Free Pure by Julianna Baggott Page B

We’re allowed to have some culture. But really, what good would it do us to know how to make a wire bird?” he says, gruffly. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed.
    She says, “What’s wrong? Is it something I said?” He seems to be disgusted with her, so why did he ask her to be his date anyway?
    “It doesn’t matter now,” he says, as if she did say the wrong thing, and he’s punishing her for it.
    She pokes the cupcake with her fork. “Look,” she says, “I don’t know what your problem is. If something is wrong, tell me.”
    “Is that what you do? Look for people’s problems? Try to drum up new patients for your mother?” Lyda’s mother works in the rehabilitation center where some students are taken if they’re having mental adaptability issues. Every once in a while one returns, but usually they’re gone forever.
    Lyda’s stung by the accusation. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this. I thought you were decent.” She doesn’t want to storm off, but she knows that she has to now. She’s told him that he’s not decent. Where is there to go from here? She throws down her napkin and walks off to the punch bowl. She refuses to look back at him.

PARTRIDGE
KNIFE

    PARTRIDGE FEELS GUILTY BEFORE LYDA WALKS OFF , but he’s relieved once she has. It’s part of his plan. He wants the key that’s in her pocketbook. He’s acted like a jerk in the hope that she would walk away from him, leaving the pocketbook behind. But he almost apologized to her a few times. It was harder than he’d thought. She’s prettier than he remembered—her small sharp nose, freckles, her blue eyes—and it surprised him. Her looks aren’t the reason he asked her to be his date.
    He moves so his hands are more behind his back, slips the ring of keys off the strap of her pocketbook and into the pocket of his suit jacket. He pushes his chair back angrily like this is part of the fight and walks off as if to the bathroom, then quickly down the hall.
    “Partridge!” It’s Glassings. He’s wearing a bow tie.
    “You’re scrubbed up,” Partridge says, acting as normal as possible. He likes Glassings.
    “I brought a date,” he says.
    “Really?”
    “So hard to believe?” Glassings says with a joking pout.
    “With that bow tie, anything’s possible,” Partridge says. Glassings is the only professor he can joke with like this—maybe the only adult at all. He surely can’t joke with his father. What if Glassings were Partridge’s father? The thought flickers through Partridge’s mind. He’d tell him the truth. In fact, he wants to tell him everything. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be gone. “Are you going to dance tonight?” Partridge asks, unable to look Glassings in the eye.
    “Of course,” he says. “You okay?”
    “Fine!” Partridge says, not sure what he’s done to tip Glassings off. “Just nervous. I don’t really know how to dance.”
    “I can’t help you there. I’m blessed with two left feet,” Glassings says, and here the conversation stalls awkwardly for a moment. And then Glassings pretends to straighten Partridge’s necktie and collar. He whispers, “I know what’s going on, and it’s okay.”
    “You know what’s going on?” Partridge says, trying to sound innocent.
    Glassings stares at him. “C’mon, Partridge. I know what’s what.”
    Partridge feels sick. Has he been that obvious? Who else knows his plans?
    “You stole the stuff from your mother’s metal box in the Personal Loss Archives.” Glassings’ face goes soft. He smiles gently. “It’s natural. You want to have some of her back. I took something from one of the boxes too.”
    Partridge looks at his shoes. His mother’s things. That’s what this is about. He shifts his weight and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an impulse.”
    “Look, I’m not telling anyone,” Glassings says quietly. “If you ever want to talk, come to me.”
    Partridge nods.
    “You’re not alone,”