Free Crushed by Laura McNeal Page B

I’m late,” she said, peeling off her coat, mittens, and scarf.
    â€œJust got here myself,” he said, which was clearly not true. He had a drink in front of him that was already half gone.
    â€œWhat is that?” she said, nodding at his glass.
    â€œChinese beer. Want to try it?”
    She did, and gave him a look of surprise. “How’d you manage to order beer?”
    Wickham gave her his easy grin. “Mr. Wong somehow has the impression that I’m twenty-one.” He nudged the glass toward her. “Second sip is always better.”
    It was true, it did seem better. Sweet, even. She said, “I didn’t think I liked beer.”
    â€œYou learn something new every day.”
    â€œReally?” she said. “What did you learn new today?”
    He leaned forward. “Couple of things. How good a girl can look in cargo pants is one.”
    Audrey blushed slightly. “And the other?”
    â€œThat my long-stemmed study partner is carrying a 4.3 GPA.” He waited a second and said, “You’re not denying it.”
    When, soon after enrollment, the three Tate girls had recognized themselves as Jemison misfits, they’d taken as their defense solidarity and achievement. “We’ll fly under the radar,” C.C. had said. “We’ll be studying fools, and then, when we graduate, one of us is going to give the commencement speech.” She’d turned to Lea and Audrey. “Deal?” she’d said, and both the other girls had solemnly nodded. So that’s what they’d done through the first two months of the school year. They’d stuck together, lain low, and studied hard.
    To Wickham, Audrey said, “It’ll probably sound nerdy, or presumptuous, or something, but Lea and C.C. and I are hoping that one of us can wind up with the top GPA and . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    â€œAnd be valedictorian,” he said.
    She nodded but couldn’t look him in the eye, it sounded so far-fetched.
    But he said, “I don’t think it’s nerdy. I think it’s kind of spunky, actually.” When she looked up, he smiled and said, “And you won’t get any serious grade-point competition from me.”
    It was while they were eating that Audrey again began to think of the physics test. She fell silent. After a while, Wickham, who’d been working hard with his chopsticks, said, “Small thoughts, big thoughts, or no thoughts at all?”
    â€œOh,” Audrey said. “Sorry. I was thinking about the physics quiz.”
    Wickham kept chewing and gave her a quizzical look.
    â€œIt’s just that my letting you . . . It made me feel . . . funny. Bad funny.”
    â€œAh,” Wickham said. “You’re a believer. You believe if the rules get written, they ought to get followed.” He chewed some more and smiled. “It’s one of the things about you I find endearing.”
    Audrey said, “And you don’t think the rules got written for a reason?”
    Wickham swallowed, took a deep breath, and laid down his chopsticks. “Look, the other night I was talking to this taxi driver, a middle-aged guy named John Mokumbu or something like that—he was from Nigeria or Rwanda or someplace, a nice guy with this great cackling laugh—and we were just talking and I said, ‘What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?’ and he got quiet and said, ‘Something that happened to my son.’ His son was a paperboy, and one morning a white kid threw a snowball at him from a passing car and hit this guy’s kid in the eye. They did three operations, but he’s still blind in that eye.”
    Wickham sipped from his glass, and Audrey said, “That’s horrible.”
    He gave a somber nod. “It gets worse. The bills were astronomical, but the newspaper that employed the kid didn’t pay a penny. Why? Because under the law, that