Free Dark Rooms by Lili Anolik Page B

scoops up his, continues riffling through the pocket, pushing aside a ballpoint pen, a folded-up class schedule, the Altoids tin he stores his joints in, finally coming to a bottle of Flintstones vitamins. “I’m trying to improve my eating habits,” he says, as he unscrews the cap. “You want?”
    I hold out my hand. He pours a couple into it.
    â€œWho’d you get?” he asks.
    â€œA Fred and two Wilmas.”
    He leans over my palm, squints. “Those are Bettys, not Wilmas. Wilma’s got the bun.”
    â€œOh.”
    For a minute or so we just chew, grinding the human- and dinosaur-shaped pellets into a sweet, gritty paste that coats our molars and tongues. This is the most relaxed conversation I’ve had with him since before Nica died, remarkable for being so totally unremarkable, both of us keeping it light, staying on the surface. And I’m reluctant to ruin it by dredging up something dark and heavy and out of the past. But I feel I need to speak while I have the chance, will regret it if I don’t. Checking first to make sure that Maddie’s ears are still blocked, I place my hand on his arm and say, “Listen, I’ve been meaning to apologize to you.”
    I can feel him pulling away from me even though he doesn’t move. “For what?”
    â€œFor how I acted at your party this summer.”
    â€œYeah, you seemed a little . . .” His eyes shift, flick off into the distance.
    I drop my hand. “Yeah, I was and more than a little. I’m sorry for what I put you through. I know how creepy what I did was.”
    He sighs. “It was creepy, but, no, you don’t have to apologize for it or explain it or anything.”
    â€œBut I’d like to try because—”
    â€œNo, really, Grace, don’t. It was a rough time. No one knows how rough better than me.”
    â€œFor me, it’s still rough,” I say, my voice small.
    He kicks the leg of the foosball table with the toe of his sneaker. “Yeah, for me, too,” he says, his voice just as small. Then he looks back at me. Our eyes hook into each other, and for a long moment neither one of us speaks.
    And then the spell’s broken by the sharpness of Maddie’s tone: “Jamie, field hockey tryouts are about to start. I’m captain. I’m supposed to oversee. We need to get going.” On the word we, she touches his arm, the bare part of the bicep just below his shirt sleeve, with the short nail of her index finger.
    I wonder suddenly if she’s interested in him. Ruben isn’t in the picture anymore, and neither, obviously, is Nica. And she and Jamie are already close, have probably grown even closer since Nica’s death. I feel a swift spike of jealousy.
    â€œAlready?” he says to her.
    â€œYou said you’d walk me. Are you going to or not?” Without waiting for a response, she about-faces, begins striding across the room.
    He nods at the space she just vacated, says, “All right, okay, sure. Let’s roll.” Then he picks up his backpack, turns to me. “Well, Grace, it was, yeah, nice running into you.”
    And before I can say, “You, too,” he’s gone, has followed Maddiethrough the door. I stand there, staring at nothing until a kid taps me on the shoulder, asks me if I’m going to be using the foosball table much longer. I step aside.
    The line at the snack bar’s still long. Instead of joining it, I walk into the hall, head for the vending machines at the far end, rooting around in my bag for loose change as I go.
    The pack of Wheat Thins has just been released from its coil when I hear my name called. I turn. Standing behind me is a tall man of thirty-five or so. He’s wearing bib overalls, and his blond hair, parted in the middle and so long it touches his shoulders, is held back by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. His smile is sweet and broad, from ear to ear: Shep