Chapter 4: Nose Pads

By the fifth night of finals, the sound lab had become our study hall.

Maggie slept on the couch in the corner with her nursing flashcards on her chest.

Pete had brought a slow cooker and plugged it in under the mixing desk, against every rule posted on the wall.

"It's chili," he said. "It's legal if it's chili."

"It's not legal," I said, and had a second bowl.

Miles sat across the table from me with a model-making kit open beside his notes.

He was gluing thin strips of balsa into a staircase the length of my hand.

We hadn't talked about the photo in three days.

We said good morning. We shared the stairwell.

He walked me home at night, one step behind me, then next to me, then behind me again.

Neighbors, exactly as I had ordered.

It was killing me.

At midnight, my glasses slid off my nose for the fourth time that hour.

I caught them and pushed them back, and they slid again.

"The pad is bent," Miles said, without looking up.

"It's fine."

"It's been crooked since sophomore year. Give them here."

"We don't touch."

"I'm not touching you. I'm touching your glasses." He held out his hand. "Neighbors can fix glasses."

I took them off and gave them to him.

The room went soft and gray around the edges.

He laid them on a folded paper towel and picked up a pair of tweezers from his kit.

He worked on the little nose pad for a minute, frowning, his lip caught in his teeth.

I watched his hands, because I could still see those.

Everything past an arm's length was a smear.

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