Chapter Two: The Boy Who Doesn't Smile
Writer's POV
Fabiola broke her promise in less than a week.
She didn't mean to. But Evan Harlow was in her third-grade class, and Mrs. Patterson had assigned seats alphabetically. Harlow. Morales. Right next to each other.
When Fabiola walked in that first day of class and saw him sitting there spine straight, hands folded on the desk, eyes fixed on nothing her stomach flipped. She thought about asking Mrs. Patterson to move her. Thought about her mother's warning.
But then Evan turned his head, looked at her with those storm-cloud eyes, and she forgot how to speak.
She sat down.
He didn't acknowledge her. Didn't say hello. Just turned back to face forward, his profile sharp and still as a statue.
Fabiola studied him from the corner of her eye. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, too formal for elementary school, pressed so crisp it looked painful. His black hair was neatly combed but already falling into his eyes. His hands, resting on the desk, were long-fingered and pale, the knuckles prominent.
Everything about him was precise. Controlled. Like he was holding himself together by force of will.
At recess, Fabiola watched him from across the playground. He sat alone under the oak tree, reading a book that looked too thick for a nine-year-old. The other kids gave him a wide berth, like he had an invisible fence around him.
Lucas, meanwhile, was at the center of everything racing across the basketball court, laughing loud enough to hear from across the playground. Where Evan was silence, Lucas was noise. Where Evan was stillness, Lucas was motion.
The same face. Completely different boys.
Fabiola made a decision.
She marched across the playground, her sneakers kicking up dust, her heart hammering. When she reached the oak tree, she stood there, blocking his light, until Evan finally looked up.
"Hi," she said, just like last time.
Evan stared at her. Didn't respond.
"I'm Fabiola. We sit next to each other."
"I know."
"Oh." She shifted her weight. "What are you reading?"
He tilted the book so she could see the cover. Grimm's Fairy Tales. The old kind, with the dark illustrations.
"Isn't that scary?" she asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because they're not real."
Fabiola sat down beside him, uninvited. The grass was dry and scratchy against her legs. "My mama says some scary things are real."
Evan's eyes flicked to her face, then away. "Your mother is right."
A chill ran through her despite the September sun. "Like what things?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "Ghosts. Curses. Promises that don't break even when you want them to."
Fabiola frowned. "That doesn't make sense. You can always break a promise."
"Not all of them." Evan's voice was soft, distant. He touched the edge of his book. "Some promises have teeth."
She wanted to ask what that meant, but something in his expression stopped her. He looked... afraid. Not of her. Of something she couldn't see.
Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a dandelion she'd picked earlier the yellow kind, still fresh, petals bright as sunshine. She held it out to him.
"What's this?" Evan asked.
"A flower. For you."
"Why?"
"Because you look sad."
Evan took the dandelion. Held it between his long fingers, studying it like it was a puzzle. Then, slowly, deliberately, he closed his fist around it.
The stem snapped. The petals crushed. Yellow dust smeared across his palm.
Fabiola gasped. "Why did you do that?"
Evan opened his hand, let the ruined flower fall to the ground. "Because beautiful things die. It's better to kill them yourself than watch it happen slowly."
Tears burned in Fabiola's eyes. She'd wanted to be nice. Wanted to make him smile. And he'd destroyed it. Destroyed it and said something horrible and
She stood up, fists clenched. "You're mean."
"I know."
"I was trying to be your friend!"
"Don't."
"Why not?"
Evan finally looked at her really looked at her. His gray eyes swept over her face, and she saw something move in them. Something that looked like regret. Like longing.
"Because," he said quietly, "everyone who gets close to me loses something. And you..." He stood up, and even at nine years old, he was taller than her. He leaned down, and for a bizarre moment, Fabiola thought he was going to kiss her.
Instead, he breathed in.
Deep. Deliberate. His eyes fluttered closed, his nostrils flared, and he scented her the air around her hair, her skin, the space between them.
Fabiola froze. Her heart stopped. Started again, too fast.
When Evan opened his eyes, they were darker. Hungrier.
"You smell like summer," he whispered. "Like cocoa butter and something sweet. Like... life." His jaw tightened. "I'll ruin you. So go away."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, shaking, the crushed dandelion at her feet.
That night at dinner, Fabiola pushed her rice around her plate, barely eating.
"What's wrong, mija?" her father asked. Carlos Morales was a big man, broad-shouldered and warm, with paint perpetually under his fingernails from his construction work.
"There's a boy at school," Fabiola mumbled.
Her mother's fork clattered against her plate. "Which boy?"
"The... the Harlow boy. Evan."
Rosa crossed herself. "Dios mío. I told you to stay away from him."
"I tried! But he sits next to me, and I just wanted to be nice, and he.." She stopped. How could she explain what happened? That he'd smelled her? That he'd looked at her like she was something to eat?
"He what?" her father asked, voice dangerous.
"He crushed a flower I gave him."
Carlos relaxed. "Ah. Boys do stupid things, mija. Forget about him."
But Rosa was watching Fabiola with ancient eyes. "What else?"
"Nothing."
"Fabiola."
She squirmed under her mother's gaze. "He said I smell like summer. And life. And then he told me to go away because he'd ruin me."
The table went silent.
Sofia, Fabiola's six-year-old sister, giggled. "He smelled you? That's weird!"
"Enough," Rosa snapped. She stood, grabbed Fabiola's hand. "Come with me."
She led Fabiola to her bedroom, sat her on the bed, and knelt before her. Her mother's hands were rough from years of cleaning houses, but her touch was gentle as she cupped Fabiola's face.
"Listen to me carefully," Rosa said. "That boy Evan Harlow he is not like other boys. I saw him at the school. I saw the shadow inside him, the one that shouldn't be there. He is marked, do you understand?"
"Marked by what?"
"By death. By something that happened or something that will happen. I don't know which." Rosa's eyes were fierce. "But I know this: he is dangerous. Not because he wants to be. Because he is. And you, my beautiful girl, with your warm heart and your bright spirit you are exactly the kind of person who gets hurt by boys like that."
Fabiola's eyes filled with tears. "But Mama, he looked so sad. So lonely."
"I know, baby. I know." Rosa pulled her daughter close. "But you cannot save people who are drowning. They will only pull you under."
Fabiola cried into her mother's shoulder, and promised again to stay away from Evan Harlow.
But that night, lying in bed, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
About his gray eyes. His pale hands. The way he'd leaned in and breathed her in like she was something precious.
You smell like life.
No one had ever said anything like that to her. No one had ever looked at her like that like she was magic, like she was dangerous, like she was everything.
It should have scared her.
It didn't.
Fabiola rolled over, hugged her pillow, and whispered into the darkness: "I'm going to make you smile, Evan Harlow. I don't care what my mama says."
Outside her window, the wind picked up.
And somewhere across town, in a big house by a dark lake, a nine-year-old boy woke from a nightmare about drowning.
He touched his throat, checked for water, found none.
But he could still smell her.
Summer. Cocoa butter. Life.
He buried his face in his hands and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Even though she couldn't hear him.
Even though sorry wouldn't be enough.
Even though he already knew with the terrible certainty of a boy who'd made a promise with teeth that Fabiola Morales was going to change everything.
And he was going to destroy her.