Free The Red Book by Deborah Copaken Kogan

you?”
    “Oh, sorry. Sadly, no,” she says. “He’s down in Guantánamo with a client.” The client, Abdullah Amir, owned a profitable chain of grocery stores in Islamabad before his incarceration as a suspected terrorist in 2002. His captor, a Pakistani border guard of meager means, was paid twelve thousand dollars by the U.S. government to turn him in. Abdullah’s children had not seen him for seven years. Danny had been working pro bono, during his weekends off, to try to rectify this, so that Abdullah Amir Jr., now a teenager, would not be so fueled with rage at the U.S. justice system that, unlike his father, he might actually (and somewhat justifiably) resort to terrorism in vengeance.
    “Good for him. Somebody’s got to defend those dudes.” Clover detects a trace of disingenuousness in Bucky’s voice, reminiscent of his mother’s offhanded remark about Clover’s eyes that ill-fated Christmas—“Isn’t that just the most marvelous shade of blue! Are those colored contacts?”—but she can’t be sure. She is reminded, once again, that she dodged a bullet. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?” says Bucky. “I’m dying for a roast beef sandwich.”
    “Elsie’s is gone,” says Clover, practically smelling the dank woodiness of the sawdust on the linoleum floor of that tiny hole in the wall whose siren call lured the young couple whenever it was flounder night in the freshman union.
    “Really? Okay, then, how about the Tasty Diner?”
    “It’s now a Citizens Bank.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “I wish.”
    “Man, fuck Adam Smith.” Bucky had majored in economics, retaining little beyond the basics of what he learned. “What about a cheesesteak at Tommy’s?”
    “It’s a pizza joint now. I think Bartley’s is still around, though, if you need a side of nostalgia with your fries.”
    “Great,” says Bucky. “Burgers and beer on me. Let’s go.” He throws his arm casually around Clover’s shoulder and leads her toward the exit.
    “No,” says Clover, although she allows the arm to stay. “On me.” Saying this gives her an intense jolt of pleasure. Back when they were dating, it was a foregone conclusion that Bucky would fund all meals out, since Clover had no wiggle room in her meager budget for nonessentials. Or even for nonluxury items like condoms. Because Bucky’s stomach, always achingly empty after his daily crew practices, required frequent ingestions of off-campus food between regular meals, he was more than happy to foot the bill.
    “Fine.” Bucky smiles. “On you.”
    The two head up Dunster Street past the new Malkin Athletic Center and the Signet Society, the arts and letters club where Jane, who spent the bulk of her college years writing for the Crimson , and Mia, who spent the bulk of hers starring in school productions, had been denied admission, while Addison, who spent the bulk of her years partying instead of painting, had been tapped for membership sophomore year by an old prep school friend who thought she’d be fun to have around. “I don’t get it, guys,” Addison had said to Jane and Mia, when the club nixed her suggestion to have the two of them join at the end of sophomore year. “I told everyone how great you both are. How good your writing is, Jane; how good your acting is, Mia, but I have no idea what happened!” Jane brushed off the rejection without a second thought. Mia, who was dying to spend her lunch hour digesting both the Signet’s reputedly good food and Ibsen’s transformation of the theater with like-minded souls, looked completely crushed. “No big deal, Addison. Thanks for trying,” she said. Later that night, Jane came into Clover’s bedroom, where Mia was nursing her disappointment in an ice cream sundae, rolling her eyes, claiming she’d just heard from another member that it was actually Addison, whether intentionally or not, who’d quashed any chance of her and Mia’s membership, when she was asked to describe her