The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver Page A

theater. It’s not a taste question. It’s a fact one. You can at least do that, right? It must have happened at some point, with a friend, with your mother, at a mall or—”
    “
—Scarface
,” I blurted, giving up, unsuccessfully camouflaging a slight smile with disgust. I tossed the rag to Caleb. “Okay?”
    He grinned, childishly, as if he had just won at tug of war.
    “Yours?” I asked.
    “
The Sting
. Paul Newman.”
    Predictable, but nonetheless—
    “—first record purchased?” he continued.
    “Soundtrack to the movie
Cocktail
,” I replied, hiding my face. “And you?”
    “Bob Dylan.
Shelter from the Storm
,” he said, tossing me the wet rag.
    “Favorite food?”
    “Burgers and fries.”
    “Favorite burger and fries?” I added, tossing the dishrag back.
    “In-N-Out.”
    He crunched the rag into a ball as he thought of his next question.
    “Favorite city?”
    “Why, the City of Brotherly Love.” I smiled. “Country you most want to visit?”
    “Antarctica,” he answered, thinking.
    “
Country
,” I asked, as he pitched the wet baseball my way. I caught it with my right hand.
    “Antarctica,” he insisted, without hesitation. Or an atlas.
    “Favorite word?” I asked, holding onto the rag.
    He thought briefly. A fly zipped around his face while he considered a response. He didn’t even try to shoo it away. “I think I’m gonna have to say
freedom
. What about you?”
    Home. Crystal. Xylophone
, I thought to myself.
    “Maybe the same as yours, actually,” I replied.
    Half of his mouth opened, and he started wiping his hands together, contemplating his next move. “Let’s get to the good stuff now. First kiss?”
    “Fair enough,” I said. “Andy Hoskins. Sixth grade. Tennis courts, out in the doubles margin.”
    I tossed the rag up in the air like I was opening a set, and it fell to his hands like a perfectly angled serve.
    “Connie Anastasia. Fifth grade. Soccer field,” he said, quickly volleying it back my way. “First love?”
    “None yet,” I said, catching it. “You?”
    He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Your mother.”
    I threw the rag back to him. “Well, I guess you were more like a one-month stand, then.” He didn’t reply. Or catch the rag. Instead, it just fell on the ground in a single thump, like a water balloon that failed to detonate. “All right. I can detect nonresponsiveness when it’s before me.” I sat down at a table and tried to remove the sticky residueon the edge, but it wouldn’t budge. My father sat next to me. “So, is there anyone now?”
    He shook his head. “No, not really.”
    “Not really?” I asked. “Or no?”
    “No,” he said. “What about you, dollface?”
    “Dollface?” I laughed. “I didn’t realize we were there already.”
    “What about you?” he repeated.
    “Nah,” I said, noting his sudden change of mood. “No one special. Just a handful of guys here and there. There’s a police officer trainee and the guy down at Lorenzo’s, but he’s only for free pizza on Tuesdays. Maybe if you’re lucky …” I winked. “… I’ll get you a slice one day.”
    “And here I thought I needed to impress you.”
    “Addiction begets addiction, Caleb. You said it first.” I held up my bottle. “Worst thing you’ve ever done?”
    “You mean besides abandoning you?”
    “Well played.” I smiled, bowing my head to stare at his scar. I watched it jump around as he spoke, connecting each hemisphere of his face like a lock holding the two sides together. He seemed impressed with himself for his last response, and the scar kept tagging along with his healthy grin. “The scar,” I asked, pointing to his upper lip. “Where’d you get it?”
    “That’ll take more than fifteen seconds.”
    “You have fifteen.” I looked at my watch, waiting for the second hand to arrive at the twelve. “And … go.”
    “Seriously? You’re timing me on this?”
    “Fourteen now.”
    “Fuck, fuck,” he laughed, massaging