the restaurant just as my stomach growls. The only free seat is a striped red booth in the back. I order a huge plate of mozzarella sticks to split—if I eat another pizza I’ll die—and I shovel them into my mouth. I feel like I haven’t eaten in months.
Sherlock, of course, looks around at the other unsuspecting diners and immediately starts analyzing. His version of small talk. “That woman is eating out to escape the meals at home made by her health-nut husband. Want to know how I know? Of course you do. She keeps checking her watch nervously, but it’s too early for a lunch break, and she’s not dressed for work. Her dog’s in the car outside. She left with the pretense of taking it for a walk. The car’s covered with vegan bumper stickers and—”
“Sherlock,” I interrupt. “We’re friends.”
He shuts up as sharply as if I’d severed his sentence with a knife.
“You said you don’t do friendship. I don’t care. We’re friends.” I fit another mozzarella stick into my mouth.
“Hemp,” he says.
“What?”
“Hemp sweater. Present from her husband. She hates it, she’s been unraveling part of the sleeve for ten minutes.”
Awkwardness suddenly washes over me. Maybe I should have waited for the lip thing to go away first. It’s probably creepy to want to erect a twenty-foot marble statue of your friend’s lips. “I mean, I think we could be. Friends. Or we’re going to be. Or I want to be. I don’t know.”
“Is that typically how friendships are consummated? An official declaration and all that?”
“No. But you’re not typical. So I thought I would make it clear.” I fiddle with the salt shaker.
“Do I need to sign something?”
“No—”
“Are there monthly dues?”
“No. Are you really that clueless?”
“It’s a joke,” he says. “People like jokes, or so I’ve heard.”
I grin.
The start of a friendship isn’t supposed to be a momentous thing. Normal people ease into friendship all the time. But with Sherlock, there’s no easing. Only jumping into freezing cold water in the middle of January.
“Thanks for the kiss.” I slurp my ice water. “It was nice.”
“Was it?” he says idly.
And then I’m choking instead of slurping. “No, I mean—it was nice of you. To do that. Even though you didn’t want to.”
“Well, it was amusing at any rate.”
Of course he wouldn’t correct the didn’t want to . Of course he wouldn’t want to kiss me. I’d expected that. I don’t have statue lips. But my stomach sinks at amusing . “Why was it amusing? Did I drool on you?”
“No. It was amusing to see everyone else’s faces.” He pulls an expression that’s such a perfect mixture of extreme horror and fascination that I laugh. Unfortunately, the laugh comes midway through a mozzarella stick, and a piece of it shoots out of my mouth. He dodges and it hits a nearby man in the forehead.
“Decent aim. I’m surprised you’re not better at basketball,” Sherlock observes as the man starts swearing in extremely creative ways.
I leap up. “I think maybe we should leave.”
“Excellent deduction.”
|||
That night, I have dinner with Mom for the first time in weeks. Meatloaf. I hate meatloaf, but she forgot. Tonight, I’m determined to change my relationship with meatloaf.
Though there’s no anger on her face, I’m tense. Sherlock and I hadn’t been called to the office when we’d gotten back to school, so I’d assumed we hadn’t been missed, but it’s possible Principal Collard had told her we’d skipped out and now she’s just biding her time.
“So, Irene,” she says, mixing her peas with her rice. “How’s school?”
I inspect the dining room table. “School’s fine. All A’s, still.”
“No, I meant…how are you doing? Being back there?”
I cut my meatloaf into tiny pieces, and then the tiny pieces into tinier ones. The strain is clear in her voice. She’s not good with topics like this. I don’t want to force
Sherlock, of course, looks around at the other unsuspecting diners and immediately starts analyzing. His version of small talk. “That woman is eating out to escape the meals at home made by her health-nut husband. Want to know how I know? Of course you do. She keeps checking her watch nervously, but it’s too early for a lunch break, and she’s not dressed for work. Her dog’s in the car outside. She left with the pretense of taking it for a walk. The car’s covered with vegan bumper stickers and—”
“Sherlock,” I interrupt. “We’re friends.”
He shuts up as sharply as if I’d severed his sentence with a knife.
“You said you don’t do friendship. I don’t care. We’re friends.” I fit another mozzarella stick into my mouth.
“Hemp,” he says.
“What?”
“Hemp sweater. Present from her husband. She hates it, she’s been unraveling part of the sleeve for ten minutes.”
Awkwardness suddenly washes over me. Maybe I should have waited for the lip thing to go away first. It’s probably creepy to want to erect a twenty-foot marble statue of your friend’s lips. “I mean, I think we could be. Friends. Or we’re going to be. Or I want to be. I don’t know.”
“Is that typically how friendships are consummated? An official declaration and all that?”
“No. But you’re not typical. So I thought I would make it clear.” I fiddle with the salt shaker.
“Do I need to sign something?”
“No—”
“Are there monthly dues?”
“No. Are you really that clueless?”
“It’s a joke,” he says. “People like jokes, or so I’ve heard.”
I grin.
The start of a friendship isn’t supposed to be a momentous thing. Normal people ease into friendship all the time. But with Sherlock, there’s no easing. Only jumping into freezing cold water in the middle of January.
“Thanks for the kiss.” I slurp my ice water. “It was nice.”
“Was it?” he says idly.
And then I’m choking instead of slurping. “No, I mean—it was nice of you. To do that. Even though you didn’t want to.”
“Well, it was amusing at any rate.”
Of course he wouldn’t correct the didn’t want to . Of course he wouldn’t want to kiss me. I’d expected that. I don’t have statue lips. But my stomach sinks at amusing . “Why was it amusing? Did I drool on you?”
“No. It was amusing to see everyone else’s faces.” He pulls an expression that’s such a perfect mixture of extreme horror and fascination that I laugh. Unfortunately, the laugh comes midway through a mozzarella stick, and a piece of it shoots out of my mouth. He dodges and it hits a nearby man in the forehead.
“Decent aim. I’m surprised you’re not better at basketball,” Sherlock observes as the man starts swearing in extremely creative ways.
I leap up. “I think maybe we should leave.”
“Excellent deduction.”
|||
That night, I have dinner with Mom for the first time in weeks. Meatloaf. I hate meatloaf, but she forgot. Tonight, I’m determined to change my relationship with meatloaf.
Though there’s no anger on her face, I’m tense. Sherlock and I hadn’t been called to the office when we’d gotten back to school, so I’d assumed we hadn’t been missed, but it’s possible Principal Collard had told her we’d skipped out and now she’s just biding her time.
“So, Irene,” she says, mixing her peas with her rice. “How’s school?”
I inspect the dining room table. “School’s fine. All A’s, still.”
“No, I meant…how are you doing? Being back there?”
I cut my meatloaf into tiny pieces, and then the tiny pieces into tinier ones. The strain is clear in her voice. She’s not good with topics like this. I don’t want to force
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