Page 22 of I Knew You Were Trouble

She pushes her forefinger into my leg, poking at me in a playful and absentminded manner. “You talked with him like you guys were old buddies.”

“Tattoos are conversation pieces.”

“I’m not getting one just to talk to him.”

“Not what I was suggesting.” I reach for the laminated list. “But we should talk about some of these fears.” Needles were on there, but they weren’t too high. Yellow, I think.

She nods, tucking her wavy hair behind her ears. It is weird to see her hair down. She usually wears it in a perfect ponytail that sticks out of her Troublemakers cap.

“Not that I’m questioning your teaching methods,” she starts, and I give her a look because she’s about to completely question my teaching method—or lack thereof. “But why did you need to know my fears? Can’t you just, give me a bad girl makeover or something?”

“If you want this to be just like Grease, then I’d do that.”

“Grease…?”

“The movie.”

“Oh, haven’t seen it.”

My brows lift. Can’t believe I’m the one who has out of the two of us. “Okay… My point is that I could just dress you up to get the guy, but it won’t hit the root of what you want. You said you’re not happy, right? So we gotta help you be a bit more daring.”

“And then a makeover?”

I chuckle. “Maybe.” Though I can’t imagine Candace outside of her Troublemakers uniform. Right now she’s in a soft-looking, pastel blue sweater and what are probably designer jeans. They fit her personality, and I don’t think she needs a makeover at all, but what the hell do I know?

The laminated list makes a wobbly sound as I wiggle it straight. I focus on the red and orange page. There are only two yellows down at the very bottom.

“Okay,” I say, turning the page toward her. “Close your eyes and point.”

A grin hits her lips, like she likes the idea of picking a random fear to tackle. She puts a hand over her eyes and uses her other to pick. She spins her forefinger around before jabbing it forward, catching my knuckle with her perfectly manicured finger.

“Whoops!” She laughs and slides the finger off my knuckle and onto the list. I peer around it, gently moving her hand so I can read what she landed on.

“It just says white.” I lower the list while she lowers her hand from her eyes and blinks to adjust to the light. “Care to elaborate on that one?”

She adjusts the blanket around her lap, making sure not to uncover my legs in the process. I’m pretty warm though, now.

“I don’t like the color white.”

“I thought you liked all the colors.”

“Yes, but when there is a lack of color…” She shivers, and I can’t help but chuckle. “It’s the feeling that there might be spaces without any hue or texture or vibrancy. It’s completely void of life. It’s creepy.”

“So… a white Christmas ain’t your thing?”

“I like snow, but only when you can see other colors.”

“Like yellow?”

“You had to go there.” She rolls her eyes at my immaturity. “I meant like green. Or even gray… like sludge.”

“I don’t mind sludge.” Stepping in the thick, dirt-caked snow was one of my favorite childhood pastimes I had when my dad wasn’t such a case. We’d go out there and kick it off the bottom of the truck just to stomp on it with our boots, leaving rough prints behind.

“Sludge shows signs of life.” A slight smile hits her lips, and her eyes start to light up. She must be reliving things, too. At least they’re pleasant ones. “Whenever there is a snowfall, and I catch animal tracks all across the ground, it’s like this huge relief. But when it’s just smooth and untouched?” She makes a gagging sound. “It’s terrifying.”

“Do you ever paint with white?” Can’t believe how fascinated I am by this conversation, and how her irrational fear seems, well, rational.

“Yes. But using white on a palate next to all the colors is leagues different than sitting in an all white room.”

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