called Lying Mother-itis.
We finish our soup, and I clear the bowls into the sink.
“I had Drew get your English homework, and Tala got your math assignment; it’s just a worksheet. She said it takes five minutes.”
I run water over the bowls and put them in the dishwasher. “Thanks, Eli. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s really nice.”
“I’m a nice guy.”
“Very true.” I run a sponge unnecessarily over the counters, aware that Eli is watching me closely. The intensity of his gaze makes me run the sponge back over the clean counter.
He says, “I wrote the note.”
At first, I can think only of my father’s letter, of the slim line of text marking him a criminal. Then I understand: Eli’s my secret binder-note poet.
I have no idea what to say to him, to those dark, steady eyes.
He clears his throat. “You hadn’t said anything, so I figured I needed to be a little less cryptic.”
I look at him, my stomach swimming. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Who else would it be?” His voice hints that there is more behind this question.
I shrug, thankful for the counter between us. “I don’t know.”
“Sam Atkins?”
“No,” I answer too quickly.
Eli’s jaw twitches. “You know the guy’s a real jerk?”
I flare. “He’s not.”
Eli picks up his half-empty orange juice glass but sets it down again just as quickly. “In seventh grade,” he starts, and then takes a quick drink after all. “In seventh grade, he put me through hell because I’m half-Chinese. Made fun of my eyes. He’s a total jock prick, Calle.”
I can’t believe that about Sam, not if he’s been through so much stuff with his mom. But “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage. I have never seen Eli so serious, no jokes.
He shakes his soft curtain of hair. “Forget it.” Standing abruptly, he hits his head on the overhang of the cupboard. “Ouch, dammit!”
I hurry around the counter. “Are you okay?”
He smiles, embarrassed. “Sure. Probably knocked some sense into me.”
A large red welt is appearing behind the hair. He rubs at it gingerly.
“Do you want some ice?”
As he shakes his head, I reach out and touch his forehead, just barely graze my fingers along the bruise, but as I do so, he leans in and kisses me. For a second, I let him. His lips are soft, and he tastes salty and citrusy, but as quickly as I’d accepted his kiss, I pull away from it.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t apologize or try to explain it — just looks at me closely, then steps by me toward the entryway. Not turning, I can hear him pick up his backpack and close the door softly behind him.
I sit at the counter and bury my head in my arms. I should have gone to school.
***
Drew sees them before I do.
Under the eave of the library, hidden only accidentally by shadow, stand Sam and Amber. Actually, Sam stands. Amber sort of leans into him, all of her weight cemented into his, so that if he took a sudden step back, she would go toppling onto the ground. I would love to see that — her spilling head first into the pavement. But instead, I watch him kiss her. If they are going to topple over, they’ll go over together. Even by high-school standards, their display is revolting.
Drew agrees. “Get a room.” His voice, though, is anxious, and I know he’s studying my face.
“Yeah,” I manage, attempting to mask my emotions, which is hard because I don’t even know what I’m feeling — anger, jealousy, disbelief. I probably look like I’m going to puke.
“Let’s get out of here,” Drew says, vaguely pulling on the elbow of my sweatshirt. He sounds embarrassed, and I realize that I am literally gaping at them. People are following my gaze and starting to whisper. “Come on, Calle, let’s go.”
I will my legs to follow him, one after the other, until we’ve rounded a corner and my heart stops pounding in my chest. “We should get your fries,” I say, staring blankly at the
We finish our soup, and I clear the bowls into the sink.
“I had Drew get your English homework, and Tala got your math assignment; it’s just a worksheet. She said it takes five minutes.”
I run water over the bowls and put them in the dishwasher. “Thanks, Eli. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s really nice.”
“I’m a nice guy.”
“Very true.” I run a sponge unnecessarily over the counters, aware that Eli is watching me closely. The intensity of his gaze makes me run the sponge back over the clean counter.
He says, “I wrote the note.”
At first, I can think only of my father’s letter, of the slim line of text marking him a criminal. Then I understand: Eli’s my secret binder-note poet.
I have no idea what to say to him, to those dark, steady eyes.
He clears his throat. “You hadn’t said anything, so I figured I needed to be a little less cryptic.”
I look at him, my stomach swimming. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Who else would it be?” His voice hints that there is more behind this question.
I shrug, thankful for the counter between us. “I don’t know.”
“Sam Atkins?”
“No,” I answer too quickly.
Eli’s jaw twitches. “You know the guy’s a real jerk?”
I flare. “He’s not.”
Eli picks up his half-empty orange juice glass but sets it down again just as quickly. “In seventh grade,” he starts, and then takes a quick drink after all. “In seventh grade, he put me through hell because I’m half-Chinese. Made fun of my eyes. He’s a total jock prick, Calle.”
I can’t believe that about Sam, not if he’s been through so much stuff with his mom. But “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage. I have never seen Eli so serious, no jokes.
He shakes his soft curtain of hair. “Forget it.” Standing abruptly, he hits his head on the overhang of the cupboard. “Ouch, dammit!”
I hurry around the counter. “Are you okay?”
He smiles, embarrassed. “Sure. Probably knocked some sense into me.”
A large red welt is appearing behind the hair. He rubs at it gingerly.
“Do you want some ice?”
As he shakes his head, I reach out and touch his forehead, just barely graze my fingers along the bruise, but as I do so, he leans in and kisses me. For a second, I let him. His lips are soft, and he tastes salty and citrusy, but as quickly as I’d accepted his kiss, I pull away from it.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t apologize or try to explain it — just looks at me closely, then steps by me toward the entryway. Not turning, I can hear him pick up his backpack and close the door softly behind him.
I sit at the counter and bury my head in my arms. I should have gone to school.
***
Drew sees them before I do.
Under the eave of the library, hidden only accidentally by shadow, stand Sam and Amber. Actually, Sam stands. Amber sort of leans into him, all of her weight cemented into his, so that if he took a sudden step back, she would go toppling onto the ground. I would love to see that — her spilling head first into the pavement. But instead, I watch him kiss her. If they are going to topple over, they’ll go over together. Even by high-school standards, their display is revolting.
Drew agrees. “Get a room.” His voice, though, is anxious, and I know he’s studying my face.
“Yeah,” I manage, attempting to mask my emotions, which is hard because I don’t even know what I’m feeling — anger, jealousy, disbelief. I probably look like I’m going to puke.
“Let’s get out of here,” Drew says, vaguely pulling on the elbow of my sweatshirt. He sounds embarrassed, and I realize that I am literally gaping at them. People are following my gaze and starting to whisper. “Come on, Calle, let’s go.”
I will my legs to follow him, one after the other, until we’ve rounded a corner and my heart stops pounding in my chest. “We should get your fries,” I say, staring blankly at the
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