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He returns the look. “It’s Tuesday.”
The problem with forging an entire year of someone’s life very quickly is that your fantasies creep in. Maybe you meant to just get in the stuff that you needed, but that leaves a lot of space to fill. I filled the space with the relationship I wished we had.
It’s a little embarrassing now that Barron is standing here, really believing we go out for pizza every other Tuesday and talk about our feelings.
“I’ll drive,” I say finally.
We order a pizza heaped with cheese and sauce and sausage and pepperoni at a little place with booths, and miniature jukeboxes above each linoleum tabletop. I cover my slice with hot pepper flakes.
“I’m going back to Princeton to finish school,” he says, biting into a chunk of garlic bread. “Now that Mom’s getting out. Something tells me she’s going to need a lawyer again soon.” I wonder if he can go back, if he can fill the holes in his brain with law books and remember them as long as he doesn’t work anymore. That’s a big “as long as.”
“Do you know when her actual release happens?”
“They say Friday,” he says. “But they’ve already changed the date twice, so I don’t know how seriously to take it. I guess we should get a cake or something, in case. Worst case scenario: We eat the cake anyway.”
Memory is funny. Barron seems relaxed, like he really likes me, because he doesn’t remember hating me. Or maybe he remembers the feeling of dislike but he assumes that he liked me more than he hated me. But I’m not relaxed. I can’t stop remembering. I want to leap up out of the chair and choke him.
“What do you think is the first thing she’s going to do when she gets out?” I ask.
“Meddle,” he says, and laughs. “What do you think? She’s going to start trying to get everything to go the way she wants it to go. And we all better pray that’s the way we want it to go too.”
I suck soda through my straw, lick grease off my glove, and contemplate transforming Barron into a slice of pizza and then feeding him to the kids at the next table.
Still, it’s nice to have a brother I can talk to.
* * *
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
That’s what Zacharov says when he explains that he’s keeping Philip working for the family, where he can keep an eye on him. People don’t usually leave crime families alive, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
I ask Grandad if he’s seen Philip, but all he does is grunt.
* * *
Lila calls me on Wednesday.
“Hey,” I say, not recognizing the number.
“Hey, yourself.” She sounds happy. “You want to hang out?”
“I do,” I say, my heart slamming. I switch my messenger bag over to the other shoulder with suddenly clumsy hands.
“Come up to the city. We can get hot chocolate, and maybe I’ll let you beat me at a video game. I’m four years out of practice. I might be a little rusty.”
“I’ll beat you so bad your own avatar will laugh at you.”
“Jerk. Come up on Saturday,” she says, and hangs up.
I smile all the way through dinner.
* * *
On Friday at lunch I head out onto the quad. It’s warm out and lots of kids have brought their food to eat on the grass. Sam and Daneca are sitting with Johan Schwartz, Jill Pearson-White, and Chaiyawat Terweil. They wave me over.
I hold up my hand and turn toward a small copse of trees. I’ve been thinking through everything that happened, and there’s one thing still bothering me.
I take out my phone and punch in a number. I don’t expect anyone to pick up, but she does.
