Redeployment(60)

“Calling you a killer was out of line,” she told me, “even if you are an *.”

I smiled.

“You push my buttons,” I said. “Good. You’d be boring if you didn’t.”

“And I care?” she said. “Whether you think I’m boring or not?”

“Did you believe that story in there?” I said. “Poor me and my hard little war?”

She gave me a blank look. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Whatever happened to you, I don’t care.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You asked.”

“I’m not asking now,” she said.

We stared at each other, each of us still.

“What if I want to tell you?” I said.

She shrugged. “Why?”

I took a breath. “Because I like you,” I said. “Because you never give me any f*cking respect. And because I want to level with you.” I pointed back toward Potato Head’s office in Converse Hall. “But without any of that lame bullshit.”

“This isn’t how you talk to people,” she said. “Why do you talk to people like this?”

“I know how to talk to people,” I said. “I can spin you some bullshit if you want. I’m good at that. But I don’t want to lie. At least, not to you.”

“I’m not your friend,” she said.

I put up a hand to cut her off.

“I never killed anyone,” I said. I let that hang for a moment, and once she nodded I said, “But I did see somebody die. Slowly.”

That made her still. Then I said, “I’d like to tell you about it.”

I wasn’t PsyOpsing her into it, so I didn’t know how she’d react. Or if I was PsyOpsing her, since you’re always exerting some kind of pressure even when you’re laying yourself bare, then it was the least conscious maneuvering I could do.

There was a long silence. “Why,” she said, “do you think I would want to hear about it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. But I let her see, in my face, that it was important to me. PsyOps works best when you mean it.

There was another long silence. “Fine,” she said, and motioned with her hands. “What happened?”

I looked around at the sunlight and the college students. Khakis and polos. Shorts and sandals. “Not here,” I said. “This is a sit-down conversation. I don’t just talk about this stuff to anyone.”

“I’ve got to get breakfast,” she said. “Then I’ve got class.”

I thought for a moment. “Have you ever smoked shisha?” I asked. “You know, hookah. Muslims love that shit, right?”

She rolled her eyes and let out a short laugh. “No,” she said, and I knew she’d come.





? ? ?


After classes I went back to my apartment and brought the hookah to the porch. I sat down on my ratty couch, looked out at the street, and I waited.

When she arrived, ten minutes late, I already had the coals going. She’d had a full day to think it over and seemed restless and a little suspicious, settling herself in the chair with the rigid posture of someone who doesn’t intend to stay long.

I asked her if she wanted rose-or apple-flavored tobacco, and when she said rose, I told her apple was better and she rolled her eyes and we went with that. I told her the rules of hookah—no pointing the mouthpiece at anyone, no left hand—and as I got out the tobacco she said, “So. You want to tell me a story.”

I said, “Yes. And you want to hear it.”

She smiled. “Possession of a hookah is against the student honor code,” she said. “It’s considered ‘drug paraphernalia.’”

“Clearly,” I said, “I don’t follow the student honor code.”

The hookah was ready. I pulled on it a couple times and held the smoke in my lungs before letting it out. It had a sweet, smooth flavor and feel, and it relaxed me.

I told her, “You know, technically I didn’t even watch him die. It just felt that way,” and she didn’t say anything in response. She just looked at me, so I passed her the pipe and she took a pull.

“It’s sweet,” she said, breathing the smoke out with her words. She pulled again and let a slow curl ripple over her lips. Then she put the hose back down, pointed away from both of us.