The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(14)

I lace my fingers together and fold them on the table. “Do you deny that you left the comment? You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”

Whatever. I don’t need Dino to confirm what I already know, but I enjoy seeing him squirm. Part of the problem with the anonymity of the Internet is that every troll with a keyboard can spew whatever nonsense he wants without repercussions. If everyone was forced to face the person they were attacking, they might choose their words more carefully.

“Fine, yes, I said it.”

I lean across the table and punch Dino in the arm as hard as I can, which is pretty damn hard.

“Ow! You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“That wasn’t anger,” I say. “That was the mighty fist of consequence.”

Dino rubs his arm, glowering. “I’m not the only one who thinks the new chapters suck. First, you have Aimee and Zach get together, which is ridiculous. They’re best friends and they built the program as a team, and there’s no way in hell they’d ruin their friendship with a doomed romantic relationship. But then, since you’d already screwed it up beyond repair, you had them break up and use the program on each other.”

I wait for the boy to take a breath—it’s like he’s got super-lungs now that he’s tearing apart my work—but he finally reaches the end of his rant, giving me the chance to cut in. “You could’ve said that. It’s a hell of a lot more constructive than the comment you actually left.”

Hector arrives with a tray full of food. I guess there are some folks who order off the menu, but doing so is dangerous. What’s good depends on who’s cooking, and usually the special is whatever’s about to spoil that they need to get rid of. Letting Hector order for us ensures we won’t wind up with E. coli.

Tonight he drops off two omelets stuffed with peppers and cheese and topped with sour cream; French toast; and two slices of what I think are blueberry cobbler.

I lean my face over my plate and suck in air through my nose, which feels weird. Breathing’s not supposed to feel so strange. The aromas of the eggs and cheese and sour cream mingle together, but they don’t quite smell right. They’re off somehow.

“At least tell me Aimee and Zach make up. I don’t care if they’re friends or more, but they can’t walk away from one another.” Dino speaks in a voice that’s nearly a whisper.

“You’ll have to wait for the rest of the book like everyone else.” Only half my mind is listening to Dino. The rest is trying to figure out why this food smells wrong.

“Me and your other tens of readers?”

“Hey, I have over a thousand readers, thank you very much.”

“Well, if you were planning on finishing it before you died, you’ve failed.”

“Not dead.” I stab the eggs with my fork and pull the omelet apart to let the insides spill out. A cloud of steam bursts up, but it stinks even worse. “Does your food smell right?”

Dino sniffs his meal and then nods. “It’s fine to me. Why?”

“You know how milk gets that funk when it’s a couple days past the expiration date? Not spoiled but not great either. Like, you’d use it for cereal but you wouldn’t drink it straight?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s how this smells.” I bring the French toast closer to try it, too, but it’s the same.

Dino takes a bite of his eggs. “Tastes fine too.” But he’s frowning and staring at me and I don’t like that I can’t read him.

“What?”

“I was wondering how you were planning to eat.”

“With my mouth? Like a normal person?”

“You don’t have a stomach,” he says. “Whatever you swallow is going to fall into your chest cavity.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“When are you going to face reality? You aren’t breathing, you look dead even buried under layers of makeup, your heart isn’t beating, though I’m not convinced you had one to begin with, and if anything’s sour at this table, it’s you.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Fine,” Dino says. “Keep pretending you’re a real girl.”

I cut off a corner of French toast, swirl it across the plate until it’s good and soaked in butter and syrup, and stuff it into my mouth. Oh my God. It tastes like vomit that’s been stewing in the hot summer sun for days. Like Angie blended maggots and month-old fish together and threw it on the griddle. But the worst part is that Dino’s staring at me, watching with a self-satisfied grin, and I can practically hear him chanting Told you so, told you so, I was right, I told you so.

“Well?” he asks.

“It’s good.” But before I finish the words, I spit the chewed food onto my plate and then scrape every last particle from my tongue with a napkin.

Dino gags. “Hector’s going to be so thrilled when he clears the table.” He pushes his plate away.

I grab a fresh napkin and lay it over the spit-out food like a shroud. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I immediately look up and point at Dino. “And don’t tell me I’m dead.”

“No clue,” he says, his voice streaked with sympathy.

“How am I supposed to return to my life if I can’t even eat like a normal person?”