The Deal

I can’t control my laughter. “You want to keep watching?”


“After that finale? How can we not?”

She makes a good point.

“At least the premiere,” she says. “Don’t you want to see what happens?”

I totally do, and so I don’t object when she gets up to load the next disc. “You want a snack or something?” I offer.

“Sure.”

“I’ll go see what we have.”

I find two microwave popcorn pouches in the kitchen cupboard, nuke them both, and head back upstairs with two bowls of popcorn in my hands.

Hannah has stolen my spot, her dark hair fanned on my stack of pillows, legs stretched out in front of her. Her red and black polka dot socks make me grin. I’ve noticed she doesn’t wear designer clothing or preppy getups like most of the females at this school, or the trashy party clothes you see on Greek Row and at the campus bars on weekends. Hannah is all about skinny jeans and leggings and tight-fitting sweaters, which might look elegant if she didn’t always throw in a flash of bright color. Like the socks, or the mittens, or those quirky hair clips she wears.

“Is one of those for me?” She gestures to the bowls I’m holding.

“Yup.”

I hand one over, and she sits up and shoves her hand inside, then giggles. “I can’t eat popcorn without thinking about Napoleon.”

I blink. “The emperor?”

She laughs harder. “No, my dog. Well, my family’s dog. He’s in Indiana with my parents.”

“What kind of dog?”

“A huge mutt crossed with a gazillion breeds, but he mostly looks like a German shepherd.”

“Does Napoleon like popcorn?” I ask politely.

She grins. “He loves it. We got him when he was a puppy, and this one time—I was about ten—my parents took me to the movies, and he broke into the cupboards when we were out and managed to get into a box of microwave popcorn packets. There were like fifty of them in there. My mom is all about sales, so if there’s ever a great deal at the grocery store, she’ll buy up the entire shelf of whatever product is on sale. I guess that month it was Orville Redenbacher’s. I swear, that dog ate every single one of them, packaging included. He was pooping out whole kernels and bits of paper for days.”

I snicker.

“My dad was freaking out,” she says. “He thought Napoleon would get food poisoning or something, but the vet said it was no biggie and that it would all come out eventually.” She pauses. “Do you have any pets?”

“No, but my grandparents had a cat when I was growing up. Her name was Peaches and she was batshit crazy.” I shovel a handful of popcorn into my mouth, chuckling as I chew. “She was sweet to me and my mom, but she fucking hated my dad. Which isn’t surprising, I guess. My grandparents hated him too, so she must have been following their lead. But man, she terrorized the old bastard.”

Hannah grins. “What’d she do?”

“Scratch him any chance she got, piss on his shoes, that kind of stuff.” I suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh shit, the best thing she ever did? It was Thanksgiving and we were at my grandparents’ place in Buffalo, and we’re all gathered at the table about to eat when Peaches comes in through the cat door. Right behind the house was this ravine, so she used to prowl around there. Anyway, she waltzes inside and she’s got something in her mouth, but none of us can tell what it is.”

“Oh God. I don’t like where this is going.”

I’m grinning so hard it hurts. “Peaches jumps up on the table like she’s the queen of the castle or some shit, strolls along the edge of the tablecloth, and dumps a dead rabbit on my father’s plate.”

Hannah gasps. “Seriously? Gross!”

“Gramps is pissing himself laughing, and Gran is freaking out because she thinks all the food on the table is contaminated now, and my dad…” My humor fades as I remember the look on the old man’s face. “Let’s just say he wasn’t pleased.”

Understatement of the year. A chill runs up my spine as I recall what happened when we got back to Boston a few days later. What he did to my mother as punishment for “shaming” him, as he’d accused her of doing during his rage.

The only saving grace is that Mom died a year later. She wasn’t there to witness it when he turned his rage on me, and I’m grateful for that every day of my life.

Beside me, Hannah goes somber as well. “I’m not seeing my parents for Thanksgiving.”

I glance over, studying her face. It’s obvious she’s upset, and her soft confession distracts me from the crushing memories pressing down on my chest. “Do you usually go home?”

“No, we go to my aunt’s for the holidays, but my folks can’t afford it this year, and I…can’t afford to go to them.”

There’s a false note there at the end, but I can’t imagine what she might be lying about.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs when she sees the sympathy on my face. “There’s always Christmas, right?”