Free Pull by Kevin Waltman

maybe,” I tell him, but even that I can’t say with conviction. It’s just my default response.
    â€œPlaying it close to the vest,” Fuller says. He says it like we’re conspiring on something. Then he nods in approval, like he’s been down that road before.
    â€œI’m just telling you how it is,” I say. “I’m not trying to hold back some secret.”
    â€œOh, I hear you.” But he has that look like he knows I mean something else. Whatever. Let him think what he wants to think. “But if you need to hash it out with someone,” he says, “I’m here.” On that I’ve got to fight back the urge to roll my eyes. It’s like he wants to sound like a pathetic guidance counselor. He must read my thoughts because he puts his fork down and bugs his eyes. “What? What’d I say?”
    I shake my head. “Nothing, man. Just take it easy. It’s cool.” But when I look past him, now I’m the one bugging. What I see up at the front is the very last thing I’d expect late-night at a grimy place like Sure Burger: Jasmine Winters, a stack of books clutched under her arm. Her eyes look a little bleary, and she’s got her hair bunched up under a baseball cap, but she still looks good .
    I don’t want to just rush up on her. But Fuller sees me looking and wheels around so hard that his chair scrapes on the floor. Jasmine turns, sees us gawking. She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. “Hey, Derrick,” she says. “What can I say? I needed to re-fuel.”
    I figured Jasmine would head downtown, hit up some dimly lit coffee shop, instead of cracking her books next to a pile of chili-cheese fries.
    â€œCome sit with us,” Fuller blurts before I can respond. Makes me cringe. If the guy had any subtlety, he’d wait to see what Jasmine wanted. Or, even better, hit the pavement so she and I could kick it alone. But that doesn’t seem to bother Jasmine—she jumps at the offer.
    She comes over and slings her stack of books down to the floor. I know she came here with the intention of more studies, but she thuds those things down like they weigh five-hundred pounds each. There’s an ACT prep book, a thick novel for her English class, and then a little pamphlet. It’s got pictures of kids of all races, their eyes eager, all of them looking forward like they’re listening to some lecture. It’s got the IUPUI logo on it, but I know Jasmine hasn’t studied herself crazy for four years to go there. Jasmine catches me looking at it. She kicks the novel over to cover the pamphlet.
    â€œHeard you won tonight,” she says.
    â€œAh, we put it down ,” Fuller says. “Dropped Warren Central.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Fuller was trying to act the big man for Jasmine. Crazy move. She might not be my girl, but she’s not exactly nothing to me.
    â€œWell, that’s good, I guess,” she says, a little ice in her voice. Fuller sits back, realizing just how unimpressed Jasmine Winters is by a high school basketball game.
    Fuller checks his phone. It’s probably just a way of pretending like he doesn’t care that Jasmine dogged him out, but then he purses his lips. “Three missed calls from Mom,” he says. “I better bolt.”
    He wads his napkins and wrappers on his tray and then hits it, giving me a clumsy fist bump across his tray before he leaves. That leaves me and Jasmine. For a few seconds we stare at each other in awkward silence. It gets broken by a guy calling her order number out, so Jasmine stands to go get it. As soon as she walks away, I kick myself for not having better manners—I should have got it for her. But before that thought’s even done, I do something else rude. I toe that top booka couple times until I can get a good look at the pamphlet she brought in. It’s from IUPUI all right, and it’s got some