He texts me at 7pm on Thursday.
“can we talk tonight? not at school. somewhere else.”
I text back: “bleachers at westfield. 8pm.”
The bleachers at night are a different place from the bleachers in the morning. In the morning the track belongs to the early risers, the distance runners, Coach Marsh with her stopwatch and her Silver Council pin and her careful documentation of my impossible times. At night the track is empty and the bleachers are cold metal and the city lights glow at the edges of the sky that isn’t quite light and isn’t quite dark.
Jasper is already there when I arrive. He is sitting on the third row from the bottom with his elbows on his knees and his hands loosely clasped. By the look on his face, he is just present, with whatever he’s carrying, letting it be visible i
