Free Know Not Why: A Novel by Hannah Johnson

to me. “What next?”
    I check the list. Don’t drum on the list. Just
check the list. “Cereal.”
    “What kind?” Amber asks.
    And it’s just, I don’t know, it suddenly seems
like this incredibly good question .
    “I don’t know,” I reply, staring down at my
mom’s messy cursive. It’s like it’s mocking me with its vagueness. Cereal. “She didn’t say. I guess she expects me to be
psychic.”
    “Or maybe she’s just not feeling picky,” Amber
counters.
    “Still,” I say, and god dammit , I really
want to drum my stupid fingers against the stupid list. “She could
have at least specified. ‘Cereal’ – what is that? That could mean
anything! That could mean Cheerios, that could mean Captain
Crunch—”
    “ Nice. ” (Mitch.)
    “—that could mean Malto-frickin’-Meal.”
    “Or Poptarts.” (Still Mitch.)
    “Poptarts aren’t a cereal, Mitchell.”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “No. They’re just not .”
    “Oh, fine.”
    Amber looks at me with her most piercing of
gazes. “What’s up with you today?”
    Right. Maybe that got a little weird. Maybe
people aren’t usually so passionate about cereal. In an ideal
world, they would be. Cereal matters. Balanced breakfasts matter . But apparently it’s uncool to show any sort of
concern about this very real issue, because Amber’s looking at me
like she knows something’s up, and while Freaking Out About Cereal
doesn’t lead one right to Yesterday I Had An Encounter With A Guy
That Was Maybe A Little Unusual, I still realize I need to chill.
And so I set the list down in the shopping cart, right on the
little baby seat, and I ask, “Whaddya mean?”
    “You’re acting really weird,” Amber says. “Ever
since you picked me up. You’re all high-strung.”
    “I’m not high-strung,” I protest.
    “You are,” Amber insists. Why is she my friend
again? “You seem like you’re going to start freaking out all over
the place any second.”
    “I do not,” I say, looking to Mitch for
solidarity. Hos be crazy, brutha, that whole thing.
    But then what Mitch does is squint thoughtfully
at me and say, “Yeah, sort of.”
    What? What ? Et tu, Mitchman.
    “Spill,” Amber orders, forgetting our quest for
cereal. “Did something else happen with Kristy?” There’s a pause,
just long enough for her expression to turn horrified. “You didn’t
try something with her anyway, did you? God, Howie—”
    “No! What do you think I am, nuts?”

    “Yeah,” Amber replies, not even trying to be
delicate about it. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. Are
you still upset about it, then? Is that it?”
    “No,” I reply, and it’s almost like I’m not even
lying. “I’m over it.”
    “Clearly you’re not.”
    Seriously, what does she want from me??
    “Okay, fine,” I say sharply. “I’m not over it.
I’m still really pissed off. I thought she was great, I thought she
was this really great, hot girl, and I thought I was gonna get to
have sex with her, and I didn’t, and I never get to, and that
sucks. Because I really just wanted to tap that like a spine. And
now I can’t. So. Yeah. I’m having some feelings.”
    Amber’s quiet for a really long time.
    “Tap that like a spine,” she repeats,
doubtful.
    “I said what I said,” I reply obstinately.
    “Tough luck, man,” Mitch says. He gives me a
reassuring knock on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some Poptarts.”
    “Poptarts are not the answer to our horny, sick,
sad friend’s problems,” Amber says, admonishing Mitch with a Level
3 Amber Glare. A normal person would be driven to shudder in fear;
Mitch kinda just looks at her.
    “Amber,” he says imploringly, “the s’more
kind .”
    Amber eyes me, this ‘there’s no way you’re gonna
fall for this, right?’ look.
    I stare back, then conclude, truthfully,
“Poptarts are awesome.”
    “Okay,” Amber says, pushing the cart forward
with sudden, scary fervor. “You guys are idiots.”
    I’m feeling a little