He looks away, as if he’s said too much. I’m not sure what to say.
He clears his throat. “If your dad’s not on your case, what is it?”
I hesitate. He’s so forward. And I’m a terrible liar.
Rob tips his head back and stares up at the fluorescent lights before I can say anything. “God. I’m such a social reject. It’s none of my business. I haven’t talked to anyone in months, so it’s like I forget how.”
“It sounds lonely.”
“You have no idea.” He pauses, and he looks back at me before flipping a page in his notebook. “Now I sound pathetic. Most people probably think it’s what I deserve.”
I should say that I don’t think that—but I don’t know what to think of the boy sitting in front of me.
“Do you think that?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He hesitates, then fiddles with the metal spiral of his notebook. “My dad used to say that hard work and dedication pay off. I used to believe that was true. I mean, it worked for him. And then it worked for me, too. I mean, I get good grades. I was great at lacrosse. But then … well. You know. And after it all unraveled, I started to wonder about all of it. Like, was I working harder than anyone else at lacrosse, or was I better because my parents had money to pay a private coach? Is that a weird form of cheating? I mean, yes, because it wasn’t our money to spend. But beyond that … I don’t know.” He makes a disgusted sound, and his eyes meet mine. “Sorry. Like I said. Social reject.”
“You’re not a social reject.” But he is. Literally. “Life at home must be really awful.”
He shrugs a little, but his shoulders are tight. He picks up his pencil and spins it through his fingers. “Is your life at home awful?”
No? Yes? I have no idea how to answer his question. “It’s not like yours, I’m sure.”
“You said your sister’s home sick. Is she still?”
I look at my paper. “Yeah.”
The air between us thickens with unspoken words.
Then he says quietly, “Cancer?”
My pencil skips across the page. “What? No!”
He draws back. “Oh. Sorry. You seemed … upset.” He runs a hand across the back of his neck. “What, is she knocked up or something?”
I can’t speak. I literally feel the blood rush out of my face.
He must see it, because his eyes widen by about a thousand percent. “Holy shit. Really?”
I can barely breathe. I can’t believe I gave it away. “Please don’t tell anyone,” I gasp.
“Who the hell would I tell?”
“I … please—” I feel like I’m hyperventilating. “Please.”
“Chill out. I’m not going to say anything. But … wow.” He frowns. “What’s going to happen to her scholarship?”
“We don’t know. She hasn’t made a decision yet. No one knows.” My throat is tight. My chest feels like it’s going to cave in. He might be a social reject, but he knows everyone involved in lacrosse at Eagle Forge. All he’d have to do is mention this juicy bit of gossip to one person, and it could be all over. “Please, Rob. Don’t say anything. My parents would kill me.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone!” He flings his pencil at the table. “God, does everyone think I’m going to screw them over?”
My heart is in my throat. I push back in the chair, but he’s already looking repentant.
His hands are up. He sighs. “I’m sorry. That’s not about you.” A pause. “But seriously. I won’t tell anyone. I’m just trying to keep my head down and graduate.”
My heart begins to slow. Of all people, he probably is the best person I could have told. He really does keep his head down.
A moment passes between us.
“Project?” he says.
I nod. “Project.”
I pick up my pencil, and we get to work.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rob
If I made a list of all the places I don’t want to go right now, the library would top it.
I sneak in before the first bell on Wednesday, but of course Mr. London is right there at the desk. I can see him through the windows. My book technically isn’t due until next week, but if I don’t return it and find a new one, I’m going to be stuck staring at my lunch later.
I need to get over myself. Maegan told me her sister is struggling with a decision that will affect the rest of her life. I’m standing here debating whether I have the courage to face a librarian.
My father would be so proud.
That thought alone is enough to spur me through the door. I stop at the desk and slide my book onto the Formica surface. I don’t make eye contact with Mr. London. I don’t even say anything.
So brave. I want to punch myself in the stomach.
“Finished already!” Mr. London is reacting like I swept through the doors with unbridled enthusiasm, and a small, dark part of me wonders if he’s mocking me. “What did you think of this one?”
“It was fine.” I’m lying. It’s a five-hundred-page fantasy, and I finished it in two days. It was phenomenal.
“We got the sequel in yesterday. Just finished putting it into the system.” He pauses. “If you’re interested.” He slides A Torch Against the Night across the counter. The cover is blue and white, and it’s every bit as thick as the first book.
A year ago, if someone told me I’d be excited to be holding a book in my hands, I’d have laughed in their face.
It’s taking everything I have to keep from reading it right here on the spot.
I dig my student ID out of my wallet so he can scan it.
“So when you’re done,” Mr. London says, his tone implying we’re best pals, “you need to come talk to me. I just finished the sequel, and I have a theory about the cook.”
I have a theory about the cook, too, from the first book, but I still can’t tell whether he’s patronizing me. I don’t know why he’s talking to me at all. The words burn on my tongue.
As always, I stand silent too long. He scans my card, then scans the book, and then he hands it to me.
What’s sad is that I want to talk to him about the book. But with Mr. London, I feel like anything I say should be preceded by some kind of apology on behalf of my family. And I don’t know how to do that.
Ever the coward since eight months ago, I shove the book in my backpack and walk out.
It’s pouring rain outside, so the cafeteria is packed. I hate when this happens. At least I have a new book. I find my usual table and sit at the end. It’s empty for now, because I pack a lunch and most people buy, but it won’t be for long.
Sure enough, after a minute, a shadow falls across my book, and the table creaks and shifts as someone sits down. I keep my eyes on the page.
A snack bag crackles open. A familiar voice says, “You really like reading, huh?”
Owen Goettler. He’s eating a bag of potato chips. An orange sits next to it.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What’s that one about?”
I turn the book around. “I’m literally on the first page.”
“Oh.” He says nothing to that. He eats his chips methodically. One at a time. With a noticeable break between each.
Some underclassmen come and sit at the other end of the table. They’re carrying on about something hilarious that happened in health class, and I lock my eyes on my book to keep from giving a heavy sigh.
After a moment, I consider that Owen is still silently sitting across from me with his sad little bag of chips and his orange.
He must see my eyes on his food, because he says, “So, my plan was to get all the snacks in one day, and then have a side dish for my cheese sandwich.”
“Good plan.”
“Yeah, well, the lady guarding the lunch line disagrees. She said I should have been more judicious with my money.”
He says this without emotion, like he’s discussing the weather, but it lights a fire of anger inside me. It’s not like the lunch lady personall
y buys the bread and the cheese.
I tear a strip off my lunch bag, and like yesterday, I slide it across the table with half my sandwich.
“Thanks,” he says equably.
Then he reaches across the table and pours half his chips onto the remainder of my bag.
I hesitate.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I can share.”
Not really true, and I’m literally the last person he should be giving anything to, even a handful of potato chips. But I don’t want to shove them back at him. “Thanks.”
He jerks his head toward the freshmen at the end of the table and leans in. “Are they seriously laughing about some kid losing his boxers?”
“I’ve been trying to ignore them.”
“Oh right. Because you’re reading.”
I don’t know if that’s a dismissal or what, but he’s not looking at me anymore.
“Right.” I look back at my book. Pick up the remaining half of my sandwich.
Across from me, Owen keeps eating like it’s a surgical procedure.
I read. He sits in silence. At first, my eyes keep skipping around the page because I sense him watching me, but when he says nothing, I relax and lose myself in Serra with Laia and Elias.
I’m turning page six when he says, “Wait, I wasn’t done with that page.”
I freeze and look up at him. “Are you reading this upside down?”
“Well, it was that or listen to their plot to superglue some guy’s locker shut.” He nods at the book. “It’s not like you’re making conversation.”
I can’t figure this kid out at all. “Do you want me to make conversation?”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
It’s possible he’s completely screwing with me, so I look back at the page.
Which I can’t turn until I know he’s done.
I sigh heavily.
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Go.”
With dramatic flair, I flip the page. We read for a few minutes. The chapter ends.
Without preamble, Owen says, “So, your friend Connor is kind of a prick, huh?”
He’s not my friend anymore, but I say, “I think he’s moved past ‘kind of.’ ”
That makes him smile. “We might be the only two people who think so.” His eyes flick past me, across the cafeteria, where dozens of kids crowd around two tables by the wall. Connor is there, standing beneath a large, hand-painted banner that proclaims Athletic Department Bake Sale. A cookie for a dollar. A cupcake for two. He’s taking cash by the fistful from kids looking for a sugar rush.
I know from experience that he’s flirting with every girl who approaches. Half of them will make a donation for the chance to talk to him.
What a rip-off. Especially since it’s for the athletic department, which is the best-funded division in school. When the marching band has a bake sale, their cookies are a quarter. Even then, they can barely get anyone to buy anything.
The real irony here is that Connor is manning the table. His dad once wrote a letter to the school board to say that kids who couldn’t afford to buy lunch should have to work with the janitor to earn it. He told my dad about it. Teach them a little work ethic, he said.
Owen sets down his sandwich, then picks up another chip and eats it.
I wonder what it’s like to watch other kids hand over disposable cash when you’re condemned to eat cheese sandwiches every day.
And then the lunch lady judges you for trying to make the most of the money you get.
Suddenly I want to give him the rest of my food.
“You look like someone kicked your dog,” Owen says.
I have to clear my throat. “I don’t have a dog.”
My eyes drift across the cafeteria again. I remember those bake sales. I bet they’ll pull in over a thousand dollars by the end of the day. Especially if they set up again after dismissal.
And for what? New jerseys? A few new lacrosse sticks?
“You going to turn the page again or what?”
Owen’s voice pulls me back.
“Sorry.” I turn the page automatically, though I haven’t read the one before it. “What are you doing here, Owen?”
“I’m eating lunch.” His voice lowers and turns serious, an obvious mockery of my own. “What are you doing here, Rob?”
I don’t try to hide the tension in my voice. “Why are you eating with me?”
“Because your mom makes a mean roast beef sandwich.”
“I made this.”
“Fine. Because you make a mean—”
My voice lowers further. “Don’t mess with me.”
Any mockery disappears from his face, and he almost draws back. For one split second, I remember what it was like to be the kind of kid someone like Owen wouldn’t dare speak to. Even the underclassmen at the end of our table pick up on my tension.
“I’m not messing with you,” he says earnestly.
“I’m not going to be some secret path to popularity and hot girls,” I say tightly. “No one talks to me anymore.”
“Okay, for the record, I don’t need a path to girls.”
Oh.
Owen puts another chip in his mouth. “I wouldn’t mind a secret path to Zach Poco, though. Any chance he’s speaking to you?”
Zach Poco plays right wing for the varsity soccer team. His parents own several strip malls in the county, and they’re close with Connor’s parents. I don’t know Zach well, but even if he’d talk to me, I know for a fact he’s not gay. “No.”
Owen shrugs. “Long shot.”
“The longest.” I pick up a chip.
“What about you?” he says.
“What about me?”
He rolls his eyes as if I’m being dense. “Do you need a path to Zach Poco?”
“Oh. No.”
“Oh, right. You used to date that girl with the purple streaks in her hair. Karly or Kaylie or something?”
Callie, but I’m not going to correct him. She wanted us to have a Serious Relationship. You could hear the capital letters every time she brought it up. Between sports and school and interning for my father, I didn’t have time to be serious. Or any desire, if we’re getting down to details.
Then my life fell apart and took serious to a whole new level.
I haven’t talked to Callie since it happened. When Connor didn’t return my texts, I didn’t reach out to anyone else.
None of them reached out to me.
I don’t want to think about the past. “Are you some kind of stalker, Owen?”
“My best friend graduated last year. I have a lot of time to watch people.”
I guess that’s true.
Owen’s eyes glance up, over my head. “Prick alert. Twelve o’clock.”
“What?” I say, just before a hand smacks me on the back of the head.
I whirl. Connor walks right past me. “Heads up, Lachlan.” Then he cracks up.
I watch his departing back. It’s not that he hit me very hard or that I can’t take it.
Like everything else, it’s a pointed reminder of our dead friendship. Something he would have done in the locker room, if we were joking around. Words once said without any vitriol.
Heads up, Lachlan.
I’m striding away from the bench before I realize I’m moving. Walk right up behind him.
I smack him on the back of his head so hard that he stumbles and drops what he was carrying: the cash box from the bake sale.
It bursts open on impact. Coins tinkle all over the laminate floor. Cash flutters out and away from the box. Money goes everywhere.
Connor finds his balance and turns. His eyes could generate laser beams. He looks truly furious. “You asshole.”
For some reason, his ready anger lessens mine. “Takes one to know one.”
“Rob Lachlan!” Mr. Kipple, the vice principal, is storming across the cafeteria. “I saw that. You’ll clean up this mess, right now.”
“You sure you want him to do that?” Conno
r snaps.
Now I want to hit him again—but I don’t want to get suspended. I don’t have much pride left, but I don’t want to be labeled a troublemaker. Mom has enough to deal with.
I drop to a knee and start scooping the cash into a pile.
Connor stands over me, holding out the cash box, waiting for me to fill it.
Hell, no.
Luckily, Mr. Kipple has reached us, and he says, “You too, Connor. You’re not completely innocent here.”
He gets down on one knee beside me. He’s muttering under his breath the whole time. I’m sure he thinks I can hear him, that his words are having some huge impact on me, but my heartbeat is a roar in my ears, and there’s too much gossip going on around us.
I shove a stack of cash into the box, then reach for a couple of errant twenties. They curl in my palm as I grab some loose quarters, too.
“I’m going to count all of this,” Connor says. “Don’t get any ideas.”
My teeth clench so hard I can feel it in my neck. Mr. Kipple is standing over us, and Connor was loud enough that he has to have heard him.
He says nothing. Not the ally I thought he might be a moment ago.
I think of Owen being denied a cheese sandwich. Everything is so messed up.
I put my hand over the cash box and let go of the quarters.
The two twenty-dollar bills stay in my palm.
Sweat collects under my collar as I curl my fingers tighter and reach for more change. I’m waiting for one of them to call me out, to snap that they saw me hang on to the cash, but neither says anything. I chance a glance up, and Connor is picking up pennies. Mr. Kipple isn’t even looking at us. Something across the cafeteria seems to have caught his attention.
Someone had to see.
No one says anything. We’ve lost the attention of the students nearby. Watching people clean up grows old pretty quick.
Connor slams the cash box closed. He makes no eye contact.
Then he straightens and turns away, leaving me standing there with the money wrapped up in my suddenly sweaty hand.
I stole forty bucks.
This isn’t the same as the other day. This isn’t money he refused to take.
I stole this.
I return to the table and drop onto the bench across from Owen. The underclassmen are gone. I thought he’d have been watching the clean-up effort, but Owen’s taken over reading the book.
Call It What You Want Page 7