None of the Above(40)

My face fell.

“Hey, it’s me,” Darren Kowalski said. “Ms. MacDowell asked if I could take notes for you again. The guidance office added on some stuff from your other classes, too.”

I tried to smile, to brush away the crushing disappointment. Darren deserved better than that. “What’d I miss in English?”

“Not too much. Wrap-up stuff on The Merchant of Venice—people did their extra-credit scenes.”

“Did you do one?”

“Nah. I don’t think any of the seniors did, except for Jessica. She did Portia’s speech.”

The quality of mercy, I remembered.

A blast of cold wind ran through our porch, and Darren stuffed purpling hands into his windbreaker. Feeling the draft, Aunt Carla peeked out of the kitchen and proceeded to bodily drag Darren into our house.

“Kristin Louise Lattimer, are you trying to freeze your friend to death? I’m about to make some hot cocoa this very instant, so please do invite this young man who I’ve never met in, and introduce us like civilized people.”

I sighed. Sooner stop a steamroller than halt Aunt Carla once she got the wheels of hospitality going. “Aunt Carla, this is Darren. Darren, this is my aunt Carla.”

“Actually, I think we met a long time ago, back when I was in middle school,” Darren said. “I’m Anna Kowalski’s son.”

Aunt Carla brightened. “That’s right! The caterer. I always did say that Bob let that one get away.”

I couldn’t tell if Darren’s face was flushed from embarrassment, or if it was the cold, but he came into our kitchen anyway.

Aunt Carla showed him to a counter stool. “Kristin, can you get the sugar for me?”

“You’re making it from scratch?” Darren asked. “Can I help?”

“Oh, no, no,” Aunt Carla clucked. “Just sit and relax, dear. You’re the guest.”

“Please,” Darren insisted. “Do you know what would happen in my house if I just sat on my butt while the women cooked?”

“He can stir,” I volunteered.

“Yes, that is an appropriately basic task for this hapless male.” He imitated a caveman. “ME STIR. USE STICK.”

For the first time in what seemed like years, I cracked a smile. Darren peeled off his windbreaker, revealing a T-shirt that said DATE A RUNNER. EVERY OTHER ATHLETE IS A PLAYER.

When the hot chocolate was done, and poured into our mismatched coffee mugs with a dollop of Reddi-wip on top, Aunt Carla picked up her paperback book and went to go read in the den.

At first, Darren and I drank in companionable silence. Then the quiet grew heavier and heavier, and eventually he cracked his neck and cleared his throat. “So, you doing okay?” he asked, peering over his New York Rangers coffee mug.

“Yeah,” I lied. “I had surgery. For a hernia.”

Darren nodded thoughtfully.

Too thoughtfully?

Even when we were in middle school, Darren had always been a fact-checker, the kid who couldn’t watch a movie without looking up its historical or scientific accuracy online. I wondered how much searching he’d done on the internet, and what, if anything, he knew about my insides.

I was staring at the dregs of cocoa staining the bottom of my cup when Darren said, “Your dad must be pretty depressed. . . .”

A jolt of pain flashed through my body, laced with disappointment and anger. Why was everyone so fixated on how crushed my dad must be about my diagnosis? I opened my mouth to tell Darren off, but before I could say anything, he continued. “I mean, the Rangers are totally tanking this year. That goalie they have? It’d be more effective if they put pads on a chimpanzee and stuck him in the net.”

Hockey! He was talking about hockey. I almost laughed out loud.

“Are you still an Islanders fan?” My relief made me punchy. “Wasn’t it the twentieth century the last time they made the playoffs?”

“Hey, it’s all part of their grand plan. Suck for a few years, get a bunch of lottery picks in the draft.”

“Do you still play?” I had a vague memory of freezing my butt off in a rink or two while our parents were dating.

“Nah. When you get to travel league, it gets pretty expensive. And once my center of gravity got really high I didn’t have the speed to be a good defenseman.”

We bantered back and forth for a little longer until Darren looked at his watch and frowned.

“I’d better get going,” he said, picking up our cups to take them to the sink. “I’ve got to pick up Becky. I’m sure you’ve got other plans, too.”

I couldn’t imagine where he thought I’d be going, dressed in warm-up pants and an old track T-shirt, with hair that hadn’t been washed in three days, but I nodded anyway. “So you’re still going out with Jessica Riley’s sister?”

“Yeah.” Darren blushed a little, and I felt an odd wistfulness.

“Well, have a good time.”

After Darren left, I was channel flipping in our living room when Aunt Carla peeked her head in. She had her handbag over her shoulder, and a fresh coat of magenta lipstick that was about three shades too dark for her pale winter skin.

“Well, I’m glad to see you up and about, dear. I wanted to tell you that I have a casserole in the oven that should be ready by the time your father gets home.”