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Authors: Kiera Stewart
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computer crime. An old boyfriend of Mrs. Vander-Pecker.”
“Our principal?” It’s hard to imagine, but I do try.
“Yep. But he was released after ten years in the joint. And his first stop? To see her. But then, guess what?”
“What?” I ask.
“He saw your face, and he was so grossed out that he just threw himself out the window!”
“Oh,
shut up
!” I say, irritated not just with him, but with myself, for allowing him to get to me.
“Aaron!” my mom practically whines.
He just laughs.
My mom shakes her head at him. To us, she says, “I’d be careful about listening to the rumors.”
“Well, what do you think happened?” I ask.
“There’s clearly not enough evidence to know with any level of certainty at this point,” my mom says. “But I’d say that it probably wasn’t a premeditated act. It sounds like it was some kind of emotional outburst. Someone was upset about something.”
“A crime of passion!” I say. So
La Vida Rica
! “So you think it could’ve been over a broken heart?”
“How would that make sense?” Sirina says, and laughs. “A broken window for a broken heart?”
“Let me take this, Ellen,” Stephen says to my mom. To us, he says, “You see, kids, relationships can be very complicated. That’s why there’s a Facebook status for it.”
A-Bag grins. “Ah,
this
from a man who has eighteen ‘friends.’”
“Aaron!” my mom says, annoyed. “Go finish your dinner in the kitchen.”
“Aw, it’s okay, Ellen,” Stephen says. “He’s just razzing me.”
My brother looks too happy as he pops up from the table and says, “Sayonara, suckers!”
My mom changes the subject by asking Stephen about what’s happening at his school, which starts a brain-numbing flow of words like
curriculum
and
budget
and
superintendent
. There is nothing intriguing or exciting about any of these topics, and it’s all a little hard to endure, especially when there’s a crime of passion underfoot.
After dinner, I walk Sirina to the door. “Shoot me if I ever get that boring, okay?”
“Can’t we just settle for a slap?” she asks. “A vicious one?”
“Deal,” I say.
I watch her get into her mom’s car, and wave as they drive off.
Good night, my lily-spattered organ-grinder
, I text her after I can no longer see the car.
She writes right back.
Good night, my maple-syrup moist towelette.
T had’s been staring at his computer screen off and on for the last few hours. It’s the first ten equations of his algebra work. It
always
seems to be the first ten equations of his algebra work. He’s been in a mood all day—restless and annoyed. Not even watching her stupid show, which was laughable, could snap him out of it. The only character that seemed to have a brain in her head was Mariela. He doesn’t know much Spanish, but there was enough kissing and shouting and embracing and sneaking around to figure out basically what was going on. And come on, it’s all predictable anyway.
So I was kind of a jerk on the phone with her; so what?
Thad wonders if he should send her a text or something to make up for it. Not with an actual apology, but something like
Let’s meet at the mall next time. I’ll buy you a burrito
. Some type of peace offering.
But then she may ask why he was such a jerk anyway—and then what will he say? That he’s been on edge since he broke the window, worrying about the cops showing up at his house? No, wait—that he’s been on edge for six whole months, since his life exploded?
That today is his father’s birthday, and it’s the first birthday his dad never got to have?
That thought is like a knife in the gut.
He makes himself look back at his computer screen, but it’s filled with stuff he just doesn’t understand. He lets out a frustrated growl and throttles the air in front of him, then gets up from the desk.
In the kitchen, Aunt Nora’s sitting at the table, a stack of papers in front of her. “Something wrong, hon?”
“I
“Our principal?” It’s hard to imagine, but I do try.
“Yep. But he was released after ten years in the joint. And his first stop? To see her. But then, guess what?”
“What?” I ask.
“He saw your face, and he was so grossed out that he just threw himself out the window!”
“Oh,
shut up
!” I say, irritated not just with him, but with myself, for allowing him to get to me.
“Aaron!” my mom practically whines.
He just laughs.
My mom shakes her head at him. To us, she says, “I’d be careful about listening to the rumors.”
“Well, what do you think happened?” I ask.
“There’s clearly not enough evidence to know with any level of certainty at this point,” my mom says. “But I’d say that it probably wasn’t a premeditated act. It sounds like it was some kind of emotional outburst. Someone was upset about something.”
“A crime of passion!” I say. So
La Vida Rica
! “So you think it could’ve been over a broken heart?”
“How would that make sense?” Sirina says, and laughs. “A broken window for a broken heart?”
“Let me take this, Ellen,” Stephen says to my mom. To us, he says, “You see, kids, relationships can be very complicated. That’s why there’s a Facebook status for it.”
A-Bag grins. “Ah,
this
from a man who has eighteen ‘friends.’”
“Aaron!” my mom says, annoyed. “Go finish your dinner in the kitchen.”
“Aw, it’s okay, Ellen,” Stephen says. “He’s just razzing me.”
My brother looks too happy as he pops up from the table and says, “Sayonara, suckers!”
My mom changes the subject by asking Stephen about what’s happening at his school, which starts a brain-numbing flow of words like
curriculum
and
budget
and
superintendent
. There is nothing intriguing or exciting about any of these topics, and it’s all a little hard to endure, especially when there’s a crime of passion underfoot.
After dinner, I walk Sirina to the door. “Shoot me if I ever get that boring, okay?”
“Can’t we just settle for a slap?” she asks. “A vicious one?”
“Deal,” I say.
I watch her get into her mom’s car, and wave as they drive off.
Good night, my lily-spattered organ-grinder
, I text her after I can no longer see the car.
She writes right back.
Good night, my maple-syrup moist towelette.
T had’s been staring at his computer screen off and on for the last few hours. It’s the first ten equations of his algebra work. It
always
seems to be the first ten equations of his algebra work. He’s been in a mood all day—restless and annoyed. Not even watching her stupid show, which was laughable, could snap him out of it. The only character that seemed to have a brain in her head was Mariela. He doesn’t know much Spanish, but there was enough kissing and shouting and embracing and sneaking around to figure out basically what was going on. And come on, it’s all predictable anyway.
So I was kind of a jerk on the phone with her; so what?
Thad wonders if he should send her a text or something to make up for it. Not with an actual apology, but something like
Let’s meet at the mall next time. I’ll buy you a burrito
. Some type of peace offering.
But then she may ask why he was such a jerk anyway—and then what will he say? That he’s been on edge since he broke the window, worrying about the cops showing up at his house? No, wait—that he’s been on edge for six whole months, since his life exploded?
That today is his father’s birthday, and it’s the first birthday his dad never got to have?
That thought is like a knife in the gut.
He makes himself look back at his computer screen, but it’s filled with stuff he just doesn’t understand. He lets out a frustrated growl and throttles the air in front of him, then gets up from the desk.
In the kitchen, Aunt Nora’s sitting at the table, a stack of papers in front of her. “Something wrong, hon?”
“I
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