“That sucked,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” O. says. “It was perfect.”
“She hates me now.”
“No, she’s scared of you. That’s much better than liking you. You’ve got an edge now.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Girls don’t sleep with like. They sleep with edge.”
Coach appears from the back of the school, and O. and I start jogging again.
“We’re paving the way,” O. says. “When I see her tonight, I’ll make sure she’s moving in the right direction on this.”
My throat clenches.
“You’re seeing her tonight?” I say.
O. shrugs. “Math tutoring. I’m an idiot, remember?”
41. a lot can happen in a millisecond.
Ugo is dancing with Eytan. At least that’s what it looks like.
I turn the corner onto the second floor, and I see them at the end of the hall with their arms around each other, moving back and forth like they’re practicing a waltz.
That’s what it looks like, but that’s not what it is.
It’s Ugo kicking Eytan’s ass.
I’m not seeing the beginning of it. I’m seeing the end. I know because Eytan’s face is red like he’s holding back tears. Eytan doesn’t cry easily. I’ve only see him cry once, when Sveta went back to Düsseldorf last year.
When I see Eytan and Ugo now, I freeze, not knowing what to do. Should I scream like a girl? Run to get a teacher? Rush down the hall and get into the middle of it? By the time I get there it will be over. And then what? Another cage match with Ugo?
I got away with it the first time, but what about now? If a teacher sees me, I’m dead meat. I’ll get detention. Coach will find out, and I’ll be kicked off the team. Then my whole plan is in the toilet. Coach will be pissed, the team will hate me, Mom will freak out, and Dad—
Forget it.
All of that, and I haven’t helped Eytan at all.
This all goes through my mind at the same time. All in a millisecond, you know? And the next millisecond—
I turn around.
I’m not turning my back on Eytan. I’m just turning in the direction of class. I can’t help him, so why make a big thing about it, right? Anyway, there are people all over the place, so nothing really bad can happen. I can go to class, and I know Eytan will be fine.
That’s what I do. I put my head down, and I don’t look back.
I rush to history class and sit next to April. I breathe in her fruit scent. It’s apple today. Not apple pie, but something more subtle. A bowl of green apples, ripening in the sun.
Eytan walks in ten minutes later. His cheeks are blotchy and he has scratch marks on his neck.
“You’re late,” Ms. Hartwell says.
“I had an emergency,” Eytan says, and he looks right at me. He looks at me like he saw me in the hall upstairs. Like he knows everything.
April’s thigh touches mine under the desk.
I’m not a bad person. I’m making choices. I’m putting the team first. That’s all it is.
I’m not a bad person.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
42. thinner.
“What’s the emergency?” Dad says on the phone. “My secretary said you’ve been calling nonstop.”
I can tell he’s irritated. Maybe it’s because I’ve left him eight messages this week to tell him about the game. If he had called me back the first time, I wouldn’t have had to call the other seven.
“I have a game against Worcester tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow…,” Dad says. He sounds concerned.
I look up at the stars on my bedroom ceiling. I remember the day Dad and I put them up. I was too short to reach the ceiling, and Dad had to boost me from the waist so I could stick each one on.
“Can you come?” I say.
“Definitely don’t want to miss it,” Dad says. “It’s just that I’m mid-trial. Anything could happen.”
Dad holds his hand over the phone and says something to someone.
“I’m back,” he says. “So… the game. Will your mom be there?”
“Definitely,” I say.
I don’t know why I lie about Mom. I want Dad to think she’s excited for me. Maybe he’ll be excited, too.
“If she’s there, then you’ll have support,” Dad says.
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
“In case I get tied up.”
“She’ll be there for me.”
“I have to run now, Andy, but let’s stay in touch around this. E-mail me, okay? I’ll be there if I can. I promise.”
There’s silence, neither of us knowing what to say next.
The Dad Gap. That’s what I’m going to call it from now on.
“Bye,” I say just before the phone cuts off.
I look up and Jessica is standing in the doorway.
I’m about to get angry with her for eavesdropping, when she says, “Dad’s a jerk sometimes.”
“It’s true,” I say.
“But what can we do?” Jessica says. She shrugs her shoulders and holds out her arms like an old Jewish man. It’s funny and sad at the same time.
“Do you want to come in?” I say.
She walks in and plops down on the floor. I toss her a pillow so she has something to sit on. I imagine it hurts to sit on such a tiny butt.
I look at her in her giant T-shirt. It’s not just her butt that looks smaller. It’s all of her. It doesn’t seem possible that she could have lost any weight. There’s nothing for her to lose.
“Is everything okay?” I say. “You look kind of skinny.”
Her face turns ugly. I probably sound like Mom, trying to get her to eat. Mom’s got a tough job. She has to feed Jessica and starve me at the same time.
“I’m not criticizing you,” I say. “I mean, look at me. I’m the size of a school bus.”
“You look fine, Andy.”
“Maybe on Elephantania.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the fat planet,” I say, and I point to a star on my ceiling.
Jessica looks up. “Is that near FlatChesty-5?”
We both laugh. Then Jessica says, “I guess I haven’t been hungry lately. But it’s not a problem.”
“If it is, will you talk to me?”
“Maybe.”
I leave it at that. “Maybe” is better than nothing.
“You never told me about the party,” she says. She tucks the pillow under her and stretches out on it.
“I told you it went okay,” I say.
“That’s boring. I want dirt.”
“There’s no dirt.”
“What happened with the girl?” Jessica says.
“Like five million things. I couldn’t even tell you all of them. Anyway, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”
“Because of the game tomorrow?”
Damn. She heard me tell Dad. “You can’t say anything!”
Jessica’s eyes light up. “Can I come?” she says.
“Are you crazy?”
“Why not?”
“Mom’s not going to let you go out alone on a Friday night without a major interrogation.”
Jessica pouts and punches my pillow. She sticks out her tongue like she does when she’s thinking hard.
“How about this?” she says. “We can go together.”
“Yeah. Great idea.”
“If you take me, you’ll have the perfect cover. You can say you’re taking me to a game. You don’t even have to lie.”
“Mom won’t believe we’re going to a game. She knows we hate sports.”
“Then we’ll say it’s something else.”
“Like what?” I say. And then it hits me. “A play.”
“What play?” Jessica says.
“Huckleberry Finn.”
I look over and Jessica is biting her thumbnail. “I don’t know anything about Huckleberry Finn,” she says.