“Sure.”
I take a seat beside her, watching her from the corner of my eye. I know that look, that stiff posture. The way she doesn’t turn toward me when she carefully hands over my cigarette, keeping her face straight forward, is beyond familiar. I’ve been in her place enough times—first at my mother’s hands, and then at the hands of better fighters at the Slaughterpen—to know what she’s hiding.
We sit in the late September sun, the afternoon heat so thick and still that the smoke clogs the air around us. The silence between us hangs just as heavy, more awkward and dark than usual. I debate asking what happened to her face, but we don’t have that kind of friendship. We allow for whatever comfort level the other wants, for the preservation of dignity. I might have told her what happened to me, but that doesn’t mean she owes me the same.
Finally, I settle on the one thing that matters. “You okay?”
“That obvious, huh?” she asks, tapping her cigarette on the edge of the coffee can beside her foot.
“A little,” I admit, taking a drag.
“I just…” She makes a force little laugh sound. “I tripped, y’know? I’m so clumsy.”
“It happens.”
She tripped and fell down the stairs at Faulkner a few years ago. Maybe she is clumsy. If that’s what she wants me to believe, I won’t question it.
“How’s school?” she asks. “You went back, right?”
“Good,” I say. “How’s Olive?”
“Fine. Did you see the football players?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Turns out it was only three of them rotating the whole night. Not as bad as I thought.”
She nods and drops her cigarette butt into the reeking can, then pulls the sleeves of her jean jacket down over her hands. It’s way too fucking hot to be wearing a jacket, and I wonder not for the first time where she gets her bruises. I’ve never seen her at the Slaughterpen, but I’m not naïve enough to think that’s where most girls get hit.
“These people are bad news, Blue,” I say. “I know you asked if Preston has friends, but trust me, you don’t want to get mixed up with them. They’re a lot worse than the Crosses.”
She nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m not tough enough for that.”
“It’s not that,” I say. “You’re tough. Trust me. But hey, I have a car now. If you ever need me to take you somewhere, just come knock and we’ll go. No questions asked.”
“Thanks,” she says, nodding and dropping her head forward to stare at her knees.
I finish my cigarette, thank her, and go back to my house. I feel guilty as I pull out my fancy school laptop. While I wait for it to connect to our slow-ass internet, I go to the fridge, now fully stocked with food Royal bought for us. For me.
I make a sandwich and sit down to work, but the food tastes like guilt and weights me down like a brick. After an hour, I openOnlyWordsand type in the little black chat box.
BadApple: what r u doing Thurs
ThatsLo: nothing but nxt week I’ll b getting ready 4 bye week, baby!
BadApple: that’s next weekend?
ThatsLo: yeah girl where u been
BadApple: so u can do something this wk?
ThatsLo: it’s a school nite
ThatsLo: but yeah maybe
ThatsLo: wyd?
BadApple: pick u up at 1130
ThatsLo: no way can’t stay out that late on a weeknite! Esp since we have a game Friday