“Morning,” he chirps, like a cockatoo or something similar, I don’t know. Like most people with better things to do, I’m not that clued up on bird species. And then – THEN! – he hands me a paper coffee cup with steam billowing out the top. “Picked you up a mocha.”
He doesn’t have one for himself. Only for me.
And just like that, any attempt to overlook his sudden and deeply disturbing personality transplant goes out the window.
“Oh. Um, thanks.” As I take the cup from him, my fingertips brush his, and he leaps back so far it’s like I’ve driven an electrode into his groin. His satchel plummets to the ground, and it takes him roughly ninety-eight minutes to pick it back up again, that’s how hard he’s fumbling.
“Don’t mention it,” he grins. As he stands back up, I catch a whiff of new aftershave on the breeze. Another bashful smile before he turns away.
Sorry, but WTF?? Danny and I have been friends since forever, and I’ve never seen him like this before. And we’ve been through a lot together. Especially right after my parents died. While the court was deciding who to grant my custody to, I spent a lot of time over at his house, since his mom is my godmother and all. We played outside in his family’s sprinklers, running around in just our underwear and spraying each other with water from the hosepipes. I remember liking it because nobody could tell I was crying almost constantly.
For a while we all thought I’d end up living with them, since the government had concerns over Betty’s ill health. Let the record show that I’m eternally grateful they chose her instead of the Wells. I mean, they’re amazing people, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t even imagine being with anyone but Betty.
All I’m saying is that if anyone’s gonna pick up on Danny being weird, it’s me. And he’s definitely being weird.
Regardless, the rest of the walk is fairly uneventful. We chat about the geography homework we both struggled to complete without slipping into a comalike state. We discuss plans for tonight – torn between filming a skit or binge-watching Monty Python for the gazillionth time – and speculate about what movies will garner the most Academy Award nominations in a few months’ time.
He’s forgotten to pick up a cardboard sleeve for the coffee and it burns into my palm as we walk, making it impossible to forget. As usual, we meet up with Ajita halfway to school, and she eyes the coffee like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled out. Neither of us address it, but I know she’s thinking exactly what I am:
What’s going on with our best friend?
10.24 a.m.
Geography is, as suspected, a snoozefest of epic proportions. I think if you offered me $500,000 right this second to tell you what it was about, I couldn’t, and that is saying a lot because for half a million dollars I could both go to college and pay to have Donald Trump assassinated. [Apparently this is an illegal thing to say, so it’s important to clarify: I AM JOKING. In fact, it is fair to assume that any legally dubious sentences at any point in this entire manuscript are jokes. I’m not sure if this gets me off the hook or not, but I’m hoping so because otherwise I’m almost certainly going to jail, where I will rot forever because I do not have the patience for a Shawshank-style escape. In fact, without Netflix it’s perfectly possible my general will to live would just evaporate within the week.]
At some point when Mr Richardson is droning on about, well, drones, I make eye contact with Carson Manning, who’s sitting in the next row. He’s a professional class clown so I instantly know I am in trouble because my ability to resist laughter is non-existent.
Carson smirks and holds up his pad of paper, revealing a ballpoint-pen doodle scribbled in the margin of his sparse notes. Immediately I suspect the drawing to be a penis because teenage boys love nothing more than sketching their own genitals, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see a charming caricature of Mr Richardson. Doodle Richardson has giant jowls and a tattoo of an alpaca on his arm. This is funny not because our geography teacher actually has such a tattoo, but because he reminds us at least once every thirty seconds about the time he went trekking in Peru and climbed Machu Picchu.
As expected, I snort with ugly laughter, but Mr Richardson is too busy reminiscing about the alpaca who stole his protein bar to scold me.
Carson looks genuinely pleased with my seal of approval and smiles broadly, tiny dimples setting into his smooth brown skin. The black shirt he’s wearing is tight around his arms and shoulders – he’s the star player on the varsity basketball team and is in tremendous shape – and his blue beanie hat is slightly lopsided.
Even though we haven’t talked much, I feel like I already know Carson. Like, as a person. Is that weird? We have a ton in common – we’ll both do anything for a laugh, and if the rumors are anything to go by, his family isn’t exactly rolling in cash either. In fact, I think I might remember seeing him at the soup kitchen a few years back, when Betty had the shingles and couldn’t work for a bit. [That was a dark time for our dental hygiene. When you’re super broke, toothpaste is the first luxury item to go. Ajita blessedly snuck her tube into school with her so I could do damage control before first period.]
So yeah, Carson Manning. He’s good people. And not exactly terrible to look at.
Interesting development.
11.58 a.m.
On the way to our last period of the morning, Danny, Ajita and I stop by my locker to grab a textbook I dumped there last week and haven’t looked at since. The halls are pretty busy with people shoving their way to different classes, and the general squeak of sneakers on linoleum echoes around.
We reach my locker, and I’m barely paying attention as I enter my combination since I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell’s up with my lifelong pal. But as soon as I open it, something soft and dark red tumbles out and hits the deck. Baffled, I reach down to scoop it up off the floor. It’s a sweater I’ve never seen before, though immediately recognize the embroidered logo on the front. Gryffindor. My Hogwarts house.
“What the hell?” I murmur. “Who put this there? Have I got the wrong locker?”
Then I see the bow ribbon gift tag lying next to my sneakers on the floor. It’s a gift.
Only two people other than me know my locker combination: Danny and Ajita.
Danny shifts his feet and stares at the ground.
Ajita puts two and two together almost as quickly as I do. “Hey, Danny,” she says, a mischievous grin on her face. “Remember that time in fourth grade when you got so excited over the new Harry Potter movie that you vomited all over yourself??”
Instead of retorting with a quick-fire clap-back like he usually would, Danny goes all weird and bumbly, muttering some solid curse words that’d definitely get him and his entire family thrown out of their church.
Frowning, Ajita nudges his shoulder. “Come on, I was only kidding. Well, I wasn’t because you actually did that. But there’s no need to drop so many f-bombs.”
Danny looks homicidal. He just huffily folds his arms and stares at his feet. Jeez. Where’s his sense of humor gone?
1.25 p.m.
It’s Danny’s turn for a careers session with Rosenqvist this lunchtime, so while he’s off justifying his plan to become a hotshot surgeon, despite his mediocre GPA, Ajita and I take the opportunity to talk through his erratic behavior of late.
[Okay, so now that I’m turning this into a book I know I’m supposed to describe everything in great detail in order for my readers to be able to visualize the scene, but really, it’s a school cafeteria – you all know what they look like and, if you don’t, I really don’t think it’s on me to educate you. It’s loud and plastic and smells like old microwaved cheese.]
Ajita bites into her veggie hot dog and studies me intently. “I have to say it, dude. And I know it’ll make you cringe, and I know you’ll disagree vehemently on account of your fundamental distrust in my judgment, but I think it’s fairly obvious what’s happening here.”