Page 69 of The Man I Hate

“It’s official,” she said. “I’m in love.”

My heart faltered. “With?”

“Christopher. And this book. Oh my gosh, this is wonderful. It’s like a murder mystery.”

“It is a murder mystery, written by a 15-year-old.”

“I love it,” she said. “Let’s discuss the first few chapters, and then I need to get back to reading.”

“So, what do you think so far?” I asked. “Sounds like you’re enjoying it.”

“I find it interesting that Christopher doesn’t understand how people’s facial expressions correlate to their moods, but he can name every country in the world. It’s really cute how he talks to the reader just like he’d be talking to you if you were sitting across from him in the living room.”

“His voice is remarkable, isn’t it?”

“I’m enjoying it,” she said. “Immensely. I like how he said there will be no jokes in the book, because jokes require using words that have dual meanings, and words with dual meanings make him uncomfortable. And that he made little charts to explain how prime numbers are determined. It’s a really well put together story. It’s so cute.”

“Who killed the dog?” I asked.

“I have no idea!” she blurted. “That’s part of what’s so exciting about it. I know it wasn’t Christopher, because I think it would be impossible for him to tell a lie. I also don’t think he could stab a dog with a pitchfork. A pitchfork and a gardenfork are the same thing, aren’t they?”

“I think so.”

“It was also kind of funny that the police made him remove his shoelaces and all the stuff from his pockets when they arrested him, so he couldn’t hang himself or attack one of them with his pocketknife. The way he describes things is so no-nonsense. I’d like to have a friend like him because you’d know what you were getting. No bullshit, only the facts. He’d tell you up front how things were going to be, and that’s the way they’d be. I love it.”

“How would you like to proceed?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked excitedly. “I want to read the book. All of it. Call me when you’re done.”

“Okay.” I laughed. The laugher started a coughing fit. Before I knew it, I was out of breath.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m…” I coughed until the fit finally subsided. “I’m fine.”

“You sound awful.

“Thanks.”

“No fever?”

“No, just a nasty cough.”

“Do you feel pressure on your lungs?”

I did, but it wasn’t terrible. Not worth worrying her over, that was for sure. It was nothing more than a tight chest and a cough.

“No,” I replied. “Not yet, anyway.”

“They say it creeps up on you. You go from feeling like you’ve got a chest cold to having full-blown pneumonia in an instant. I want you to call me if it gets worse.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“If this turns into more than a cough, you’ll be the first to know,” I assured her.

“Okay,” she said. “If that’s all it is, let’s stop talking about it and get busy reading.”