Page 18 of Finding Noah

The perfect opportunity finally came when he was sitting at the back of the store, eating a sandwich. I wandered away from Mom to get a better look, to check out that gnarly-looking scar on his face, and I found a spot to hide behind a rack of bananas. I didn't think he noticed me—his eyes were on his phone—so I leaned over a bit, hoping to peer a little closer, when I tripped over my own stupid feet and blew my cover.

The guy glanced in my direction, his eyes landing right on me, and I froze for a second.

“Shit,” I whispered beneath my breath before turning and bumping right into the rack of bananas.

Several bunches fell to the floor, and my shoulders slumped.

This was not going according to plan.

“Ah, man,” I grumbled.

I stared at the floor, knowing I had to clean them up, but … Mom would be looking for me, and if she found out I'd been spying on the new guy in town, she was going to be annoyed, and—

“Don't worry about it,” I heard a deep voice say from behind me. “I got it.”

“What? N-no, it's—” I glanced over my shoulder to find him standing and heading over to where I stood, and stupidly, I said, “Wow. You're, like, really tall.”

I had known he was. I had seen him before. But I hadn’t been this close. He was taller than anybody I had ever seen.

“Huh.” He pressed his hand to the top of his head and looked down at the floor. “Look at that. I guess I am.”

Finding a little more courage, I asked, “How tall are you?”

“Last time I checked”—he pointed toward the glowing Produce sign—”as tall as it takes to smack my head on that.”

I followed his finger, and my eyes widened. “Whoa.”

The kids at school had mentioned it was true, but I hadn't really thought he was that tall. I guessed I'd been wrong.

“Yeah, I keep asking Howard to move it, but what can ya do?” he said with a shrug.

I knew I should say something else. He seemed nice, he seemed cool, and I wanted to keep talking. But my tongue was tied, and I was nervous for some reason. I mean, I had never talked to a guy who had been in jail before. What was I supposed to say?

Then he got down on his knees and began picking up the bananas I had knocked over, and I silently scolded myself. I should've done that already.

So, I dropped to the floor and hurried to help as quickly as I could, and then, as if I had lost all control over my stupid mouth, I blurted, “My mom said you were in jail.”

It was a lie. I had told Mom, and immediately, I was scared I had said something I shouldn't have. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He probably didn't want to talk about that. He probably didn't want to talk about that with me. But then he surprised me by laughing.

It was a friendly kind of laugh.

Like Grandpa's or Jay's dad.

“I was,” he replied with a nod.

I picked up a bunch of bananas and passed it to his large hand as I brazenly asked, “Is that where you got that scar?” I gestured toward the line of puckered skin stretching from below his left eye and into his beard.

He shook his head. “No, I got this scar before—”

“Noah!”

Crap.

Startled, I gasped and turned in the direction of Mom's voice to see her hurrying over, the basket on her arm full of groceries.

She didn't look happy.