Call It What You Want(22)

“We got the sequel in yesterday. Just finished putting it into the system.” He pauses. “If you’re interested.” He slides A Torch Against the Night across the counter. The cover is blue and white, and it’s every bit as thick as the first book.

A year ago, if someone told me I’d be excited to be holding a book in my hands, I’d have laughed in their face.

It’s taking everything I have to keep from reading it right here on the spot.

I dig my student ID out of my wallet so he can scan it.

“So when you’re done,” Mr. London says, his tone implying we’re best pals, “you need to come talk to me. I just finished the sequel, and I have a theory about the cook.”

I have a theory about the cook, too, from the first book, but I still can’t tell whether he’s patronizing me. I don’t know why he’s talking to me at all. The words burn on my tongue.

As always, I stand silent too long. He scans my card, then scans the book, and then he hands it to me.

What’s sad is that I want to talk to him about the book. But with Mr. London, I feel like anything I say should be preceded by some kind of apology on behalf of my family. And I don’t know how to do that.

Ever the coward since eight months ago, I shove the book in my backpack and walk out.



It’s pouring rain outside, so the cafeteria is packed. I hate when this happens. At least I have a new book. I find my usual table and sit at the end. It’s empty for now, because I pack a lunch and most people buy, but it won’t be for long.

Sure enough, after a minute, a shadow falls across my book, and the table creaks and shifts as someone sits down. I keep my eyes on the page.

A snack bag crackles open. A familiar voice says, “You really like reading, huh?”

Owen Goettler. He’s eating a bag of potato chips. An orange sits next to it.

“Yeah,” I say.

“What’s that one about?”

I turn the book around. “I’m literally on the first page.”

“Oh.” He says nothing to that. He eats his chips methodically. One at a time. With a noticeable break between each.

Some underclassmen come and sit at the other end of the table. They’re carrying on about something hilarious that happened in health class, and I lock my eyes on my book to keep from giving a heavy sigh.

After a moment, I consider that Owen is still silently sitting across from me with his sad little bag of chips and his orange.

He must see my eyes on his food, because he says, “So, my plan was to get all the snacks in one day, and then have a side dish for my cheese sandwich.”

“Good plan.”

“Yeah, well, the lady guarding the lunch line disagrees. She said I should have been more judicious with my money.”

He says this without emotion, like he’s discussing the weather, but it lights a fire of anger inside me. It’s not like the lunch lady personally buys the bread and the cheese.

I tear a strip off my lunch bag, and like yesterday, I slide it across the table with half my sandwich.

“Thanks,” he says equably.

Then he reaches across the table and pours half his chips onto the remainder of my bag.

I hesitate.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I can share.”

Not really true, and I’m literally the last person he should be giving anything to, even a handful of potato chips. But I don’t want to shove them back at him. “Thanks.”

He jerks his head toward the freshmen at the end of the table and leans in. “Are they seriously laughing about some kid losing his boxers?”

“I’ve been trying to ignore them.”

“Oh right. Because you’re reading.”

I don’t know if that’s a dismissal or what, but he’s not looking at me anymore.

“Right.” I look back at my book. Pick up the remaining half of my sandwich.

Across from me, Owen keeps eating like it’s a surgical procedure.

I read. He sits in silence. At first, my eyes keep skipping around the page because I sense him watching me, but when he says nothing, I relax and lose myself in Serra with Laia and Elias.

I’m turning page six when he says, “Wait, I wasn’t done with that page.”

I freeze and look up at him. “Are you reading this upside down?”

“Well, it was that or listen to their plot to superglue some guy’s locker shut.” He nods at the book. “It’s not like you’re making conversation.”

I can’t figure this kid out at all. “Do you want me to make conversation?”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

It’s possible he’s completely screwing with me, so I look back at the page.

Which I can’t turn until I know he’s done.

I sigh heavily.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Go.”

With dramatic flair, I flip the page. We read for a few minutes. The chapter ends.

Without preamble, Owen says, “So, your friend Connor is kind of a prick, huh?”

He’s not my friend anymore, but I say, “I think he’s moved past ‘kind of.’ ”

That makes him smile. “We might be the only two people who think so.” His eyes flick past me, across the cafeteria, where dozens of kids crowd around two tables by the wall. Connor is there, standing beneath a large, hand-painted banner that proclaims Athletic Department Bake Sale. A cookie for a dollar. A cupcake for two. He’s taking cash by the fistful from kids looking for a sugar rush.