think?”
“You like this snippy banter, don’t you? On some level you enjoy hanging out with me because you get to be wittier than you can be with any of the other cretins in this place.”
She smirks. “I felt sorry for you. Dude, you showed up at my house with nothing better to do than help me shovel snow. Come on.” I could have guessed that. But I didn’t want to.
“That’s some bit of brutal honesty.”
“True friends stab you in the front.” I bet she thinks it makes her witty to quote Wilde’s platitude. It disgusts me almost as much as her statement confuses me.
“We’re not friends.”
“If you say so.”
“I take it back.”
She laughs. “You’re pathetic.”
“You’re not friends with pathetic people?”
“I’d be willing to make an exception, as long as there’s a good reason why we should be friends.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I turn that over in my head. Brutal honesty might actually work here. “Because I’m lonely.”
Willa smiles just slightly. Then she shakes her head. “Not good enough.”
“Books open to page 245, class,” Mrs. Hudson announces over the chatter. “I’ve got an in-class assignment for you today. All the info you need to answer the questions is on that page.” Assignment papers begin to circulate from the front of the room.
I turn to Willa. “Think about it? Please?”
She drops her voice to a murmur. “I think it’s a bad idea. You don’t really want to be friends with someone like me.” Well, that’s a convenient way of phrasing rejection.
“Why not?” Go on; tell me off to my face.
“Because I kill people like you.”
Now that I didn’t expect.
*
That conversation distracts me for the rest of the day. I barely absorb a word of my English lecture. I wonder what she meant when she said she kills ‘people like me.’ What kind of people? Cancer patients? Flagrant assholes? She can’t have been speaking literally. It bothers me so much that I can’t let her leave school without confronting her. I follow Willa to her car after English and tap on the driver’s side glass.
She rolls down the window. “What do you want, Harper?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m living like I’m already dead.”
Willa smirks like I’ve said something funny. “Why me? There are plenty of nicer people in this school. Why not ask them to be your friends?” She gestures to the throngs of students milling around the parking lot.
“Because you’re not scared to look at me.” I can’t read the look on her face. Is she impressed?
“Get in.”
*
The Kirk kitchen still seems cryptically bare. Willa whips up a soup made of asparagus and chickpeas that tastes fantastic.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My grandma.”
“The one whose birthday was on Saturday?”
Willa doesn’t bother to contradict the lie. “Yeah. She’s a good cook. I made a lot of soup for my sister before she died.” Now I feel like a jerk for bringing it up.
“I’m sorry.”
Willa shrugs. She doesn’t seem upset that I’ve touched that topic. Maybe it’s been so long that she’s in a comfortable place with her grief.
“When did she die?”
“Two years ago. Cancer.” Willa gets up and opens the cupboard next to the fridge. There are a few cookbooks in there, but she pulls out a binder and sets it on the table. The cover has her name on it. It’s full of pages torn out of other cookbooks and recipe clippings from magazines and newspapers. She stops on a recipe I recognize—the carrot and pea soup—and points to the title on the page header. She tore that page out of Living with Cancer: Diet and Nutrition. She’s been serving me her sister’s cancer food. That’s so genuinely kind and accommodating I don’t know what to say without sounding stupid.
“Were you guys close?”
“Not really. She was nine when I was born. We got closer after her diagnosis.”
“Smoker?”
“Yep.” Willa gets up for another
“You like this snippy banter, don’t you? On some level you enjoy hanging out with me because you get to be wittier than you can be with any of the other cretins in this place.”
She smirks. “I felt sorry for you. Dude, you showed up at my house with nothing better to do than help me shovel snow. Come on.” I could have guessed that. But I didn’t want to.
“That’s some bit of brutal honesty.”
“True friends stab you in the front.” I bet she thinks it makes her witty to quote Wilde’s platitude. It disgusts me almost as much as her statement confuses me.
“We’re not friends.”
“If you say so.”
“I take it back.”
She laughs. “You’re pathetic.”
“You’re not friends with pathetic people?”
“I’d be willing to make an exception, as long as there’s a good reason why we should be friends.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I turn that over in my head. Brutal honesty might actually work here. “Because I’m lonely.”
Willa smiles just slightly. Then she shakes her head. “Not good enough.”
“Books open to page 245, class,” Mrs. Hudson announces over the chatter. “I’ve got an in-class assignment for you today. All the info you need to answer the questions is on that page.” Assignment papers begin to circulate from the front of the room.
I turn to Willa. “Think about it? Please?”
She drops her voice to a murmur. “I think it’s a bad idea. You don’t really want to be friends with someone like me.” Well, that’s a convenient way of phrasing rejection.
“Why not?” Go on; tell me off to my face.
“Because I kill people like you.”
Now that I didn’t expect.
*
That conversation distracts me for the rest of the day. I barely absorb a word of my English lecture. I wonder what she meant when she said she kills ‘people like me.’ What kind of people? Cancer patients? Flagrant assholes? She can’t have been speaking literally. It bothers me so much that I can’t let her leave school without confronting her. I follow Willa to her car after English and tap on the driver’s side glass.
She rolls down the window. “What do you want, Harper?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m living like I’m already dead.”
Willa smirks like I’ve said something funny. “Why me? There are plenty of nicer people in this school. Why not ask them to be your friends?” She gestures to the throngs of students milling around the parking lot.
“Because you’re not scared to look at me.” I can’t read the look on her face. Is she impressed?
“Get in.”
*
The Kirk kitchen still seems cryptically bare. Willa whips up a soup made of asparagus and chickpeas that tastes fantastic.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My grandma.”
“The one whose birthday was on Saturday?”
Willa doesn’t bother to contradict the lie. “Yeah. She’s a good cook. I made a lot of soup for my sister before she died.” Now I feel like a jerk for bringing it up.
“I’m sorry.”
Willa shrugs. She doesn’t seem upset that I’ve touched that topic. Maybe it’s been so long that she’s in a comfortable place with her grief.
“When did she die?”
“Two years ago. Cancer.” Willa gets up and opens the cupboard next to the fridge. There are a few cookbooks in there, but she pulls out a binder and sets it on the table. The cover has her name on it. It’s full of pages torn out of other cookbooks and recipe clippings from magazines and newspapers. She stops on a recipe I recognize—the carrot and pea soup—and points to the title on the page header. She tore that page out of Living with Cancer: Diet and Nutrition. She’s been serving me her sister’s cancer food. That’s so genuinely kind and accommodating I don’t know what to say without sounding stupid.
“Were you guys close?”
“Not really. She was nine when I was born. We got closer after her diagnosis.”
“Smoker?”
“Yep.” Willa gets up for another
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