science,” he says scathingly, following me.
“Science that filled your house with smoke. Which, you know, if you breathe too much of, it kills you. That’s science too.” I inhale some night air to cleanse my lungs.
“I was also smoking,” he concedes, and I notice the cigarettes sticking out of his pocket.
I groan. “Just don’t smoke in the house, okay? It’s a fire hazard. Also a lung cancer hazard. You’re going to kill yourself before you’re thirty.”
“Says the person who walks in front of cars.”
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” I step back into the house, picking up an empty pizza box and fanning some of the smoke out the window. Sherlock watches me, tapping his foot in an irritable, irregular pattern. He’s scowling. “You seem…”
“Galileo.”
“Not what I was going to say.”
“I’m Galileo in prison. I’m a supercomputer in a junkyard. I’m being wasted , Irene. This town is killing me by inches, turning my mind to slush.” He rubs the back of his head violently, standing his hair on end. I make a mental note to attack him with a pair of scissors next time he’s distracted. If he even has scissors. The salad tongs probably wouldn’t work for a haircut.
“Well, at least it’s not making you melodramatic,” I mutter.
“I’ve been scrambling for distractions ever since I got here. You. Ares. The person who sent out that photo, which you won’t even let me investigate anymore.” He paces furiously. “All miniscule puzzles. None worth my time. I need a challenge .”
I stop. A distraction, am I? A miniscule one?
“Where do I buy drugs in this domesticized pasture of suburban bliss?” he asks.
Well, that just took a turn. “Drugs? Like, drugs drugs?”
“No, the non-drugs drugs. Yes, drugs . Cocaine will do. Adderall if not.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“So, you’re saying all the times I wondered to myself if you were on crack, you were actually on crack?”
“Hilarious, Irene. You’ll be a YouTube sensation.” He storms into the living room and collapses into my long-suffering lawn chair. I follow him, switching on the light.
“I’m not finding you drugs, Sherlock.”
“Then you’re bloody well useless, aren’t you?”
I breathe in. And out. A few days ago, I would have just left. Screw Sherlock and his insanity. It’s times like this that he reminds me of a really smart, really good-looking five-year-old.
But I’d decided to be friends with him. I’m a little rusty when it comes to the rules of friendship, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to accept your friends as they are.
And this is Sherlock Holmes. I deal with long blank stretches of empty boredom by laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining situations in which I might die. Apparently Sherlock deals with it by microwaving shoes.
“We’re going out,” I announce.
He rolls his head toward me. “So you are going to find me drugs.”
“If there’s one thing you want to be sure about when it comes to me, it’s that I’m never going to buy you drugs.”
“Goody-goody,” he mutters. “Where are we going?”
I don’t answer. I just take his arm and pull him up out of the chair, and then out of the house. The shoe is still sending up tendrils of smoke as we cross the road. My kitchen light hasn’t been switched off. I poke my head past the front door. Mom’s doing dishes. “Mom, can I borrow the car? I left my homework at school.”
“Sure. Keys are by the door.” She doesn’t look up. “The neighbor’s fine, then?”
As fine as Sherlock Holmes can be. “Yep. See ya.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asks ironically as we approach the car.
I chew my lip. Back when I was a social human being, it was the straight-A perfectionist crowd I hung out with. Mom always said she wanted me to have smart friends. Somehow I doubt Sherlock was what she meant. “Do you really want to be introduced?”
“Not at
“Science that filled your house with smoke. Which, you know, if you breathe too much of, it kills you. That’s science too.” I inhale some night air to cleanse my lungs.
“I was also smoking,” he concedes, and I notice the cigarettes sticking out of his pocket.
I groan. “Just don’t smoke in the house, okay? It’s a fire hazard. Also a lung cancer hazard. You’re going to kill yourself before you’re thirty.”
“Says the person who walks in front of cars.”
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” I step back into the house, picking up an empty pizza box and fanning some of the smoke out the window. Sherlock watches me, tapping his foot in an irritable, irregular pattern. He’s scowling. “You seem…”
“Galileo.”
“Not what I was going to say.”
“I’m Galileo in prison. I’m a supercomputer in a junkyard. I’m being wasted , Irene. This town is killing me by inches, turning my mind to slush.” He rubs the back of his head violently, standing his hair on end. I make a mental note to attack him with a pair of scissors next time he’s distracted. If he even has scissors. The salad tongs probably wouldn’t work for a haircut.
“Well, at least it’s not making you melodramatic,” I mutter.
“I’ve been scrambling for distractions ever since I got here. You. Ares. The person who sent out that photo, which you won’t even let me investigate anymore.” He paces furiously. “All miniscule puzzles. None worth my time. I need a challenge .”
I stop. A distraction, am I? A miniscule one?
“Where do I buy drugs in this domesticized pasture of suburban bliss?” he asks.
Well, that just took a turn. “Drugs? Like, drugs drugs?”
“No, the non-drugs drugs. Yes, drugs . Cocaine will do. Adderall if not.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“So, you’re saying all the times I wondered to myself if you were on crack, you were actually on crack?”
“Hilarious, Irene. You’ll be a YouTube sensation.” He storms into the living room and collapses into my long-suffering lawn chair. I follow him, switching on the light.
“I’m not finding you drugs, Sherlock.”
“Then you’re bloody well useless, aren’t you?”
I breathe in. And out. A few days ago, I would have just left. Screw Sherlock and his insanity. It’s times like this that he reminds me of a really smart, really good-looking five-year-old.
But I’d decided to be friends with him. I’m a little rusty when it comes to the rules of friendship, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to accept your friends as they are.
And this is Sherlock Holmes. I deal with long blank stretches of empty boredom by laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining situations in which I might die. Apparently Sherlock deals with it by microwaving shoes.
“We’re going out,” I announce.
He rolls his head toward me. “So you are going to find me drugs.”
“If there’s one thing you want to be sure about when it comes to me, it’s that I’m never going to buy you drugs.”
“Goody-goody,” he mutters. “Where are we going?”
I don’t answer. I just take his arm and pull him up out of the chair, and then out of the house. The shoe is still sending up tendrils of smoke as we cross the road. My kitchen light hasn’t been switched off. I poke my head past the front door. Mom’s doing dishes. “Mom, can I borrow the car? I left my homework at school.”
“Sure. Keys are by the door.” She doesn’t look up. “The neighbor’s fine, then?”
As fine as Sherlock Holmes can be. “Yep. See ya.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asks ironically as we approach the car.
I chew my lip. Back when I was a social human being, it was the straight-A perfectionist crowd I hung out with. Mom always said she wanted me to have smart friends. Somehow I doubt Sherlock was what she meant. “Do you really want to be introduced?”
“Not at
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