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Ginger Fox Part 4

I drop my backpack on the bed, place my suitcase beside the nightstand, and look at the beautiful, plush red carpet spread across the floor. I glance back at the open bathroom door and am pleasantly surprised to see a bathtub inside, which raises my opinion of spending nights here.

“Your room connects to Jon’s, separated only by a door,” she says, moving to the right and opening the other door. I walk over with her.

If I thought my room was dark and lifeless, Jon’s room shows what is truly lonely and empty. The room has a small single bed in the corner, near the wall, with a sheet stretched so smooth it looks like it was just ironed; the blankets are neatly folded at the foot of the bed; and a polished dresser with nothing on top but a comb completes the room’s look. For a thirteen-year-old boy, this room has nothing that seems to belong to him—no toys scattered on the floor, no sneakers or clothes lying around, no signs of happiness. The room is meticulously arranged, with gray curtains. If I were told it was a recruit's quarters rather than a child's bedroom, I would believe it.

“Jon must be in the bathroom. One moment, please?” Lorane moves quickly, knocking on the door. Receiving no answer, she opens the door and finds the bathroom empty. Her eyes shift to her gold watch, and her expression tightens. “He must be in the library…”

At the exact moment she says this, the main door of the room opens, and I see a thin boy with a delicate face entering distractedly with headphones on. His colorful hair, in a shimmering blue, highlights his pale skin, giving him an almost anemic look. The sudden change in his expression from distracted to withdrawn is obvious when he sees us in his room. His long fingers pull the headphones off, pushing them around his neck, and he looks back at the floor.

“You’re late,” Lorane says authoritatively, in a normal tone but with clear disapproval. “This is Miss Fox, your new companion.”

Jon is a skinny boy who gives me the impression that he might break if I hugged him. His black long-sleeve shirt hides his arms, leaving only his fingertips exposed, paired with black sweatpants. For a thirteen-year-old, he could easily pass for fifteen; he is tall and slender. I notice his sneakers, which are the same model as mine, except mine are worn out and nearly retired, while his look like they were just taken out of the box.

“Hello, Jon, I’m Ginger... You can call me Gim.” I smile, walk towards him, and extend my hand.

But his eyes momentarily shift to the woman standing behind me. Jon pulls his arms back, raises his hands again, and puts the headphones back on.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Lorane says, passing by me and stopping next to him.

Jon lowers his face, his eyes fixed on his sneakers. She kisses his head and turns to me as she approaches the door.

“Dinner is served at seven. Jon will show you where the dining room is.”

“Of course.” I place my fingers in the back pocket of my pants, giving a slight shift in my body, shifting my weight from one leg to the other.

Lorane exits quickly, closing the door behind her. The silent boy walks apathetically around the room and sits on the edge of the bed. I follow his sluggish movements as he clasps his fingers between his legs, almost like watching a delicate statue. I must admit, Jon isn’t what I expected—not because of his clothes or hair, but the fact that a young person entering adolescence needs a companion intrigues me.

“So, Jon, what do you like to do?” I get no response, not even a glance. “I also like music. What are you listening to now?”

I take two steps and stop near him, but freeze when I see him shrink even more, as if I were some sort of threat. His breathing quickens, making his chest rise and fall rapidly. I let out a sigh, realizing that this won’t be anything like I expected. Typically, boys his age are lively, like to chat, and show off their games; they are more active. Jon, for sure, is not like that. I move away from him and sit on the other end of the bed. I look down at my old sneakers, tap my feet slowly, and press my fingers into the mattress.

“What am I doing here, Jon?” I speak more to myself than to him. I turn my face to the silent boy and am surprised to catch his eyes on me. “You know, when I was your age, I didn’t like meeting new people, and whenever guests came to my house, I would wear headphones, even if I wasn’t listening to anything, so they wouldn’t talk to me so much.” He blinks slowly. I know he’s not hearing anything because his headphones are high-tech; if they were at maximum volume, there should be at least some low sound coming through.

He’s listening to me, just doesn’t want to speak. I reach into my back pocket, pull out the thin headphones, and hold them up to his eye level.

“Actually, I still do that when I go out or when I don’t want to talk to anyone.” And there it is, what I was looking for: a small smile blooms at the corner of his mouth, sharing with me his little secret.

I wink at Jon in camaraderie, adjusting each earbud into my ears. I pull out my phone from the other pocket, connect it to the audio jack, and set it next to the bed, simply sitting in silence with Jon.

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