Free Know Not Why: A Novel by Hannah Johnson Page B

incredulously.
    “Yeah,” Amber says, like it’s no big deal, like
it’s an acceptable choice, as a human being, to find The Second in
any way attractive. “He’s kind of rocking the whole smart-sexy
vibe.”
    Does not compute.
    “Are you sure?” I ask lamely.
    “No, I’m just making it up,” Amber deadpans.
    “I dunno,” I say, trying to tread carefully. So
super-carefully. “I think he just seems dweeby.”
    “In high school he was dweeby,” Amber replies,
matter-of-fact. “Now he’s definitely good-looking.”
    “You only saw him for like five seconds,” I
protest. “And it was just his side. Maybe he just looks good on
that side.”
    “Or maybe he looks good .”
    “I don’t know, I think he’s weird-looking. He’s
all tall and skinny and like – tall, right?? Don’t you think he’s
like offensively tall?”
    Amber’s staring at me like I’m nuts. “Not even a
little bit.”
    I feel stupidly flustered right now. “Okay,
well, he’s still just like – and then there’s his friggin’
eyelashes—”
    “You noticed his eyelashes?” Amber asks, like
it’s weird to do.
    It is , I realize with a horrible sinking
feeling. It’s weird to notice somebody’s eyelashes.
    “Anyone would notice his eyelashes,” I say,
trying valiantly to fight my way out of this hole and losing,
losing. “They do that thing. You know, that thing that you hate and
always rant about.” She stares blankly at me, like she hasn’t
subjected me to that rant five billion times. “Where he
looks like he’s wearing mascara, but he’s not – or, actually, you
know what, I don’t know, he’s a weird-ass freak. Maybe he does wear
mascara. It’s like, you can’t not look at them. It’s not like I was
looking at his eyelashes. I just … I saw his eyelashes.”
    There’s silence. And It’s All Coming Back To
Me Now playing on the loudspeaker.
    “Dude,” Mitch says, snickering. “That sounded
kind of gay.”
    “Your mom’s kind of gay.” Not a great feat of
scathing genius, but considering the circumstances, it’ll cut
it.
    “Your mom’s not,” Mitch replies, not missing a
beat. “See, I know because I totally did her last night.”
    “Plebeians, all,” groans Amber.

Chapter Six

    Monday morning comes way too fast, and I just
can’t do it. At five to nine, I make the grand effort to reach for
my phone. As I dial the number, there’s this lump in my throat,
this gross nervous feeling. I close my eyes as I listen to the
ringing. After three rings, it gets answered.
    “Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts this is Arthur how
may I help you?” He says it all without pausing, a steady flow of
words. There’s this precise lightness to the way he talks. It
sounds like a voice that should be reading The Lovesong of J.
Alfred Prufrock , it has the right wise lilt, and I realize
that’s a weird thing to think as soon as I think it.
    “I’m sick,” I croak.
    There’s this little sound, like maybe he inhales
sharply. Or maybe I’m making it up because I’m losing my mind.
    “Okay,” he says. He sounds like he feels weird.
Well, good. He better.
    I think about saying something else, for just a
second. But what? ‘ How ‘bout that kissing, eh? ’ I don’t
friggin’ think so. So I lie there and don’t say anything.
    “Feel better,” Arthur throws in at last, with
this helpless awkwardness that sounds so strange coming from
him.
    I hang up.

    +

    At around eleven, there’s a gentle knock at my
door. “Howie?”
    Busted. Playing hooky my second week into the
least impressive job known to man. Yeah, that’s right, Mommy, just
making you proud.
    “Honey, you in there?” my mom prompts.
    For a second, I contemplate pretending not to
be, but then that seems a little too lame.
    “Yeah,” I call, and hold back a sigh.
    She pushes the door open. “Sick day?”
    “Yeah.”
    She comes over and presses her fingers to my
forehead. “Doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”
    “I think it’s a