The Impossible Knife of Memory(18)

I almost argued with him about that, but then I remembered that screwing this up meant Dad would get involved and that would end badly.

“I stayed up too late gaming,” I said. “Sleep deprivation makes me cranky. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

He sat back down. “Why do you have such a crappy attitude about math?”

“I don’t. I have a crappy attitude about everything.”

After that, I did a better job of listening and, eventually, the concept of rational functions started to make a little sense. At least it seemed like Finn was finally explaining it to me in English. The library slowly emptied and we both relaxed a little and before I knew it, an hour had gone by.

“Library closes in thirty minutes,” called the aide at the front desk.

Finn started shoving books into his backpack. “Did Cleveland talk to you about your next article?”

“More satire for a column I don’t want?”

“I didn’t get a chance to mention that, did I?”

I stared at the sea of equations on the page. “Do you really think he’ll cut me some slack?”

“He won’t pass you just for helping out with the paper.” Finn scratched his chin. “But let’s say you brought your F up to an almost C—”

“Impossible,” I said.

“Stranger things have happened,” he continued. “I bet a couple articles might take you from almost C into definite C territory. Or at least really-super-close to a C. Couldn’t hurt. What are you doing tonight?”

“Why?” I asked, hackles instantly up.

“Home football game, under the lights. I need you to cover it.”

“I don’t like high school football.”

“Neither does half the team.”

“I thought you were the sports writer.”

“And editor,” he reminded me.

“So why can’t you do it?’

He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Got a date.”

“Nobody says ‘date’ anymore.”

“Corner table,” scolded the library aide, waving her stapler at us. “Keep it down, please.”

We leaned our heads together. His body spray was at a less-than-toxic level.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispered, his lips close to my ear.

I tried to ignore the shiver that ran down my spine. “What?”

“I’ll pay you ten bucks if you cover the game.”

“Fifteen.”

“Done.” He stood up.

“We have another half hour,” I said in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“I have to get ready, remember? Big night.” He scribbled a number at the top of my problem sheet. “Call me tomorrow if you forget how to do polynomial functions.” He put his books in his backpack. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

“How about ‘Keep your pants zipped’?”

“Do I have to?”

“First date?”

He nodded.

“If you want a second one with her, then, yeah, you should keep your pants zipped. And your belt buckled.”

“Do I get to kiss her, Grandma?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On if she feels like kissing you. God, Finn, haven’t you ever gone out on a date before?”

“Millions of them. I’m a world-class Casanova, women on five continents swoon at the mere sight of me, People magazine—”

I held up my hands. “Spare me the details. I’ll see you Monday.”





_*_ 20 _*_

All of the bus windows were open on the ride home, but the air that poured through them came straight out of a volcanic eruption. I closed my eyes and thought about a long, ice-cold shower. After that, I’d eat a box of Popsicles and then, I’d call a limo to take me to the megaplex and I would watch movie after movie in air-conditioning so cold I’d need to buy a sweatshirt to prevent hypothermia.

Except that I was broke, so most of that plan was a mirage brought on by the ungodly temperature of the bus.

The shower would feel good, though. Maybe I’d eat a Popsicle in the shower, cool my inside and outside at the same time.

The bus stopped, wheezed open the doors, and let off another group of bedraggled students.

I didn’t want to go to the football game. It would be safer to ride my bike than ask Dad to drive me, and that meant I’d be sweat-soaked and gross again by the time I got there. And I’d be even grosser by the time I got home. I should have held out for twenty bucks. Maybe fifty.

The bus stopped in traffic, and the sun beat on the roof, broiling me like a cheap steak set too close to the coils at the top of the oven.

A cold shower, Popsicles, and then I would fill the bathtub with ice cubes and lie in it. The books I’d checked out of the library earlier in the week were still stacked on my bureau, whispering my name and begging to be read.

If Finn wanted me to write about the game, then he’d have to find a way to get me there and home again without me risking heatstroke. I checked the number he’d written in my notebook, dialed it, and listened to it ring twenty times before hanging up.

Who doesn’t have voice mail?