Prologue

*Before you start reading just wanna let you I haven't edited this story so there is going to be some mistake. Sorryyyyyy*

I place my order and shuffle to the corner of the room. My mother was late to pick me up from ballet once again. I used to this, she drops me off and goes to meet her friends whatever they do, which is likely to spend my father money on clothes. She was never on time to pick me up, I found a coffee shop that I could stay in as it was getting colder now. And I didn't know where I was, so I couldn't catch a bus back. Even though I was 14, I still wasn't independent.

Ten minutes later, I take my drink and exit on to the sidewalk. I dart to the nearest trash can to dispose of my half-empty cup of iced tea lemonade so I can hold my Chanel bag, Mom probably loss her shit if I ruined it. It was a limited edition.

"Put the drink down, and nobody gets hurt," booms a voice behind me, like liquid honey, as my hand hovers over the trash can. It's male, but he's young. I spin in place, not sure I heard him right. His chin dipped low, I can't see his face clearly because of a Raiders ball cap that's been worn to death. He's tall and scrawny almost scarily so but he glides toward me like a tiger.

As if he's found a way to walk on air and can't be bothered with mundane things like muscle tone. "Are we throwing this away?" He points at the lemonade. We? Bitch, at this point, there's not even you to me. I motion to him with the drink. He can have the stupid iced tea lemonade. Gosh. He is interrupting my meltdown for a lemonade.

"Nothing's free in this world, Bug eyes" I blink, willing him to evaporate from my vision. Did this jackass just call me Bug eyes? At least I don't look like a skeleton

When I don't answer, the boy takes a step toward me. I'm not scared although...maybe I should be? He's wearing dirty jeans, I'm talking mud and dust, not, like, purposely haphazard—and a worn blue shirt that looks two sizes too big with a hole the size of a small fist where his heart is. Someone wrote around it in a black Sharpie and girlie handwriting, Is it a sign?—Adriana, xoxo and I want to know if Adriana is prettier than me.

"Why are you calling me Bug Eyes?" I clench my fist.

"Because." He slopes his head so low all I can see are his lips, and they look petal-soft and pink. Feminine, almost. His voice is smooth to a point it hurts a little in my chest. I don't know why. Guys my age are revolting to me. They smell like pizza that has sat in the sun for days.

"You have really big eyes, Silly Billy. Know what you need?" For Mom to stop telling me that I suck? For Via to stop bullying me?

Take your pick, dude. I shove my free hand into my wallet and pluck out a ten-dollar bill. He looks as if he could use a meal. I pray he'll take it before Mom comes and starts asking questions. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, much fewer strangers who look like they are dumpster diving for their next meal.

"Sea glass." He thrusts his hand in my direction, ignoring the money and the drink. I huff. Great. "You're a weirdo, too"

"Huh? Nah. Orange sea glass. The real stuff. Found it on the beach last week and Googled it. It's the rarest thing in the world, you know?"

"Why would you give a total stranger something so precious?" I roll my eyes. "Why not?"

"Um, hello, attention span much? Weren't you the one who just said nothing in this world is free?"

"Who said it's free? Did you get all your annual periods today at once or something?"  

"Don't talk about my period!"

"Fine. No period talk. But you need a real friend right now, and I'm officially applying for the position. I even dressed the part. Look." He motions to his hobo clothes with an apologetic smile.

And just like that, heat pours into my chest like hot wax. Anger, I find, has the tendency to be crisp. I want to throat punch him. Does he pity me? Pities. The guy with the hole in his shirt. "You want to be my friend?" I bark out a laugh. "Pathetic much? Like, who even says that?"

"Me. I say that. And I never claimed not to be pathetic."

He tugs at his ripped shirt and raises his head slowly, unveiling more of his face. A nose my mom would call Roman and a jaw that's too square for someone my age. He's all sharp angles, and maybe one day he will be handsome, but right now, he looks like an anime cartoon character.

"Look, do you want the lemonade and money or not? My mom should be here any minute."

"And?"

"And she can't see us together."

"Because of how I look?"

"No, because you're a boy." I don't want to be mean to him even though, usually, I am. Especially to boys. Especially to boys with beautiful faces and honey voices. Boys can smell heartbreak from across a continent. Even at fourteen. Even in the middle of an innocent Autumn afternoon.

We girls have an invisible string behind our belly button, and only certain guys can tug at it. This boy...he will snap it if I let him. "Take the sea glass. Owe me something."

He motions to me with an open palm. I stare at the ugly little rock. The boy lifts his head completely, and our eyes meet. He studies me with quiet interest as though I'm a painting, not a person. My heart is rioting all over, and the dumbest thought crosses my mind.

His eyes are hazel and bottomless like a thickly fogged forest. I want to step inside and run until I'm in the depth of the woods. Something occurs to me just then. "You're not from here," I say.

He is too pure. Too good. Too real. He shakes his head slowly.

"Northside. Well, my dad's family. Anyway. Owe me something," he repeats, almost begging. Why does he want me to owe him something?

So he could ask for something back. I don't relent, frozen to my spot.

Instead, I hand him the lemonade. He takes it, closes the distance between us, pops the lid open, and pours the contents all over the pavement. His body brushes against mine. We're stomach to stomach. Legs to legs. Heart to heart.

"Close your eyes." His voice is gruff and thick and different. This time, I surrender. I know what's about to happen, and I'm letting it happen anyway.

My first kiss. I always thought it would happen with a football player or a pop star or a European exchange student. Someone outside of the small borders of my sheltered, Instagram-filtered world. Not with a kid who has a hole in his shirt. But I need this.

Need to feel desired and pretty and wanted. His lips flutter over mine, and it tickles, so I snort. I can feel his warm breath skating across my lips, his baseball cap grazing my forehead and the way his mouth slides against mine, lips locking with uncertainty. I forget to breathe for a second, my hands on his shoulders, but then something inside me begs me to dart my tongue out and taste him. We're sucking air from each other's mouths. We're doing it all wrong. My lips open for him. His open, too. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel the blood whooshing in my veins when he says.

"Not yet. I'll take that, too, but not yet." A groan escapes my lips.

"What would you have asked of me if I took the sea glass?"

"To save me all your firsts," he whispers somewhere between my ear and mouth as his body brushes away from mine. I don't want to open my eyes and let the moment end. But he chooses both of us.

The warmth of his body leaves mine

as he takes a step back. I still don't have the guts to open my mouth and ask for his name. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds pass. My eyelids flutter open on their own accord as my body begins to sway. He's gone. Disoriented, I lean against the trash can, fiddling with the strap of my bag.

Five seconds pass before Mom loops her arm around mine out of nowhere and leads me to the Range Rover. My legs fly across the pavement. My head twists back. Blue shirt? Ball cap? Petal lips? Did I imagine the whole thing?

"There you are. What, no iced tea lemonade today?"

After I fail to answer, we climb into her vehicle and buckle up. Mom sifts through her Prada bag resting on the centre console. "I'm sorry sweetie, the traffic was bad."

If he were even real. Maybe I made him up in my head to come to terms with what I did. I open a compact mirror and apply some lip gloss, my heart racing. "You're always late, Mom. I'm used to  it."

Mom pouts, then nods. In the minute it takes her to start the engine. "Before I forget, Lovebug, I bought you the diary you wanted." Mom produces a thick black-cased leather notebook from her Prada bag and hands it to me. I noticed it before, but I never assume things are for me anymore. She's always distracted, buying things for her self.

As we ride in silence, I have an epiphany. This is where I'll write my sins. This is where I'll bury my tragedies. I snap the mirror shut and tuck my hands into the pockets of my white hoodie, where I find something small and hard. I take it out and stare at it, amazed. The orange sea glass. He gave me the sea glass even though I never accepted it. Save me all your firsts. I close my eyes. He was real.