prologue

Noah chases me through swamps and streets and supermarkets, always steps behind. He is taller and stronger- big, he says, only he’s really one of the skinniest boys in his class- but I am quick. My dad calls me rabbit, because I told him bunnies were for storybooks and babies.
If I look behind me, Noah’s face makes me laugh. His hair is wet and redder than usual; it sticks flat to his forehead like lines of finger paint or magic marker. He squints his eyes up into nothing and keeps his mouth in a tiny little line, like he’s mad, only I can tell he’s not. I know everything about him. Probably.
His mouth is like that because he thinks he’s going to catch me today. He bet his sister Jasmine his whole soccer ball piggy bank, which I told him was a bad idea. But I know everything about him, and the first thing I’d tell anybody is that you can’t talk him out of anything, once he decides.
If he reached his hand out, he could grab my hair. It flies behind me like ribbon or Halloween streamers or smoke. If he wanted to, he could pull it between his fingers and drag me right down, easy. I probably would do that, but Noah would say it was cheating, and he’s not the cheating kind.
Noah Breyers is my best friend, even though I am seven and he is eight. Plus, he’s a boy, which means that people sing us kissing songs at recess and say our names like just one (noahandaria,ariaandnoah). Our parents and his sisters talk about how we’ll get married when we’re grown-up. They’re all crazy, our mamas and dads, and Noah’s sisters especially, but I don’t know if I’d ever marry anybody else.
I try to think of other things.
We’re on the sidewalk now, Noah and me, and the hard ground hurts my knees and makes slapping noises under our sneakers. It’s almost nighttime, and the street isn’t crowded, but there are other people here. I can’t see them right; they are blurs of bare summer legs and arms, high ponytails and flip-flops. They look nervous when they smile, stepping out of the way. I keep going as fast as I can. The playground is close now. I get to the elementary school and cut across the front lawn, stretch my legs as far as they will go. The stopping point is the swing set at the end of the recess yard. I look back at Noah again. His eyes are still squinted up and his face is all sweaty. Even though I am way ahead now, his mouth is still that tiny little line like he’s positive, like he knows that he’s going to win.
When I break through the wooden playground gate (it’s summer and we’re not supposed to be here), all I can think of is white dresses and valentine heart candy and Noah’s little line mouth. I blink as fast as I can to get the pictures out of my head. I’m still running, but I can’t concentrate. Noah and Aria, sitting in a tree.
In seconds, Noah and Aria are sitting on the ground, a tangle of arms and legs and one-sided laughter. For forever or what seems like it, Noah grins and laughs and shakes his sweaty head. His eyes are sparkly now. They always get that way when he’s glad about something. The color in Noah’s eyes is my very favorite and the color in mine is his. Maybe we are meant for each other.
Thinking this way is scarier than anything.
Noah stands up and pulls me to my feet. He wipes the leaves off his legs and looks at me.
“Are you okay? Did I knock you down too hard?” He says it like a joke, but I can tell that he’s worried.
“I’m fine.” I say. I cross my arms and stare at his dirty, knobby knees.
He smiles really big and says, “You’re mad.”
“Am not,” I kick at the dirt on the ground so some of it hits front of his Converse high tops. His mama got them a week ago, but the part that’s white in the box is already brown from soccer and mudpies and chases. “I don’t care.”
“You are really mad.” He is laughing. Noah always laughs when I feel like smacking him.
“So what if you beat me once?” I ask, quiet, ‘under my breath’. That’s what my mother calls it when I say stuff this way, but it doesn’t make much sense to me. “I win every single time.”
“Not this time,” he says. He steps closer to me. His face is right in front of mine and his breath is sweet from the Popsicles his mama gave us before we started running. His feet are in between mine, practically. I stare down at them- our shoes match, except for his are black and mine are red.
His mouth is in that same tiny line again when I look back up- the decided one.
(k-i-s-s-i-n-g)
I close my eyes as tight as they’ll go and wait. I’ve seen enough movies to know what comes next.
When nothing happens at all, I open them back up again to see him smiling, big and bright.
“I caught you."