Call It What You Want(6)

Rob doesn’t have a plate of delicacies in front of him, but he has more than a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread. I feel like they should be forced to switch. Not just food. All of it.

“Just because they couldn’t prove it doesn’t mean he wasn’t in on it,” agrees Drew.

Her voice drops. “His dad tried to kill himself.”

Drew grunts. “To stay out of prison.”

“Didn’t your dad interrogate him about the suicide? Or his mom?” Rachel screws up her face. “Or … something?”

I go still. I’d forgotten that. Dad doesn’t bring a lot of work to the family dinner table, but he does unload on Mom. They’re not quiet. Sometimes I eavesdrop.

He did question Rob about the suicide.

That poor kid, he said that night. He didn’t deserve to find that.

My family is a wasp’s nest of tension right now, but finding out your sister is pregnant isn’t anywhere close to finding your father after he tried to shoot himself.

I pull a notebook from my backpack and tear a sheet free. Then I write down my name and number and fold it up.

“What are you doing?” says Rachel.

“I’m giving him my number so we can work out a time to do the project.” I sigh. “It doesn’t matter what he did or what his dad did. I feel like half the teachers in this school are waiting for me to screw up again. It’ll be fine. It’s math.”

Rob doesn’t look up when I approach. His eyes stay locked on his book, though there’s no way he can’t see me standing in front of the table.

I’m tempted to fling the piece of paper at him.

I don’t. I slide it next to his book. “Here’s my number,” I say. “Text me when you want to meet. We can go to your house if you want—”

“I don’t.” He starts crumpling up his trash and shoving it in the brown paper bag. “We can go to yours.”

My house features a surly sister who pukes 24-7. No, thank you. “I don’t want to go to my house, either.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He finally looks at me, his eyes full of censure, as if I’m the one being difficult. He stuffs the paper with my number on it into his backpack. “We can go to Wegmans and drop stuff from the second floor. I don’t care.”

He’s so hostile. I hesitate, replaying our entire interaction as if I’m somehow missing something. “Look—I know—I know I got into some trouble last spring, but I’m not a cheater. I really do want a good grade. If you have an issue with me, ask Mrs. Quick if you can trade.” I pause. “Or I will.”

He stands and slings his backpack over his shoulder. His voice is low and rough. “I don’t have an issue with you. If you want to trade partners, go ahead.”

I’m either losing my mind or this is the slickest gaslighting ever. “After class, you literally said you don’t want to be my partner.”

He hesitates. His eyes flick upward. He’s replaying his words. Then he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean you.”

“You—what—”

“I didn’t mean you. I meant I don’t want to be partners with anyone.”

I’m not sure what to say to that.

Rob must decide I’m done talking. He steps away from the table and tosses his trash into the wastebasket. “So, if you want a new partner, go for it.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

And once again, he disappears before I have a clue what I want to say.





CHAPTER SEVEN

Rob

A year ago, I’d buy whatever I wanted for lunch. I didn’t even have to carry cash: I had an automatically reloading account, so I could buy anything the cafeteria offered without even thinking about it.

Today, I’m debating whether I want to waste a dollar twenty-five on a bottle of water, or if I should risk the germ-infested water fountain for the rest of the day. There’s a five-dollar bill in my wallet, but those don’t grow on trees anymore, and I hate taking money from Mom. I hate spending money where anyone can see me. Whether I earn it myself or get it from my mother, I always wonder if people are thinking I’m spending stolen cash.

I mean, I was. Once. For so long. I didn’t know it, but I was doing it.

But today, I forgot to pack a drink with my lunch, and I’m thirsty.

I grab a bottle from the case by the registers and shuffle into the line. I pull my phone out of my backpack and play a brainless game so I don’t need to make eye contact with anyone. We move in tiny increments, shifting forward with each beep of the register.

“Oh, hey, Rob. Want me to get that for you?”

I know the voice. I snap my head up.

Somehow I’ve ended up behind Connor. So much for trying to keep my head down.

You’d think his offer was genuine. Warm, even.

It’s not. He’s being an asshole.

“No,” I say flatly. I have no problem meeting his eyes. His father is the one who turned mine in. Hard to have good memories of your best friend’s dad when you know he’s part of the reason your own dad needs to be fed through a tube.

Connor pulls a twenty out of his wallet. His expression is even, and his voice gives away nothing. “You sure? I’ve got plenty.”

He wants to goad me into a fight. It’s tempting, especially because adrenaline is pumping through me. I could put my hands against his chest and give him a good shove. Send him to the ground. Grapple it out. Draw some blood. It would be nice to put all this anger somewhere. Especially since Connor has been begging for it.