Before I have a chance to say anything, the entire football team approaches our table. A block of biceps and thick thighs, standing shoulder to shoulder. And then, like we are in a bad teen movie, Joe Mangino, a beefy guy with buck teeth, steps forward. He flips David’s lunch tray. An empty milk container goes flying onto the floor.
“Are you serious?” I ask, and stand up, though now that I’m on my feet I have no idea what I can do in the face of all these muscles. These guys are big and they are not my friends. I can’t just ask them to stop, like I did with Justin and Gabriel. Well, I can ask, but they’re not going to listen.
“Stay out of this, Kit. This little shit needs to die,” Sammy Metz says, who looks like—is—a linebacker. A giant oak of a boy. He’d look good next to Willow.
“Don’t you think that’s extreme?” David asks the question like he genuinely wants to know the answer. There isn’t an ounce of fear in his voice. So calm and collected it’s borderline creepy. Suddenly he seems less alien, more robot. “You want me to die? I’ve spent almost three days thinking about it, and I still can’t figure it out.”
“Not only do I want you to die,” Joe says, “I want it to hurt. Badly. I’m just deciding: Should I shove my boot down your stupid throat or should I feed you your own nuts?”
“You know, if you shove your boot in my face it’s unlikely to fit in my mouth. And I have no intention of eating my own testicles,” David says, and then turns his head away, as if he is no longer interested in the conversation. Takes a bite of apple, then puts it back on its plate. We watch him, and when he looks up again, he seems surprised we are all still here. “What do you want? Everyone’s watching. Obviously you can’t touch me right now.”
“We’re going to get you, Drucker. When you least expect it. We’re going to get you,” Joe says, again with the horrible clichés. Is that what he does on weekends? Watches bad movies and practices the resident jock’s lines in front of a mirror? Step one: Flip lunch tray. Step two: Make scary but generic threats. Step three: Take more steroids and grow even bigger breasts.
“Move it along, gentlemen,” Mrs. Rabin says, approaching the table and ushering the football guys away. She doesn’t ask David if he is okay, though. Instead she glares at him and shakes her head.
“What’s up with Mrs. Rabin?” I ask.
“What?”
“That look. What’d you do to piss her off?” David motions to his notebook.
“Uh-oh.” I wince. “Teachers too?”
“Yup.” David shrugs, up and down, like he’s being manipulated by an amateur puppeteer. His body language, I realize now, is as stilted as everything else about him. “Hope this doesn’t hurt my college recommendations.”
—
Later, in AP World History, Ms. Martel drones on about the impact of the Industrial Revolution: blah, blah manufacturing and steam engines and terrible factory conditions blah blah. I text David. We both have our laptops open so we can iMessage and look like we’re just taking notes.
He’s sitting three rows over and one ahead—I guess he’s been sitting there since September—and I study his profile. I like his lush eyelashes, and the slope of his cheeks and the way he cocks his head to the side and stares out the window.
Me: Are you scared?
David: Of what?
Me: The whole frickin’ football team!
David: No. Do you know what I am scared of, though? Sentient artificial intelligence. And global warming. In equal measure.
Me: They could kill you.
David: I know. If we create machines that can learn to feel the whole range of human emotions, we are all dead. And I think we’ve long passed the tipping point in global warming. I expect apocalyptic weather will soon become the norm.
Me: I meant the football team! Maybe you should tell someone. Like the principal.
David: Oh. On one hand they’ve made it clear they want me dead. On the other, I doubt they actually want to do the dirty work. Not to mention they’d have to dispose of my body. And all their prior threatening texts could be used as evidence against them by the police. They’re stupid, but not that stupid.
Me: ?
David: I think it highly unlikely that they’ll kill me.
Me: I didn’t mean it literally. I meant they could mess you up.
David: Again unlikely. Also, I know various forms of self-defense, including but not limited to kung fu and krav maga. They should be scared of me.
Me: Really?
David: Yup. But you know what I don’t understand?
Me: EVERYTHING.
David: That’s a joke, right?
Me: Yes, David, that was a joke.
David: Right. So what I don’t get is why everyone is mad at me, instead of realizing I’m the one who has been wronged here. Not a single person has come up to me and said, “I’m really sorry this happened to you.” Not one person.
Me: I’m really sorry this happened to you.
David: I’m being serious.
Me: So am I.
David: Thank you.
Me: You’re welcome. You really know krav maga?
David: Would I joke about something like that?
“I thought college would be easier,” Miney says on Tuesday morning. She is sitting in our breakfast nook, digging into a pile of pancakes. My dad is manning the stove with his headphones on, the same pair I have, though instead of listening to music, he prefers audiobooks. He claims it allows for efficient multitasking, but it has the unintended perk of allowing Miney and my mom to talk without him hearing. I’m just beyond the door, eavesdropping. I realize I don’t actually have the power of invisibility, but I come pretty close. “Like it would just be an extension of high school. But then I got there, and I had to make all new friends. And no one seemed to like me.”
“Laur, of course people like you.” My mom leans forward and squeezes Miney’s hand. Miney is being ridiculous. Everyone likes her. That is one of life’s constants, like the chemical makeup of water.
“It’s not just that. As you know, rush was a disaster. My classes are seriously hard. And there was this guy….”
“And?” my mom asks.
“And nothing. Well, not quite nothing. I really liked him, Mom, and I thought he was interested too. And so I saw him out one night and I, like, basically threw myself at him in front of everyone and he made it superclear he wasn’t at all into me. It was beyond embarrassing. Plus I don’t really have any friends. Not real ones yet, anyway. It just feels like college is one rejection after another. Maybe I picked the wrong school. Or maybe I’m just a big loser.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my daughter? One guy doesn’t like you and you come running home?” my mom asks. “He’s obviously an idiot.”
“He’s actually supersmart, Mom. He was my physics tutor. I was the idiot.” Miney puts her head down on the table and my mother strokes her hair like she’s a small child. I think she might be crying, but I can’t tell from here.
“That’s why you’ve been moping all this time?”
“Little D, you scared the crap out of me. Stop lurking!” Miney screams when she notices me. Darn new clothes and their crinkly sounds. My khakis were much more inconspicuous.
“I wasn’t lurking. I was eavesdropping,” I say, and step into the kitchen.