He turned.
But tonight was different.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I don’t stare.”
I watched from my window as they unloaded: a worn leather armchair, stacks of books in crates, a guitar case with a cracked latch, and boxes labeled Fragile – Records in sharp, angry handwriting. The new neighbor was a woman—sharp-shouldered, dark-haired, always smoking on the porch like she was posing for a black-and-white photograph. Her name, I learned from my mother, was Celeste Rafael. She was a pianist. Divorced. And she had a son.
Then, last Tuesday, a moving truck the color of a bruised plum parked outside.
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 .
For three days, I caught glimpses. A tall boy with messy dark curls, always in a faded gray hoodie. He never waved. Never smiled. He just sat on their back steps, sharpening a pocket knife against a whetstone, over and over. Weird , I thought. Stay away.
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.
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 froze, half on the branch, one foot on my sill.
He knew my name.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then he smiled—slow, crooked, and dangerous.
“Come sit,” Jack Radley Rafael said. “I don’t bite.”
That’s when I saw him.
“Sure.” He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke that curled up like a question. “Then why are you out here at two a.m., Lena?”
He turned.
But tonight was different.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I don’t stare.”
I watched from my window as they unloaded: a worn leather armchair, stacks of books in crates, a guitar case with a cracked latch, and boxes labeled Fragile – Records in sharp, angry handwriting. The new neighbor was a woman—sharp-shouldered, dark-haired, always smoking on the porch like she was posing for a black-and-white photograph. Her name, I learned from my mother, was Celeste Rafael. She was a pianist. Divorced. And she had a son. My Neighbor-s Son PART 1 - Jack Radley Rafael...
Then, last Tuesday, a moving truck the color of a bruised plum parked outside.
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 .
For three days, I caught glimpses. A tall boy with messy dark curls, always in a faded gray hoodie. He never waved. Never smiled. He just sat on their back steps, sharpening a pocket knife against a whetstone, over and over. Weird , I thought. Stay away. He turned
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.
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 froze, half on the branch, one foot on my sill. “I don’t stare
He knew my name.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then he smiled—slow, crooked, and dangerous.
“Come sit,” Jack Radley Rafael said. “I don’t bite.”
That’s when I saw him.
“Sure.” He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke that curled up like a question. “Then why are you out here at two a.m., Lena?”
