Made You Up(67)

“The truth. Did you think I would lie to your mom?”

“No, but what exactly is ‘the truth’?”

“Well, it was pretty easy,” I said, annoyed now. “People think you’re a jerk—”

Miles snorted derisively.

“—because they don’t know you, and you don’t let them. And I said yes, you do have friends—”

He scoffed. “Who, exactly? I was under the impression the entire school hated me.”

“The club? You know, the people you hang out with all the time? The ones you talk to?”

“I don’t know what jungle wilderness you’ve joined us from, but they are not my friends. Ever notice how none of them use my name? Even Jetta says ‘mein Chef.’ I’m just the person they’re obliged to take orders from.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I wanted to both laugh and slap him, hard. “I don’t even know how you can say they’re not your friends. Are you trying to deny it so you don’t get attached to anyone? Are you . . . I don’t know . . . how can you say that? Do you not want friends or something? Even I want friends!”

He crammed the rest of his chicken sandwich into his mouth and stared off at the highway as he chewed. The rest of the meal was quiet, me pondering why anyone, even him, wouldn’t want friends, and him glaring, the lights of the highway reflecting in his glasses. We cleaned up in silence, tossed the trash in a nearby bin in silence, and climbed back into the cab in silence.

And when Miles tried to start his truck, the engine clicked.

“I don’t think that’s supposed to happen,” I said.

“No, really?” Miles shot me a look. He turned the key again. Click. Click click click. He stared at the dashboard for a few moments, tried the key once more, then went to open up the hood.

This isn’t happening. A cold chill settled itself along my stomach lining. I didn’t want to be stuck here, with Miles Richter, in the middle of nowhere, at night. You are dreaming an impressively lucid dream, and you will wake up soon, and it will be okay.

“I have no idea what’s wrong,” Miles said, his voice hollow. I got out of the cab as well and shouldered him out of the way.

“Lemme look. . . .” I took a careful look at the engine, trying to remember what my dad had taught me about cars. I couldn’t find anything, either.

Miles leaned against the side of the truck, scratching his head, gazing down at the ground like he’d lost something. Tucker had said Miles was awful with cars, and I thanked all that was holy that this hadn’t happened while we were on the interstate.

“I can call,” I said, flipping open the emergency family cell phone my mom had given me. “Do you know any auto repair places?”

“Do I look like I know any auto repair places?”

“You know everything else, so I figured I’d ask.” I started to call home.

“Car trouble?”

I turned around; an older man, probably in his sixties or seventies, approached the truck with a concerned smile. For a split second I thought I knew him—his eyes looked exactly like Miles’s. Miles clenched his jaw, so I figured I should do the talking. I looked the man over for any microphones or other strange objects.

“Yeah. It won’t start, but it doesn’t look like anything’s wrong.”

The man nodded. “Mind if I take a look?”

I shrugged, and the man shuffled over and stuck his head under the hood.

“Really, though,” I said to Miles, who turned around, looking angry and confused. “If I had that many people as friends, I wouldn’t be trying to act like I don’t like them. And don’t say you don’t, because I know you do—”

“Why do you care so much?” he asked.

I gazed stonily back at him. “Really? You haven’t figured that out yet?”

Deep breath, jaw clench. “They are not my friends,” he said. “They don’t want to be, like everyone else in that school. They’re there because they have to be. Will you drop it?”

“Fine, How about this—you know your mom’s last question? Are you happy? I told her that earlier today was the happiest I’ve ever seen you. That’s a little pathetic, honestly.” I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth. “You could have friends, you could be happy, but you choose not to be.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” he barked so loudly I was sure the old man kept his head ducked out of courtesy. “Who are you to lecture me on being happy? You’re the one taking your pills and all those stupid pictures, hoping the world doesn’t go to hell when you finally slip up and someone finds out you’re crazy. And you’re trying to help me with my life when yours has been falling apart all year? Not to mention you’ve been dragging everyone else down with you—look at Tucker, who follows you around like a dog, and I’m sure you felt so bad about that job, so bad you couldn’t even tell him what you did. So you know what? If I’m an arrogant douche bag, then you’re a f*cking hypocrite, and we’re standing in a parking lot at a Wendy’s in the middle of nowhere arguing about nothing, basically, and—and—” His voice lost steam. He dropped his arms, defeated, his expression was no longer full of rage, but guilt. “And I made you cry.”