. Yeah, what if he does? She thought.
"I'm sure you'll be fine." She said, half reassuring herself.