Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

“I can’t believe there are all these hidden passageways,” I say. And if I sound jealous, I can’t be faulted for it.

“The trick,” he tells me, “is listening for hollows.” He raps the wall. Thud. Raps it farther along. Thud. Raps it again, right over our mural. The sound he produces there is different, more of a drumbeat. I gasp as he magics another camouflaged door out of the ether. This one isn’t terribly impressive; I wouldn’t even call it a closet. A deck of cards and a Gatorade from the nineties sit inside.

“Did you know this was here all along?” I demand.

Wesley’s insufferable smugness is answer enough.

I’m indignant. “Why didn’t you show me?”

“Maybell,” he replies seriously, “one doesn’t become the unbeatable hide-and-seek champion by sharing all one’s secrets.”

I’m going to kick him.

I think he can tell, because he spins around and begins counting loudly. I fly off, determined to stun him into oblivion with my next hiding place. Let him wander aimlessly forever.

And then the perfect spot hits me: the white wardrobe in the living room. It’s one of those fixtures your eyes become so accustomed to skating past that it’s practically invisible. As I make my way into the living room, my phone vibrates with a text from Wesley. He’s snapped a picture of the donut pan, missing half its occupants. Love these, he says. I try not to preen.

The wardrobe doors are stuck, which they always have been, given their age. Then again, I’ve never had reason to try very hard to open them. I grit my teeth and yank. “Are you painted shut?”

From the other room, Wesley bellows: “Fourteen . . . fifteen . . . sixteen!”

No! Fear boosts my adrenaline, and my next yank nets results. I pull the left door bodily from its hinge. And gape.

“Wesley!” I shout.

He comes running. “What?”

“You’ll never guess what’s inside this wardrobe.”

“Is there snow? A lamppost? Weird little goat man on his hind legs?”

I seize the front of his shirt, dragging him over. He doesn’t look at all displeased about it. Then he stands next to me and gapes, too.

“It’s . . .”

“Yes.”

“All along!”

“It would seem so.”

“And!” He snaps his fingers, wild-eyed. “Upstairs! The other white wardrobe! I never thought about it before. That one is directly on top of this one. It makes so much sense.”

The wardrobes are hiding an elevator.

Since the antique furnishings have been sealed to the wall, Wesley fetches an axe, asks me politely to stand back, and sends white chips of wood airborne. Once it’s all been cleared away, we stand back in disbelief.

It’s a touch smaller than I’m used to elevators being, but still nice looking after all these years of disuse. Burgundy carpet. A gold control panel. A brass grille in elaborate art deco style. The air emanating from it is dank and cooler than the rest of the house’s temperature, a bit like a cave.

“This has just been hanging out inside the walls,” I sputter.

Wesley opens the grille, stepping inside. “God, I love this house.”

We’re not stupid enough to press any buttons or try to operate it, since there’s no way it isn’t in dire need of a mechanic, but it’s fascinating to stand in the elevator even when we’re not going anywhere.

“You know what this means,” Wesley says, marveling over the floor indicator, a gilt half-moon.

I poke at the grille, all the holes in its pattern. “It means I have a hundred more spots to stick plastic flowers.”

A gleam of white teeth in the semidarkness. “I found you, so I win the game.”

“You’ve got me there.” I lounge against one wall.

His smile is rueful. “Almost.” Wesley leans against the wall opposite. “Secret for a secret?”

His tone instantly has me on guard, but I can’t turn down the chance to uncover one of Wesley’s secrets. “All right.”

“You first. Go ahead and ask me something.”

I’m not prepared for this, so the question that tumbles out isn’t one I’d pose if I were employing any sense. “What do you really think about when you lie down to sleep?”

The glow of the living room television flickers at the mouth of the elevator, painting the left half of his face an eerie, otherworldly blue. The rest of Wesley falls to darkness. “I think about you,” he says, each word deliberate. Forced to admit. “I think about you, and it doesn’t help my insomnia at all.”

My breathing grows labored. “One more.”

He smiles, letting it slide. “All right.”

“What’s inside all those boxes in the shed?”

I can tell this question takes him by surprise. “Artwork. The boxes used to be in my old bedroom at the cabin, but when you moved in I had to hide them somewhere.” I digest this, speculating whether he’ll let me take a look at his other drawings. I like being able to see the world how he sees it, discover what interests him enough that he feels compelled to capture it on paper.

Then his tone drops. “My turn.”

Damn. “Go ahead.”

“Do I even have to ask?”

My first thought is to deflect, or distract. But then it dawns on me that none of this is easy for Wesley. Of course it isn’t. Wesley is standing in front of me in trousers he wears only on very special occasions and cologne he never wears at all, trying to impress a woman. He has opened up to me even though it’s hard. Facing his fears. Terribly shy, but putting himself out there anyway.

And I think: Maybe I’m not making the mature decision after all in deciding we shouldn’t go a little further, seeing what might bloom between us.

Maybe I’m making the safe decision. The coward’s one.

He shifts his weight, jarring me from my self-reflection. Right. He has anxiety, and taking my time coming up with answers to questions that required valor to ask is essentially torture.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say slowly, “because I think I might be wrong.” Anyone can hurt me, but at this point choosing to miss out on what could be is going to hurt me, too. What if it ends badly?

What