understand. Oh, parabolas, why must your formulas elude me so?
“That looks nutritious.”
I look up to see Asha sitting across from me. She has a brown-paper-bag lunch spread out in front of her: a diagonally cut peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a little bag of crackers, some apple slices and a can of iced tea, along with her knitting.
I have no idea how long she’s been sitting there. Did I really get that absorbed in my geometry homework? Wonders, they will never cease.
Asha sees my look and casts her gaze down at the tabletop. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can go if you want.”
She pushes her chair back and stands, but I shake my head, motion for her to sit down and close my textbook. Parabolas can wait. Asha beams, sitting again and unwrapping her sandwich.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I gesture to my homework and point a finger gun to my temple.
She grins. “Having some trouble, I take it?”
I pull out my whiteboard and write, Only always , and she laughs.
“You know, I could help you with it sometime,” she says. “I’m pretty good with numbers.”
I am more than willing to use this reluctant camaraderie to my benefit. Maybe I can get a good math grade out of it. That’d be something.
You free after school?
Asha makes an apologetic face. “Can’t. I have to work,” she explains. But then her eyes brighten. “Hey, why don’t you come with me? Thursdays are slow anyway, and I get a break, so I could help you out. And I bet I can get you a free sandwich. Sam makes amazing tuna melts. I mean, I haven’t tried them because I’m vegetarian, but everyone says they’re awesome.”
What about your boss?
“Dex won’t care, trust me. He’s really laid-back. You’d like him.”
I consider my options. Hanging out at a diner does sound pretty sweet compared to the alternative—moping in an empty house until my parents come home from work. The prospect of eating something not made from tofu is too enticing to pass up. What’s the worst that could happen?
O.K.
Asha’s face lights up. “Perfect!” she exclaims. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” She grins and passes me an apple slice.
I bite into it, grateful, and for the most fleeting of moments I forget how depressed I’m supposed to be.
* * *
Asha meets me after detention, and we drive to Rosie’s together. She’s particularly bubbly today. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be in such a good mood that you feel the need to dance in your seat to the radio.
“You like rap?” she says over the music. “That is awesome.”
Kristen would not find that awesome. And she definitely would not find Asha’s dorky car dancing awesome. At least, not post-Warren Kristen. Pre-Warren Kristen was different. Less concerned about looking like an idiot. We used to choreograph silly dance routines in my bedroom, using hairbrushes for microphones. Those days are long over.
Asha doesn’t stop dancing as we enter the diner. She even does a little twirl on her way up to the counter, leans across it and hollers, “Hey, Dex! I’m here!”
“My savior!” An older guy—late twenties, probably—pops his head over the counter. He has long hair, like my dad’s in those old pictures, and a bunch of tattoos up and down his arms. There’s also a big black star inked on his neck. He sees me hovering and grins. “ And you brought me a customer? Damn, you really know how to score the brownie points. Speaking of brownies…”
Asha gasps. “You better not be teasing me.”
“Of course not. I would never joke about a subject as sacred as baked goods.” He brings out a brownie on a napkin. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“You rock so hard,” she says. She turns to me. “Chelsea, you have to try this.”
I break off a piece and pop it into my mouth. It is good. Melt-in-your-mouth good, warm and chewy and delicious. I give Asha a thumbs-up to express my approval.
Dex cocks his head to the side. “Have I actually
“That looks nutritious.”
I look up to see Asha sitting across from me. She has a brown-paper-bag lunch spread out in front of her: a diagonally cut peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a little bag of crackers, some apple slices and a can of iced tea, along with her knitting.
I have no idea how long she’s been sitting there. Did I really get that absorbed in my geometry homework? Wonders, they will never cease.
Asha sees my look and casts her gaze down at the tabletop. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can go if you want.”
She pushes her chair back and stands, but I shake my head, motion for her to sit down and close my textbook. Parabolas can wait. Asha beams, sitting again and unwrapping her sandwich.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I gesture to my homework and point a finger gun to my temple.
She grins. “Having some trouble, I take it?”
I pull out my whiteboard and write, Only always , and she laughs.
“You know, I could help you with it sometime,” she says. “I’m pretty good with numbers.”
I am more than willing to use this reluctant camaraderie to my benefit. Maybe I can get a good math grade out of it. That’d be something.
You free after school?
Asha makes an apologetic face. “Can’t. I have to work,” she explains. But then her eyes brighten. “Hey, why don’t you come with me? Thursdays are slow anyway, and I get a break, so I could help you out. And I bet I can get you a free sandwich. Sam makes amazing tuna melts. I mean, I haven’t tried them because I’m vegetarian, but everyone says they’re awesome.”
What about your boss?
“Dex won’t care, trust me. He’s really laid-back. You’d like him.”
I consider my options. Hanging out at a diner does sound pretty sweet compared to the alternative—moping in an empty house until my parents come home from work. The prospect of eating something not made from tofu is too enticing to pass up. What’s the worst that could happen?
O.K.
Asha’s face lights up. “Perfect!” she exclaims. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” She grins and passes me an apple slice.
I bite into it, grateful, and for the most fleeting of moments I forget how depressed I’m supposed to be.
* * *
Asha meets me after detention, and we drive to Rosie’s together. She’s particularly bubbly today. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be in such a good mood that you feel the need to dance in your seat to the radio.
“You like rap?” she says over the music. “That is awesome.”
Kristen would not find that awesome. And she definitely would not find Asha’s dorky car dancing awesome. At least, not post-Warren Kristen. Pre-Warren Kristen was different. Less concerned about looking like an idiot. We used to choreograph silly dance routines in my bedroom, using hairbrushes for microphones. Those days are long over.
Asha doesn’t stop dancing as we enter the diner. She even does a little twirl on her way up to the counter, leans across it and hollers, “Hey, Dex! I’m here!”
“My savior!” An older guy—late twenties, probably—pops his head over the counter. He has long hair, like my dad’s in those old pictures, and a bunch of tattoos up and down his arms. There’s also a big black star inked on his neck. He sees me hovering and grins. “ And you brought me a customer? Damn, you really know how to score the brownie points. Speaking of brownies…”
Asha gasps. “You better not be teasing me.”
“Of course not. I would never joke about a subject as sacred as baked goods.” He brings out a brownie on a napkin. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“You rock so hard,” she says. She turns to me. “Chelsea, you have to try this.”
I break off a piece and pop it into my mouth. It is good. Melt-in-your-mouth good, warm and chewy and delicious. I give Asha a thumbs-up to express my approval.
Dex cocks his head to the side. “Have I actually
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