know. I’ve never asked.
“Well, be careful. Remember, you’re moving almost a thousand miles away in the fall.”
I make a face, hoping the sudden heat in my cheeks doesn’t betray me. “It’s not like that. Drew’s a friend. A work friend. That’s all. Everyone at work is talking more because of Kayla being missing.”
My dad sighs. “You haven’t heard anything about them finding her”—he hesitates, probably avoiding the word body —“have you?”
“I just know what I see on TV.” Every night they run the same senior photo of Kayla in front of a tree, the same photo of her car parked in a police lot. Sometimes they show the divers in the river, or a German shepherd straining on a leash, or her parents crying and begging for information. But even when it’s different, it’s never really anything new.
“It must be hard, not knowing.” Dad pats my hand, a bit awkwardly. “I spoke to Sergeant Thayer about your safety.”
“You did what ?”
“Of course I did, Gabie. I needed to be sure you were safe at work. He told me they think it was someone Kayla knew.”
Mom takes a bite of her salmon, then delicately pulls a white bone as thin as a thread from between her lips. “Was Drew a special friend of Kayla’s?”
“What are you saying? That Drew is dangerous? He’s the one who called the police!”
Anger rises in me, and it feels good. It feels strong. I finally have a place to put all my emotions.
And then, just as quickly, my anger collapses. Mom looks genuinely shocked. “Of course not! I was just thinking that a tragedy like this can draw people together who wouldn’t normally,” Mom says. “Drew seems very nice, but it won’t be long until you’re gone. You don’t want to hurt him.”
Now I look at Drew out of the corner of my eye. It’s not that I’m worried about me hurting him.
It’s that I’m worried about him hurting me.
The Seventh Day
“John Robertson”
“HI!” GABIE SMILES up at me from under the brim of her baseball cap. “Let me guess. One plain slice and one Roma special?” Her pen is poised over the order pad.
Last time I was in Pete’s, I waited until Gabie turned her back. Then I took her pen off the counter and slid it into my shirt pocket, next to my X-Acto knife. Later, I sat in my car in the darkened parking lot and slid the pen along my lips. Between them. Thinking of Gabie. And of Gabie’s fingers and lips.
“You know what I like,” I say. Gabie doesn’t know the half of it.
Her eyes have dark circles, as if she hasn’t been sleeping well. With any other girl—Kayla, for instance—it would make her look less pretty. But with Gabie, the shadows make her blue-green eyes look more mysterious. I could lose myself in them.
“Well, I know you’re a vegetarian,” she says. “And that you’ll probably want a root beer.”
“Right again.” Everyone knows I don’t eat meat. It’s one reason “John Robertson” ordered three large Meat Monsters. The authorities are probably looking for guys who like lots of meat. They aren’t looking for one quiet vegetarian guy with glasses who builds architectural models for a living.
“And to eat here, right?” she says, enjoying our game. Thinking that she’s winning it. Not knowing there’s a real game we’re about to play.
Behind her, the cooler door opens. One of the kids who works at Pete’s emerges, carrying a stainless-steel container full of pale grated cheese. When she hears him kick the door closed, Gabie turns and smiles.
But the sight of that smile—bigger and somehow more real than the smile she gave me—is annoying. I’m the customer. She should be giving me her full attention. But instead she is nearly flirting with this boy, right in front of me.
It makes me want to hurt her. Just a little.
“I’m sorry about your friend. About Kayla Cutler.” I resist the urge to touch the side of my neck. The fading marks from her scratches are hidden under a very light
“Well, be careful. Remember, you’re moving almost a thousand miles away in the fall.”
I make a face, hoping the sudden heat in my cheeks doesn’t betray me. “It’s not like that. Drew’s a friend. A work friend. That’s all. Everyone at work is talking more because of Kayla being missing.”
My dad sighs. “You haven’t heard anything about them finding her”—he hesitates, probably avoiding the word body —“have you?”
“I just know what I see on TV.” Every night they run the same senior photo of Kayla in front of a tree, the same photo of her car parked in a police lot. Sometimes they show the divers in the river, or a German shepherd straining on a leash, or her parents crying and begging for information. But even when it’s different, it’s never really anything new.
“It must be hard, not knowing.” Dad pats my hand, a bit awkwardly. “I spoke to Sergeant Thayer about your safety.”
“You did what ?”
“Of course I did, Gabie. I needed to be sure you were safe at work. He told me they think it was someone Kayla knew.”
Mom takes a bite of her salmon, then delicately pulls a white bone as thin as a thread from between her lips. “Was Drew a special friend of Kayla’s?”
“What are you saying? That Drew is dangerous? He’s the one who called the police!”
Anger rises in me, and it feels good. It feels strong. I finally have a place to put all my emotions.
And then, just as quickly, my anger collapses. Mom looks genuinely shocked. “Of course not! I was just thinking that a tragedy like this can draw people together who wouldn’t normally,” Mom says. “Drew seems very nice, but it won’t be long until you’re gone. You don’t want to hurt him.”
Now I look at Drew out of the corner of my eye. It’s not that I’m worried about me hurting him.
It’s that I’m worried about him hurting me.
The Seventh Day
“John Robertson”
“HI!” GABIE SMILES up at me from under the brim of her baseball cap. “Let me guess. One plain slice and one Roma special?” Her pen is poised over the order pad.
Last time I was in Pete’s, I waited until Gabie turned her back. Then I took her pen off the counter and slid it into my shirt pocket, next to my X-Acto knife. Later, I sat in my car in the darkened parking lot and slid the pen along my lips. Between them. Thinking of Gabie. And of Gabie’s fingers and lips.
“You know what I like,” I say. Gabie doesn’t know the half of it.
Her eyes have dark circles, as if she hasn’t been sleeping well. With any other girl—Kayla, for instance—it would make her look less pretty. But with Gabie, the shadows make her blue-green eyes look more mysterious. I could lose myself in them.
“Well, I know you’re a vegetarian,” she says. “And that you’ll probably want a root beer.”
“Right again.” Everyone knows I don’t eat meat. It’s one reason “John Robertson” ordered three large Meat Monsters. The authorities are probably looking for guys who like lots of meat. They aren’t looking for one quiet vegetarian guy with glasses who builds architectural models for a living.
“And to eat here, right?” she says, enjoying our game. Thinking that she’s winning it. Not knowing there’s a real game we’re about to play.
Behind her, the cooler door opens. One of the kids who works at Pete’s emerges, carrying a stainless-steel container full of pale grated cheese. When she hears him kick the door closed, Gabie turns and smiles.
But the sight of that smile—bigger and somehow more real than the smile she gave me—is annoying. I’m the customer. She should be giving me her full attention. But instead she is nearly flirting with this boy, right in front of me.
It makes me want to hurt her. Just a little.
“I’m sorry about your friend. About Kayla Cutler.” I resist the urge to touch the side of my neck. The fading marks from her scratches are hidden under a very light
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