pull out a fresh one. I dry the corer and then wash off the apples for good measure. For some reason, I donât want to hear what Sim has to say.
âLaine, what are you messing with?â
âNothing.â I turn off the water and face him, arms crossed. âWhat?â
âYou know, my therapist would say that youâre looking very
closed
right now,â Sim says suddenly. Steepling his fingers in front of his face and narrowing his eyes, Simeon does his Freud imitation. âDa ist sometink troubling you, Fräulein?â
I roll my eyes. âSimâ¦â
He sighs. âOkay. I need to ask a favor.â
Simeonâs âfavorsâ in the past have usually been limited to physics notes in those bursts of industry where he actually acts like he has to, I donât know, turn in assignments to graduate. I have a bad feeling that this isnât about school.
âOkay, a favor.â I turn a little away from him, grab the corer, and sink it with a satisfying thunk into an apple. I may as well keep going on dessert.
I core the second apple before I realize that Sim isnât going to keep talking until Iâm looking at him. Frowning, I twist around and stare exaggeratedly. âOkay, Sim. Iâm
listening.
The favor. So,
ask.
â
He lifts his chin. No smile. âIâm going to disappear.â
I put down the apple, work on clearing the seeds and pith from the corer. I try to keep my voice level to combat the jump my stomach just took. âDisappear? Your family hire the Mafia or something?â Lame joke.
âLaineyâ¦Iâmâ¦I need to leave. I need you to help me.â
I stop and frown at him, the apple bits sticky in my hands. I halfway expect some continuation of Simâs usual antic, some kind of gangster line like, âThings are too hot for me here, sister. Iâm gonna blow this joint.â Butâ¦nothing.
Iâve been biting my tongue all evening, effectively putting a cork into any concern or questions. Now they come pouring out.
âLeave? Sim, isâ¦Did youâ¦?â I take a deep breath. âSimeon, what happened? I hear from Cheryl Fisk that you got picked up for possession or something and youâre going to rehab? Isââ
âLaineyâ¦,â Simeon interrupts impatiently. âLook. Donâtâ¦â He gestures wordlessly, as if trying to pull out the words from where they hid. âI donât want to go into it, okay? Iâm not some kind of junkie, the police are not looking for me, and no, Iâm not going to rehab. No drama, all right? Iâm just leaving. I said one day I would. Iâ¦Everything just got too messed up.â
âSimââ
âElaine, I just wanted to say goodbye is all. You called; I thought about it; I thought Iâd come by. Iâm not coming back.â
The words just thud into my brain. I stand and stare.
âWhaââ
âLaine,â
Simeon sighs, and I close my mouth.
There are so many questions I want to ask. Why wonât he let me ask them?
The apples are turning brown. I finish them, then methodically gather the bits of apple core, put them into the counter composting bin, and rinse my hands. I set the apples in their identical little glass bowls and am halfway to filling them with cardamom and granola before Simeon speaks again.
âI finally figured it out,â he continues, as if heâs just thought of this. âMy parents are crazy, and theyâre making me crazy, and itâs them thatâs making my life such crap. I canât live like this, so Iâm not going to. Itâs not like they donât want me to go.â
âSo, youâre justâ¦going.â Iâm having a hard time making sense of the thoughts in my head. The
What about me?
that I keep hearing wailing up from my heart I smother in favor of common sense, the voice in my head. This is Simeon. There is no âmeâ
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