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“All right. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you.”
“But if there’s more to it, I want to know.”
“Fair.”
“And if Tova comes at him again?”
“She won’t.”
“You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
The word is out before I can improve it.
He lets it sit.
“I’ll handle my side.”
“Good.”
We hang up.
The whole call takes less than five minutes.
I put the phone face down on the island.
The next afternoon, Tova comes in earlier than she did yesterday.
Same backpack. Same hoodie. Different face.
She closes the door behind her and looks straight at me.
“He didn’t talk to me.”
I set down the knife I’m using on an apple.
“At all?”
“No. He didn’t even look at me at lunch.”
“Good.”
“His dad called him downstairs last night.”
I wait. Tova watches me.
“He told somebody his dad got a call from a hockey player.”
There’s no point insulting either of us.
“Yeah.”
Her mouth presses flat.
