You up for that sushi?
“You still want to get it?” I ask. “You just ate all this food.”
He smiles.You obviously haven’t been paying attention to my lunches. If you say eat, I shall eat. And I can eat a ton right now. So, sushi?
“Yes,pleasesushi.”
We push through the door, and the cold air tears through my costume. We hurry to Wallace’s car; I jump into the passenger seat while he throws his wig and scarf in the back, cranks the heater, and sets off for the sushi place he knows.
“Why do you know so many more places to go around here than I do?” I say. “You haven’t been here that long.”
He shrugs, still smiling. When we get to the restaurant, the glowing sign above the door saysSUSHI.
“Is this minimalist, or could they not think of a name?”
“I ... don’t know,” Wallace admits. It’s nice to hear his voice again. “Honestly, it could be either one.”
It’s late enough that the dinner crowd is dying down, and the post-trick-or-treating stoner crowd hasn’t shown up yet. The inside of this vaguely named place is actually very clean and chic. The hostess seats Wallace and me in a booth, and the walls behind the seats rise up to hide us from our neighbors.
“Fridays are half-price night too,” he says, looking eagerly through the menu. “What do you usually get?”
“Um.” I hate telling things like this to people. “Just California and Philadelphia rolls.” I know exactly what people think about stuff like this: “Do you even like sushi?” “You just get the boring rolls. You’re not even eating the good stuff.” “Wow, you’re boring. What is even the point of you?” “Be more interesting.”
“Oh, that’s an awesome idea,” Wallace says, still looking at the menu. “Keep it simple. I could eat a whole table of Philly rolls right now.”
We order as soon as the waiter brings our hot towels. I wrap mine around my cold hands and melt into my seat. My family always says I have cold hands, but I don’t notice until something warms them up.
“Was the party okay?” Wallace asks. “I’m glad you were able to go.”
“Able to go,” meaning “barely beat doubt back into its corner,” so I guess he’s right with that.
“Yeah. It was ... it was fun.”
Wallace, who has been staring at his hands, glances up. “Really? You didn’t say much.”
“I usually don’t.”
“You talk a lot at school.”
I smile. “Iwritea lot at school. And I didn’t do that, either, before you showed up.”
He hesitates. “How come?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“You’re not super into school, are you?”
“Not really, no.”
“I’m not, either.” He looks down at the table again. “It feels like I already know what I want to do, and school is wasting my time. Like they assume we don’t know what we want to do, so they make us keep doing everything. I can’t wait to leave.”
“Right?”The force of my voice shocks even me. Wallace looks up again. “I ... I mean—yes, it’s exhausting. I keep telling my parents that. I just want to focus on art, and I’ll probably get into college, so why does the rest of senior year even matter?”
“It’s stupid, right?”
“Sostupid.”
He leans back in his seat. “Thank god. I thought I had cabin fever or something.”
