Call It What You Want(20)

Then again, we were in day care when we were young, because Mom was a graphic designer, and she didn’t want to give up her career. So it’s not like a baby automatically closes the door for Samantha.

But Mom had Dad around to help pay expenses, so they were able to make it work. Samantha wouldn’t have that. DavidLitMan probably isn’t going to write a rent check every month.

Would he pay child support? Would that cover rent?

I never realized this would be so complicated—and I’m not even the one making the decision.

I have a plan to go sit on the bench outside and wait for Rob, kind of an apology for jumping down his throat yesterday, but he surprises me by showing up at six forty.

He’s startled to see me. He pulls ear buds out of his ears, then pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time. “Hey. I thought maybe I was late.”

“No.” I hesitate. “My house is a little weird now. I had to get out.” I almost ask if he wants to get coffee or a soda or something, but it seemed to throw him last night. I don’t say anything.

He drops his backpack on the floor beside a chair, then sits. “My house is weird, too.” No further explanation—but maybe none is needed. He pulls out his textbook. “I was going to do the homework while I was waiting … or do you want to go right to the project?”

I want something other than fetal brain development to occupy my thoughts.

“Whatever,” I say. “I haven’t done the homework yet, either.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Want to get it out of the way?”

“Sure.”

I sit there and stare at my textbook. I can’t make myself care about math when I can’t stop thinking about my sister.

I wish I knew what she wanted to do.

I’m not going to have the baby under the table in the next twenty minutes.

It sounds like what she really wants to do is procrastinate. Or maybe I’m just channeling my mother.

“What’s up?” Rob’s quiet voice makes me jump.

“What?”

“You haven’t written anything down.”

I look down at my notebook. He’s right. For some reason, that’s a surprise. “Oh.”

He sets down his pen. His voice affects a breathy falsetto. “I care about my grades. You can’t slack off on this.”

Checkmate. Hearing my own words recited back makes me sound like a real shrew. I blush and fold in on myself. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll work.”

“I’m messing with you. I haven’t written anything down, either.”

I look across. His notebook is equally blank. His expression seems to match how I feel.

“We have to do something,” I say.

“Okay. I’ll do the first problem and you do the second, and we can copy each other’s.”

I sit up straight. “You—wait. That’s—that’s cheating.”

He hesitates, and I can almost hear the question before he asks it. Why do you care about cheating on homework if you blew the whole SAT?

But he doesn’t ask. He says, “It’s not a test. You can check my work and I’ll check yours.”

This feels like a decidedly gray area. I’m already on rocky ground. I don’t know if I like it or not.

Rob shrugs and looks back at his paper. His expression is closed off again. “Forget it,” he says quickly. “It doesn’t matter. I can do them all.”

He puts his pencil to the page.

I look at my own book. If I do four problems instead of eight, I’m still working. And he’s right—by virtue of copying over his answers, I’ll be working through the problem to make sure he solved it accurately. It’s not like copying a research report or an English paper.

I bite my lip.

I write 2. halfway down my page.

Then I do the second problem.

It takes a few minutes, not including the time I spent hesitating. When I finish and look up, Rob is watching me.

“What? I can break the rules once in a while.”

His eyes hold mine. “I’ve heard that.”

I don’t flinch from his gaze, though I want to. “You were right. We can check each other’s work when we copy over. What’s the difference?”

“Agreed.” He pauses. “Want to do three and four?”

“Sure.” We work through the rest of the assignment. My thoughts are burning for a new reason, but I’m kind of glad for the change.

When I’m near the end of the eighth problem, Rob says, “What makes your house weird?”

I tense, but then he adds, “Is it because your dad’s a cop?”

My pencil goes still on the paper. “What?”

My voice is sharper than I intended, mostly because I was thinking about my parents’ arguing at the dinner table, not what’s in front of me. Rob looks back at his notebook. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No … it’s fine. I don’t understand the question.”

“Is it weird, your dad being a policeman? Is he on your case all the time?”

I shrug and set down my pencil. “It’s not weird. It’s kind of all I’ve ever known.” I pause, thinking of last spring, when Samantha learned about her full scholarship. How I walked into that testing room, thinking I’d never do anything that would measure up to my sister’s success. “Dad expects a lot from us.”