“Yeah, love you too,” Eli says, dropping the phone to his lap.
I stare at it in his hands as the call ends, and as the screen goes black and his eyes flit to mine, I know he can see the fury coursing through me. I don’t say the words, but I know he sees them in my face.
Your family is despicable.
“It’s okay,” he says. His voice is calm. It’s also a little tight. “I knew they wouldn’t come.”
I take a slow breath to keep from bashing them out loud, and then tug on Eli’s sleeve to make him stand. “Let’s go the park until you need to go to work.”
“I have a better idea,” he says, pocketing his phone. There’s something mischievous in the tilt of his smile. “Let’s go give Seth and Fred the distraction they want from their project. They’re at Seth’s house.”
With those two, whatever pain Eli’s feeling will be overshadowed in minutes. I grin. “We can be excellent distractions.”
THREE
ELI
Jack doesn’t bring Thanksgiving up the rest of the day, which is fine by me. We do talk about our Friendsgiving, though, with Seth and Fred. The group chat had been active the day before, giving us enough information to make a game plan. We’ll hold it at Gavin’s house on Saturday afternoon. Everyone will bring something, and we need to put it in the chat so we don’t get three batches of chocolate chip cookies and no pies—Jack insists we need a pie, despite the fact that his mom makes three and there will definitely be leftovers of hers.
A spontaneous trip to the grocery store convinces Seth we don’t need a turkey. To start, there are only small ones and giant ones left, and when we see the prices of those left in stock, Seth says he’s happy with a bag of chicken tenders. He gets a bag of those and a thing of barbecue sauce as his contribution. While we’re at the store, we all find what we’ll need.
Jack claims he can make a chocolate pie using boxed pudding mix. In this case, I believe him.
The rest of the day passes pretty quickly, with work at the library and then dinner at Jack’s house, and Monday and Tuesday go by at about the same speed. Wednesday, our last day before Thanksgiving break, Coach comes over to us during Gym.
“Jack, Elliot, when were you gonna tell me?”
Jack looks at me, silently asking what we forgot. “Uh . . .”
Coach runs a hand over the fade in his ginger hair, which he always keeps neat. “My team, throwing a feast and not inviting me. Of all the betrayals, this one cuts deep.”
“You want to come to our Friendsgiving?” I ask.
“Gavin told me about this Thanksgiving party last period. I could make an appearance,” Coach says. “You didn’t come last year, Eli, but I throw a barbecue for the guys at the end of the school year. Many have requested my recipe for oatmeal scotchies.”
Jack smiles. “You bake, Coach Lutz?”
“In the oven and in the sun, Blondie,” Coach says with a chuckle. “I heard this was your idea, though”—he places his hands on our shoulders, leaning forward—“and wanted to say I love it! You’re practicing in small groups, but maintaining the overall team bond. We’ll be stronger than ever next year!”
“Yeah!” Jack cries.
“The Falcons will be ready to fly,” I say.
Coach grins. “But first, we feast!”
He lets us go and heads over to the corner of the gym, where a group of boys are getting a little too rough. Jack retrieves a basketball and bounce passes it to me. “Guess we should have invited Coach Lutz.”
“He’s not really offended,” I tell him. I should have thought of it, though. Coach didn’t come to the end-of-season party, but something like this is different. I know the track coach doesdinners with the team once every month or two. A few of the coaches like to make appearances at team events, just to show they care about us off the field. Coach will probably swing by, hand out his apparently famous oatmeal scotchies, and leave not long after.
“It’s probably a good thing you’re making your beloved rolls,” Jack says. “From the chat, seems like we’ll have a lot of desserts.”
“Keep mocking my favorite and you won’t get any,” I tell him.
“After Mom’s Thanksgiving, you’ll have a new favorite.”
I’m sure that’s true. “McG was impressed by our report, and you know it,” I say, skirting his comment.
“Because you put in an analysis of how hot gravy affects the structure.”
