Free Res Judicata by Vicki Grant

was like, “How come?”
    I said, “What do you think I am? Crazy? I’m not giving you my project a week before it’s due! You’d lose it. You’re always losing stuff.”
    She went, “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
    I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I could see my shoulder blades twitch. I went, “Please! In the last week or so, you’ve lost your keys, your jacket, your right boot, the Iqbal file, the groceries, your molar—I don’t know how anybody can lose a tooth and not notice till they get home but, like, whatever—your earrings, your nose ring, your toothbrush, your—”
    Andy sucked in her breath and punched herself in the forehead. “Oh,
beep
! That reminds me. I can’t find the victim impact statement Chuck wrote. You’re going to have to run over to his place and get another copy for me.”
    I was like, aargh! There were so many things I could say. I could bring up the obvious: that this was irrefutable proof she loses stuff all the time.
    I could argue about why I should be the one to run over and pick it up. I mean, come on!
She
was the one who lost it.
    I could tell her I had work to do, and, believe me, I wouldn’t be lying. My project was nowhere near finished.
    But I didn’t say anything. Andy had laughed at the Disco ’Stache guy in the video. That was the first time she’d laughed in weeks. For a second there, it almost seemed like she was back to her old self. I didn’t want to go and blow it.
    I sighed. I said, “Okay. But call Chuck and tell him I’m coming. I don’t want to have to wait around while he goes looking for it.” I didn’t really care if I had to wait around or not. I just didn’t want to act too easy to get along with or Andy’d know right away I was just doing it to jolly her up. That would remind her of Biff and why she was sad in the first place. And that would make her even crankier than she was before.
    Chuck lived in the basement apartment of a building even worse than ours. The carpet in the halls was the color of wet sidewalk except where it was flipping up at the edges and you could see that it had actually been pink once upon a time. People had scrawled stuff on the walls that Andy wouldn’t even say to a rich guy in her worst mood. The whole place smelled like a cross between broccoli and a sick dog. I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. It was the type of place that could sort of follow you home if you weren’t careful.
    There was no C. Dunkirk listed on the doorbells, but the security door was propped open, so I let myself in and went straight down to apartment 1B. I knocked. I could hear music, so I knew someone was there, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.
    Chuck, like, barked out, “Who is it?” He didn’t swear or anything, but you knew he was thinking of it. I mean, the guy sounded like one of the trolls under the bridge or something. Good thing I didn’t bring my billy goat with me.
    I went, “It’s me—Cyril. I’m here to pick up your victim impact statement.”
    Chuck pulled the door open an inch or two, but he left the chain on. It was like he didn’t trust me or something. He looked out at me with one squinted-up eye.
    He went, “What? I gave that to Andy already.”
    I sighed. I should have known. “She can’t find it. Didn’t she call and tell you I was coming?”
    I could tell he was pissed.
    â€œShe didn’t.” That was all he said. No “Why don’t you come in and make yourself comfortable while I look for my copy?” No “I’d be delighted. I’ve spent so much time at yourhouse, hogging the love seat and eating all the good food, it’s the least I can do.” There was none of that.
    He just stood there staring at me like I was personally responsible for the rise in youth violence or something.
    I went, “She