“You’re the girl from 42,” he said. His voice was low, rougher than I expected. “The one who pretends not to stare.”

He smiled again.

Heat flooded my cheeks. “I don’t stare.”

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.

“Bad night,” I admitted.

“He’s your age,” my mother said, peering through the blinds. “Maybe you’ll be friends.”