The Impossible Knife of Memory(27)

Topher reached across the cafeteria table and tore a piece off my muffin. “He said he tried to text you a million times.”

“He exaggerated,” I said. “He texted me twice. Then my phone died.”

(I was not about to explain how.)

I’d spent the rest of Saturday watching cooking shows. Dad stayed by the fire, his back to the house. When I woke up at noon on Sunday, a brand-new phone, expensive, sat on the kitchen table next to a note that read Sorry. He came home a few hours later, his arms heavy with grocery bags. I put the food away and made a pot of chili. He watched football, the volume turned up loud enough that I could hear it in my room, even with my music cranked as high as it would go.

I knew that he was waiting for me to say thanks, but I didn’t want to. Buying me a new phone we couldn’t afford was pathetic. His “sorry,” didn’t mean anything.

Enough. Thinking didn’t help anything.

I pulled myself back to real time. “It doesn’t matter what Finn told you,” I said to Topher. “We were not on a date. He’s making it all up.”

“Typical guy,” Gracie murmured, starting in on a thumbnail. “Lies and more lies.”

“Babe.” Topher gently pulled her hand away from her mouth. “You promised you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

Gracie glared at him. “Shut up.”

There was something not-good going on between the two of them. I pretended to study Chinese words for breakfast foods.

Gracie pointed at me. “Don’t you say anything, either.”

“Babe!” said Topher. “Relax.”

Before I could open my mouth, Finn plopped himself down on the seat next to me.

“Hey,” he said.

“Um,” I responded, articulate and witty as ever. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt with the logo of a band I’d never heard of, jeans pulled a little low, and new sneakers. He had cut his neck shaving. He smelled like spice.

“Um,” I repeated.

“I hate it when you call me ‘babe,’” Gracie said to Topher. “I’ll chew my nails if I want. When did you become such a jerk?”

“Whoa!” Topher raised both hands. “Sorry, it’s just—”

“It’s just nothing.” She blinked back tears, got up, and ran for the door.

“What’s up with her?” Topher asked me.

“Probably her period,” Finn suggested.

“Do you have any idea how insulting that is?” I asked. “Do you know how much women loathe it when guys think every show of negative emotion is tied to our menstrual cycle, like we’re sheep or something?”

(From a poorly lit corner of my brain came the thought that picking a fight with Finn about the stupid things boys say about periods when girls are acting weird might be a bad decision. This was drowned out by the next thought, which screamed loud and clear that if he was dumb enough to think that periods were the root of all female aggravation, then I wasn’t going to waste my time with him.)

(But, damn, did he look good in that shirt.)

I switched my attack to Topher. “Did you guys have a fight this weekend?”

Topher shook his head. “Not me. It’s either her period or her parents.”

“It’s not her period,” I insisted.

“Well, she won’t talk about it.” He stole another piece of my muffin. “I took her to the movies Friday night? She didn’t say one freaking word. Didn’t want to, you know, do anything after, either.”

“Don’t you think you should go find her?” Finn asked, motioning toward the door.

“Why?” Topher asked.

“Because you’re her boyfriend, douche bag. You’re supposed to help. See what she needs.”

“Really? I should do that?”

“Yes, Toph, really,” I said. “Go. We’ll watch your stuff.”

As soon as he left, a horrifying silence fell over the table.

I could feel Finn sitting next to me. Smell him, too. It wasn’t just the faint hint of spice, he had definitely brushed his teeth. Maybe used mouthwash. Would that be a good conversation starter, asking about his preferred mouthwash brand?

Probably not.

“So.” His voice cracked and he hit a soprano note. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Right. So when are you going to turn in the football article?”

I had not thought about it all weekend. “Do you really need it today?”

“Sort of. As soon as you turn it in, the paper will have a grand total of,” he frowned and counted silently on his fingers, “a grand total of two articles. We could have an official staff meeting this afternoon and figure what else we want to write about.”

“No, thanks.”

He was fumbling with his container of chocolate milk, trying to open the wax cardboard top. “You have something better to do? A bank to rob? Small nation to invade?”

“Something like that.”

“Will you come to the meeting if I give you ten bucks?”

“You still owe me nineteen from the football game.”

“I’ll make it an even thirty. But not a penny more.”

“Do you pay everyone on the staff?”

“Why, is that a bad thing to do?”