A La Carte by Tanita S. Davis Page A

pull out a fresh one. I dry the corer and then wash off the apples for good measure. For some reason, I don’t want to hear what Sim has to say.
    â€œLaine, what are you messing with?”
    â€œNothing.” I turn off the water and face him, arms crossed. “What?”
    â€œYou know, my therapist would say that you’re looking very
closed
right now,” Sim says suddenly. Steepling his fingers in front of his face and narrowing his eyes, Simeon does his Freud imitation. “Da ist sometink troubling you, Fräulein?”
    I roll my eyes. “Sim…”
    He sighs. “Okay. I need to ask a favor.”
    Simeon’s “favors” in the past have usually been limited to physics notes in those bursts of industry where he actually acts like he has to, I don’t know, turn in assignments to graduate. I have a bad feeling that this isn’t about school.
    â€œOkay, a favor.” 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 isn’t going to keep talking until I’m looking at him. Frowning, I twist around and stare exaggeratedly. “Okay, Sim. I’m
listening.
The favor. So,
ask.
”
    He lifts his chin. No smile. “I’m going to disappear.”
    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. “Disappear? Your family hire the Mafia or something?” Lame joke.
    â€œLainey…I’m…I need to leave. I need you to help me.”
    I stop and frown at him, the apple bits sticky in my hands. I halfway expect some continuation of Sim’s usual antic, some kind of gangster line like, “Things are too hot for me here, sister. I’m gonna blow this joint.” But…nothing.
    I’ve been biting my tongue all evening, effectively putting a cork into any concern or questions. Now they come pouring out.
    â€œLeave? Sim, is…Did you…?” I take a deep breath. “Simeon, what happened? I hear from Cheryl Fisk that you got picked up for possession or something and you’re going to rehab? Is—”
    â€œLainey…,” Simeon interrupts impatiently. “Look. Don’t…” He gestures wordlessly, as if trying to pull out the words from where they hid. “I don’t want to go into it, okay? I’m not some kind of junkie, the police are not looking for me, and no, I’m not going to rehab. No drama, all right? I’m just leaving. I said one day I would. I…Everything just got too messed up.”
    â€œSim—”
    â€œElaine, I just wanted to say goodbye is all. You called; I thought about it; I thought I’d come by. I’m not coming back.”
    The words just thud into my brain. I stand and stare.
    â€œWha—”
    â€œLaine,”
Simeon sighs, and I close my mouth.
    There are so many questions I want to ask. Why won’t 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.
    â€œI finally figured it out,” he continues, as if he’s just thought of this. “My parents are crazy, and they’re making me crazy, and it’s them that’s making my life such crap. I can’t live like this, so I’m not going to. It’s not like they don’t want me to go.”
    â€œSo, you’re just…going.” I’m 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 “me”