That’s when I saw him.
Tonight, my father had yelled at me for two hours about my “attitude.” Tonight, my chest felt like a clenched fist. I couldn’t sleep. So I did what I always did when the walls felt too close: I slid my window open, swung one leg over the sill, and dropped onto the old oak branch that stretched between our houses.
“You’re the girl from 42,” he said. His voice was low, rougher than I expected. “The one who pretends not to stare.”
I froze, half on the branch, one foot on my sill. My Neighbor-s Son PART 1 - Jack Radley Rafael...
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that was a lie. End of Part 1.
I know this because I was doing the same thing.
He turned.
My name is Lena, and I had just turned seventeen. I lived at 42 Maple Street, in the kind of quiet suburban neighborhood where the biggest crime was Mrs. Gable letting her roses choke the sidewalk. The house next door, number 44, had been empty for three years—ever since the old Rafferty woman went to a nursing home. Weeds took over the lawn. The porch swing rusted. I’d grown used to the silence.
“He’s your age,” my mother said, peering through the blinds. “Maybe you’ll be friends.”
Then, last Tuesday, a moving truck the color of a bruised plum parked outside. That’s when I saw him
He was perched on his own roof, one knee drawn to his chest, a cigarette burning between his fingers even though he couldn’t have been older than me. The moonlight hit his face—sharp jaw, dark eyes, a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the sky, like he was waiting for something to fall.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t need friends. I had a plan: finish high school, move to the city, become invisible until then. New people meant questions. Questions meant answers. Answers meant trouble .
“Bad night,” I admitted.