The Song He Named After Me

My seat partner's mom had barely said her son was going abroad when I jumped in like a pro: "I get it, Mrs.

Ellsworth. "A hundred grand to leave your son, right?" That's how it always goes on TV, after all. I was just the most talkative ordinary girl in class.

Tristan came from money and was goodlooking. He just didn't like to talk.

The whole time we sat together, I talked at him nonstop, until he'd gone from barely responding to quietly joining in.

But the words had barely left my mouth when a stifled sob came from behind me. I turned around. Tristan, who'd been hiding back there listening, was crying.

Chapter 1 Junior year, a seriously hot guy joined our homeroom. His name was Tristan. He was pretty goodlooking—six feet tall, narrow waist, broad shoulders.

Too bad he didn't say a single word.

The second our homeroom teacher finished introducing him, my hand shot up. "Teach, I propose Ellsworth here take turns being seat partners with every girl in class, so he can bond with everybody fast!" The second I finished, a chorus of scoffs went up from the boys.

Tristan stared at his feet, expressionless. Teach flatly shot down my proposal to do the girls a favor and walked him to the ultraexclusive single desk in the last row.

Once he sat down, he started staring out the window. And stared all day. How did I know? Because every free second, I turned around to introduce myself. "Rowan Maples.

My last name was already a tree, so my parents went for two." Worried he wouldn't know how to spell it, I wrote my name big in marker on a page of my notebook and stuck it inside the front of his textbook.

Senior year, everybody in class had suffered at my hands, and nobody wanted to be my seat partner.

Then I dragged the top student in our grade down off their pedestal, and Teach finally ran out of patience and seated me with Tristan. I had no objections.

After all, I'd once talked the only water pipe in our classroom into springing a leak. But Tristan was sealed up tighter than any pipe.

Same as ever, he gazed out the window, looking down his sharp jawline at me. I thought: He's going to wreck his neck sooner or later.

Testing the waters, I held a bag of spicy chips out in front of him. "Hey, want some?" He didn't say anything. "…" I let it slide. After class, I asked to borrow his notes.

Him: "…" Me: "!" Ignored from start to finish. I was mad.

Careful not to disturb anyone else, I demanded in a breathy whisper: "Tristan, who exactly is out that window?" "…" "Nod for YES, shake for NO.

I say YES, you say?" "…" Oh, for crying out loud. Who could resist answering that? Fine. YES OR NO—he picked OR. I'd never heard of anyone in our grade having a disability.

I stared at his profile, lost in thought. Maybe, beneath that cold, aloof mask, there was… A gambling dad, a sick mom, a little sister to put through school, and one broken boy.

Sigh. I really was such a sensitive girl. Fall had just started. The summer heat hadn't faded yet.

The air was dry, and every so often a breeze drifted in, lifting the curtains and stirring one restless heart after another. Everyone was scribbling away.

Everyone but me, squirming in my seat because I had no one to talk to. Before I knew what I was doing, I pulled out my hand cream and accidentally squeezed out too much.

Tristan had his chin propped in one hand and the other hand free, so I rubbed it on him. When he felt the slick stuff on his hand, he turned to me, completely lost.

Only then did it sink in what I'd done. I swallowed, and my face went hot, fast. And he said his first words to me: "Hm?" My heart was racing. Ah. Ah! So he wasn't mute after all!

On TV, a trashy primetime soap was playing. The heroine's life was as bitter as my mom's mood right then. After the parentteacher conference, she was a little worried.

Chapter 2 Going by my last practice SAT score, I was barely good enough for a fouryear college.

My mom stopped my dad from putting meat on my plate and fixed him with a bright, eager look. "Hon, what if we do what they did next door with Fifi, and send her down the performingarts audition route?" Next door was Fiona Kendall, nickname Fifi.

The prettiest girl on the block. The kind of girl parents would be dying to claim as a daughterinlaw after one stroll around the neighborhood.

My dad looked worried, but he didn't shoot it down right away. "Isn't it too late to start prepping for auditions now?" He sighed and went on, "It's my fault.

She takes after me way too much." My dad's nickname: Toad. There was no way I was letting that slide.

I slammed the table and shot to my feet. "Lucky Maples, you asked for this!" Then I turned and ratted him out. "Mom, Lucky Maples has secret cash hidden in the toilet tank!" "Hey!

You little brat! I just bought you ice cream yesterday!" My mom raised the soup ladle and pointed it straight at my dad. "Oh, is that so!" My mom was busy dealing with my dad.

When I snuck back to school, I found Tristan was still there.

He still didn't like to talk, but at least when I asked him something, he'd answer. "Why haven't you left yet?" Tristan looked at me for a while before he said, "Waiting for my mom." "Your mom's still here too?" One.

Two. Three.

I was used to waiting for him to speak. "Mm." "Why?" "Teacher." "The teacher's having a talk with your mom?" He nodded. "Mm." My dad always said I wasn't cut out for school, but I sure knew how to read people.

Plenty of times my mom came after me with the rolling pin, and I dodged and deflected my way out of it, because I always knew exactly what to say to get to her.

Tristan was no exception. A little sheepishly, Tristan smiled. I looked at him.

Behind his blackframed glasses, his round eyes curved into crescents, and two dimples sank playfully into his cheeks. Sweet and wellbehaved. My heart skipped a beat.

But I played tough. "Don't smile!" Tristan wiped the smile off his face right away.

What I didn't see coming was him suddenly reaching out and pulling my cheeks. "Mad? "Don't, be mad." Back when we first met, Tristan was always so wooden.

So I told him corny jokes. "Know why Snow White's whole life was one disaster after another?" His eyes went round. He didn't say a word.

I gave him the punch line. "Because she was surrounded by petty little people. "Hahaha." I doubled over laughing. Tristan tilted his head.

I suspected he didn't get it, so I told it again. Nothing. I finally understood what "talking to a wall" meant.

Looking at that pale face of his, still soft with baby fat, I couldn't help reaching out and pulling at his cheeks.

Only when I'd pulled the corners of his mouth up to a height I was happy with did I dust off my hands. "Got it?

From now on, whenever I finish talking, this is the only face you're allowed to make. "This means happy." Who knew. He actually remembered.

Tristan tugged at his own cheeks again and showed me. "Happy." This time it was his turn to remind me to be happy. At the door, Tristan's mom cleared her throat softly.

I'd never seen such a beautiful woman. Everything about her was relaxed and poised.

If I had to put it into words, she had the kind of beauty that came from a different class than mine. Only the tear tracks at the corners of her eyes spoiled it a little.

Tristan's mom waved the two of us over and bent down slightly. "You must be Ro?" Me, who always bragged I wasn't scared of anything—I stammered. "Yyes, yes, yes, Mrs.

Ellsworth." When she smiled, it curved the same beautiful way her son's did. She drove me home.

Chapter 3 Right before I got out, she handed me a little cake, too, like it was nothing. It was from the pricey bakery we'd just passed on the street out front.

The price tag said $98. Just one tiny little cake. And it cost more than any birthday cake I'd ever had. I took the cake, feeling a little giddy.

Tristan waved at me from the car, but my hands were too full to wave back.

In my head, I kept hearing Tristan's mom on the phone a few minutes ago. "Yes, abroad. "The paperwork's all done. "Oh, the girl…" Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

She looked a little flustered, and after that one glance, she didn't look at me again. "I'll take care of it." Of all the classmates I used to see every single day, hardly any still kept in touch after senior finals were over.

Tristan and I, though, saw each other all the time.

Maybe it was just me, but he seemed to be talking more, and reacting a lot faster, and every now and then I could even read different emotions on his face.

At first his mom used to come along with Tristan, but lately she'd gotten busy and wasn't always around. Sometimes the driver came to pick me up.

Tristan was more focused than other people our age. Hanging out with him meant either listening to him play piano or watching him paint.

I was embarrassed by how little I had to offer, and amazed that my same old reactions always seemed to make him happy.

A few days before final grades were posted, I took him to an amusement park. The super cheap kind, inside a city park. I'd done some soulsearching.

Lately I'd picked up a bad habit: I was getting more and more comfortable letting him spend money on me. He'd shown me his world. I owed him something in return.

The park only had three rides, and the Ferris wheel ran for half an hour starting at five p.m.—exactly one full turn.

We'd agreed I'd sit across from him, but the moment the attendant shut the door, he scooted over next to me and squeezed onto my seat, which wasn't very roomy to begin with.

He wasn't wearing his glasses today. Without them, you could see his almondshaped eyes, clear and bright.

The corners of his mouth curved up a little, and he blinked as he watched me. It was too lovely, and it kept pulling me in closer to look at him.

But when I saw nothing in his pupils but my own face, I flinched away and turned my head to the other side.

I regretted watching no fewer than 100 romance dramas all through high school, because now scenes from them were flashing through my head like a slideshow, only with the leads' faces swapped out.

I took out my hand cream. Once I'd rubbed it in, I noticed a pair of hands still waiting in front of me. I squeezed a little onto Tristan's hands.

He pouted. "Ugh, like I owe you or something," I grumbled. "Bring your own hand cream next time!" And I rubbed it in for him. The Ferris wheel crept slowly to the very top.

I closed my eyes and made a wish. That day in the car, I'd actually heard everything. Tristan's mom said she was taking him away to get treatment. I was already happy enough.

So I'd wish him a quick cure. I opened my eyes. And found Tristan copying me, his eyes closed too. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks.

In his white Tshirt, he looked clean and pure as an angel, with a halo of light gathering behind him.

What he didn't know was that the more perfect he looked to me, the more afraid I was of losing him. When you're young, you think saying goodbye means never seeing each other again.

Where was I ever going to find another sweet, obedient, smiley goofball like him?

Before he could open his eyes, I hooked his pinky with mine, made a pinky promise, and pressed our thumbs together to seal it. "Tristan, you owe me a wish.

Don't forget to pay me back." My voice caught on a sob. Tristan was still smiling, only now there was some confusion in his eyes.

He said, "Happy." The next day, his mom asked me to meet her at a coffee shop. Her face was grave.

Chapter 4 I'd once watched a TV show where the heroine's little brother had the exact same traits as Tristan. So I just assumed Tristan was autistic.

After all, the way he acted at school was way too innocent. Everyone had silently agreed to act like nothing was up.

Only every now and then, they'd sneak glances at Tristan out of the corner of their eye. He never noticed.

He'd prop his head up and gaze out the window, like the view in his eyes was another world.

I copied him, propping my head up and leaning on the desk, shutting out everyone's stares. Back then, he and the view outside lit each other up.

Tristan's mom told me I had it wrong. "Tris isn't autistic. "He's just scared of thunder, and that day he accidentally hit his head on the corner of a table." I was relieved.

He was just slow to react, that's all. If you had to put a label on it, Tristan's condition right now counted as a kind of PTSD.

When she finished explaining, she held my hand tight, completely sincere. "Ro, thank you.

The teacher told me Tristan only started changing after he was seated with you." Her eyes shone with tears. "Do you know how happy it made me when Tristan kept saying your name at home?" I nodded.

Of course I knew. In class, some people called me Troublemaker. Some called me RowRow. Some called me the English teacher's little helper. Some called me Ro.

Only Tristan would say my name with extra care, one syllable at a time. "Rowan. Maples." Though sometimes he got the stress wrong, and I had to straighten it out for him. "Mrs.

Ellsworth, I was only doing what I should. Tristan's really sweet, and really genuine. I—we all really like him!" I handed Mrs. Ellsworth a tissue.

The longer it went on, the more this whole scene felt like déjà vu. We ate and drank for a while. Several times, Tristan's mom started to say something and then stopped.

My stomach was in knots too. Finally, right after I swallowed my last bite of whipped cream, she spoke. "Tris is going abroad for treatment.

I'd like you to…" All of a sudden, I understood where that familiar feeling was coming from. My stomach dropped. I'd seen this way too many times.

So many that it just came right out. "Mrs. Ellsworth. "You don't have to say it. "I get it. "I don't need the money. I'll leave Tristan." I should've seen it coming.

Tristan was gorgeous, talented, and rich. He probably even had some fiancée he'd never met.

Of all the Prince Charmings I'd ever dreamed up, not one of them had "rich kid" for a job.

But Tristan's mom froze, then let out a little laugh. "Silly girl, what are you talking about? "I want you to go abroad with Tris. I'll cover all the costs myself." I was confused