A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

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СКАЧАТЬ “Want a ride home?”

      “Really?” I ask, lighting up. Then I droop. “Oh, darn … I rode my bike today … and I’m not going home now … same as every day of the entire year you’ve known me.”

      “Year and four months, if you’re counting. I rescued you December of sophomore year.”

      It’s no exaggeration to call it a rescue, how she befriended me when I got really sick last year and missed so much school—months, actually—and lost what few friends I had at the time.

      She says, “One day you just might find your tires slashed. Then you’ll change your tune.”

      “As if I’ve been turning down your rides for longer than … what, three days? You got your license Monday?”

      “Those tires are so old, I bet I could pop them with a nail file.”

      “It would make me sad,” I say.

      “Can’t imagine why. That old bike’s a P.O.S.”

      “But it’s my piece of shit. And a family heirloom. But I meant it’d make me sad if the cops catch you. They’ll put you in jail and I’ll miss you terribly. You’re not supposed to give any rides for another … three hundred and sixty-two days.”

      “Speak for yourself,” Declan says, joining us. “Illegal isn’t the same as impossible. I’m tired of walking every day. That’s two hours a day wasted. Ten hours a week. Forty—”

      I shoot him a look. “It takes you two hours to walk four miles?”

      He grins. “I might have added wrong.”

      “Doubt it. Probably didn’t subtract the time you duck behind the library. Though you’re right, that is part of those two hours a day you’re wasting … getting wasted …”

      “Baked,” he says.

      “Tell you what, I’ll look up those words in Urban Dictionary if you actually go inside the library today and look up the word hairsplitting.”

      Declan snorts. “I’m grateful my girlfriend has a license, and a car, and a backseat—”

      Holly stops his gratitude with an elbow to his ribs. She says to me, “Think of the time you’re wasting on that bike. I can get you home in no time. Or work, wherever.”

      “I’m not in a hurry. It’s exercise. You should try it. When the apocalypse comes, I’ll be ready and you’ll be zombie kibble. Come to think of it, you two keep driving everywhere. I don’t want to be the slowest in our band of survivors.”

      When we leave the building, Declan takes a crumpled bag from his pocket.

      “Check it out,” he says when he sees me looking at it. “I forgot to leave it in the car for the ride home …”

      He opens the wrinkled brown sack and shows me a baggie holding what looks like a chunk of sod cut out of someone’s lawn.

      “Gross.” I push it away. “That was in your locker all day? Where’d you even get it?”

      His grin gets sheepish. Holly frowns.

      “Is that …” I say. “I mean, did your mom make it?”

      He nods. “She can’t keep track of it all—”

      “You’re stealing your grandma’s cancer brownies?”

      “Shhh! Tell the world!” He jams the bag under his arm. “She never runs out. My mom always makes more when she runs low.”

      “That’s messed up,” I say. “Although … hmmm … let me see it again—”

      “No way, Mel. If you want any, you’ll have to steal from your own—”

      “Declan!” Holly says through clenched teeth, glancing my way.

      He stands frozen. My grandma Cece died of stomach cancer a year ago. His comment doesn’t upset me, though. Not today.

      I tousle his wispy blond hair—there’s nothing wrong with touching his hair. He hates it but lets me after his blunder. He’s not fussy; it just emphasizes how I’m three inches taller than him.

      “It’s okay, short stuff. I don’t need drugs to get high.”

      Quite the opposite.

       * * *

      I say good-bye to Holly and Declan, pop the crossbeam off my U-lock, and stow the pieces in my backpack.

      “Mel?”

      This is unexpected.

      “Hey, Connor.”

      I’m not sure what else to say. Connor and I aren’t friends anymore, though he and I didn’t fight like I did with everyone else. We just never spoke again after I was out sick. I focus on strapping my backpack to the rear rack of my bike with a bungee.

      “You know what’s up with Annie?”

      The question is odd enough that I stop what I’m doing to look at him.

      It’s a normal yet pointless reaction. Connor seldom looks at anyone directly, regardless of whether they’re strangers, friends, or ex-friends. Right now he’s looking somewhere off to my left. His straight red hair hangs over his forehead.

      “She’s been sick all week,” he says, still not looking at me. “But she won’t let us come over. Zumi tried and Annie’s mom wouldn’t let her in.”

      Zumi and Annie were the other two friends I lost last year—I only had the three. The fact that he’s asking me about them now makes this conversation stranger than anything Annie might be up to.

      “And, what, you want my recipe for chicken soup to leave on her porch?”

      “She texted us today that she’s flying out to see her uncle, I guess the one in Connecticut. That’s weird for someone who’s been sick a whole week.”

      “Maybe she’s pregnant.”

      Connor doesn’t react to this. “Zumi’s really worried about her.”

      I notice the shield I’m holding up when I feel it start to drop.

      He’s concerned about Zumi being worried, not about Annie being sick or acting weird. He and I had that in common. Zumi was the best friend I’ve ever had, and Connor by association. Then Annie and I fought, sides were chosen, and I retreated. I don’t blame Zumi or Connor—they had been friends with Annie first, and it was my fault. Though Annie slandering me afterward wasn’t.

      A car slows to a stop beside us. It’s Holly and Declan on their way from the parking lot out to the street.

      “Everything okay?” СКАЧАТЬ