Without going into a lot of detail, Chris took me through the events of two days in the summer of 1959. Ray Brower, a kid even I, out in Portland, Oregon, had heard of, had gone missing that summer, most likely hit by a train somewhere out in the woods where he'd gone berry picking. All Chris told me about what happened with the Brower kid was that he, Gordie, Teddy and this dumber than a fence post kid, Vern Tessio, went looking for his body. Ace and his gang met them up there and Ace pulled a knife on them so they could take the body, and get the reward money. Gordie, however, was upset about something and all crazy and stuff, although Chris wouldn't say what about, had a gun. It was actually Chris' father's gun, but Gordie threatened Ace with it if they wouldn't leave without the kid.

Ace did leave, but not before promising to get them back. And he did get them back, ten times over, too. All four of them walked around like war survivors with all their bruises and broken bones.

"Well, he got you back," I said when he was done his story. "Why is he still making your lives miserable?"

Chris shook his head, looking thoroughly unhappy.

"And why do you look like you lost your best friend?"

He traced a crack on the table with his finger, and then looked up at me with ghostly misery etched on his face. "It was a rough weekend."

The amount of pain radiating from his tall, lanky body struck something in me and broke my heart. I knew he had a lot in his life that hurt. Up until that moment though, I hadn't known how strong it was. I also realized, in the glint of his blue eyes, there was something that I wanted so much to know and take care of.

"How's your head?" He was blushing.

He'd noticed me studying him so intensely. I guess I'd been looking at him for longer than I thought I had been. Embarrassed, I nodded. "Cold."

"Numb?"

"Getting there." I smiled self-consciously, and it was absurd, but I only then noticed how very opposite sex Chris was. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Yeah, no problem," he said, seeming to sense my abrupt discomfort. "Should I be going, or…"

"No, you don't have to. I could use the company." Uncle John was God knows where, maybe Home Depot or something, and Aunt Francis was playing bridge with her friends. I didn't even know where to begin guessing about where my brother was.

"Okay." He gestured towards my head again. "Do you want some new frozen food?"

"Yeah," I said, handing him the package of baby potatoes. "My brain warmth is melting the tater-tots."

A grin lighting up his face but leaving his eyes untouched, Chris took it from me, threw it back in the freezer and got some frozen peas.

Then there was a long awkward silence.

"You know, um…" I paused, trying desperately to make the blush that was burning on my cheeks go away. "When you keep someone with a head injury company, you're supposed to talk to her."

"About what?" he asked innocently. "You're a girl. I don't know what to talk about. My interests include sports and girls. Sports would bore you…and by talking about girls with you like I talk about them with Gordie would make you never want to look at me again."

"Then talk about MY interests," I giggled.

"I don't know what your interests are."

"Then ASK," I told him. I was beginning to realize how difficult having intelligent conversations are. I had never had one before, and they were strenuous.

"Oh," he laughed. "Okay, Toby, what are you interested in?"

"I enjoy basketball. And writing…and the amazing sounds that toilets make as they are flushing."

"Yeah, couldn't you just flush toilets all day?"

I bobbed my head up and down. "Oh, yes, such ecstasy."

"So, writing runs in your family then?" he asked, his smile still there, but now more gentle instead of the previous carefree one.

I noticed a hole in my sock and smiled at it. "Gordie's writing is getting pretty morbid, don't you think?"

"He's really good."

"I know." I thought for a moment. "Someone like him would need an outlet like that."

"Someone like him?" Chris repeated. "Someone like what?"

I shrugged, not really knowing what I meant. "I guess…You know Gordie as well as I do, probably better. You can't tell me that he's happy."

"He's not exactly miserable."

"How do you know?" I raised my eyebrows knowingly. "The stuff he writes about…Suicides, murders, broken homes…His writing used to be happy and whatnot. I don't know, I just can't see someone who's happy writing about that sort of stuff."

"So what are you saying?"

"He's got his outlet. It's a healthy outlet." I looked down at my hands. "He's been through some tough shit, that's all. It's not his fault that he's sad."

Chris nodded pensively. A long moment passed, and then he asked, "And what do you write about?"

Laughter bubbled out of me. "Same stuff Gordie writes about."

A cautious grin appeared on his face. "So you went on for five minutes about how miserable Gordie is judging on the stuff that he writes about, when you're the exact same way he is?"

"I never said I was the same way he is."

"But are you?"

My smile died and I averted my eyes from him. "Well I don't know…I mean, maybe, I don't know. I don't know how I feel."

Chris said nothing.

"That's…that's maybe why I'm so fucked up…Maybe. Because, I mean…I can't even tell what I'm feeling. I can't tell what emotion I'm ever feeling. If I'm happy, I couldn't tell you. If I were sad, I'd have no idea. I don't even know what I feel about my parents being gone."

"Maybe…" Chris began, not looking at me. "You should get some help with figuring all that out."

I shrugged.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" he asked suddenly.

Smiling bravely, I shook my head. "I don't cry." It was true; I never did. I hardly had tear ducts.

Looking at him that day in my kitchen, I never would have guessed that Christopher Chambers would be one who could make me cry.