Free Agent Angus by K. L. Denman Page B

know what she’s talking about. I squint at the drawing and am startled to recognize scrawny kid. And his middle finger. “Holy moly,” I say. “That’s unbelievable.”
    Ella shakes her head. “Something is off. I’ve managed to show his anger, but his defiance isn’t there.” She studies the sketch. “What did I miss? Something here in the brow line?” She points. “Or in the way his mouth is twisted?”
    Uh-oh. Angus the Mentalist should have an opinion about this. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. It slicks over the palms of my hands and the bridge of my nose. My glasses start sliding. If she looks at me now, it will be over between us. Someone with half her talent could tell I’m a big fat fraud. Actually, I’m a skinny fraud, but whatever.
    â€œIt’s the twisted line,” I choke as I run away. I disguise the run as a dignified jog. I call another lie over my shoulder. “I think I left a Bunsen burner turned on.” Shahid and I have been friends since we were eight. We met six years ago at science camp. We bonded over a toilet-tissue experiment. We were the only kids who wanted to learn which tissue was the most biodegradable. It wasn’t hard, but it required patience to soak the different brands until they fell apart. The next step, putting the samples through a strainer to see which left the most paper undissolved, was more hands-on.
    The other kids thought our project was weird. They were more interested in fizzing Alka-Seltzer or watching the gas in yeast blow up balloons. Shahid and I were alone in our belief that the toilet-tissue results were useful. We were able to go home and tell our parents which brand was best for the planet.
    Unfortunately, my father then insisted I compare how much bleach was used in the production of each brand and whether they used recycled paper. He peered over the top of his glasses and said, “Consider all variables, Angus.”
    Shahid and I followed my dad’s advice and became toilet-tissue experts. The main thing we learned was that few people are interested in toilet tissue.
    Shahid’s father reacted by signing him up for baseball. That was a disaster. Not only were the other players hostile about tissue talk, but Shahid had terrible hand-eye coordination. He never once hit or caught a ball. His father finally stopped making him go, but only on the condition Shahid never mention tissue again.
    For me, it was my mother who trashed the tissue. She said the most biodegradable brand was no better than using newspaper. She also found it embarrassing. One of her women friends claimed our tissue gave her a paper cut.
    None of that matters now except to show that my friendship with Shahid went through many strainers and didn’t dissolve. If anything, the trial by tissue gave us a solid kinship.
    When I tell him about my encounter with Ella, he stares at me, eyes wide. “You lied to her?” he asks. “The girl who has that strange effect on you? The one whose house you keep making me walk past?”
    â€œI only made you walk by there once,” I say.
    â€œThree times. I’m including the times you pretended we had to go that way for exercise.” He holds up a hand, palm out, to stop me from speaking. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll ask again if my father will adopt you. It’s your only hope.”
    Solid kinship we have. But there are some cultural differences. “I already have a father, Shahid.”
    â€œBut will he find a wife for you?” he asks.
    I glare at him. “How many times do I have to tell you? It doesn’t work like that in my family. And just because I like someone doesn’t mean I’m looking to get married .”
    â€œNot yet. But one day, when you are a man. And without a father to arrange it for you, I fear your chances are very bad.” His shrug is sorrowful. His loose joints make him easy to read.