should all meet at the university library this Saturday.
They have to let anyone use it because it’s a state school, right?”
I shrugged. She was right about being able to use the library but I didn’t want to encourage conversation, especially since I could guess what was coming.
My silence didn’t stop her.
“I was thinking maybe you could come.”
“Why?”
“It’s a group project.”
“Right. So that’s why, in class, you and Mel spend all your time asking me what I think.”
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“We’re all getting graded and we all have to—”
“Sure, that’s it. Come on. You want me there because of Beth.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Please. If just you and Mel meet, Beth will make it so you’ll be stuck eating lunch with people like me.”
She sighed. “Fine. You’re right. Look, I’m—I’m on the bus now because Mel asked me if I wanted to meet up this weekend before practice. Beth heard and told me she couldn’t give me a ride home.”
“And what, that surprised you? I could have told you your ass would be on the bus for talking to Beth’s prop- erty without her permission, and I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
Caro was silent for a moment. “Amy, about the other day—”
“What about it? I was bored, I got a meal out of listening to you whine—no big deal.”
“Right,” she said tightly. “So what about Saturday?”
“What about it?”
“I’m begging, okay? I can’t work on our presentation with just Mel.”
She sounded so miserable, and for a second I felt sorry for her. But only for a second. “Patrick will be there.”
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“He won’t show up, or if he does, he’ll leave after ten minutes or something. You know he hardly ever does anything, and this certainly isn’t going to be any different. And look, it’s not like group work is optional. We all have to give this presentation. And I can’t deal with what will happen if—” Her voice cracked.
“Fine.” I so didn’t want to go through another round of Caro’s dumb Beth thing. It would just remind me of my stupidity the other day.
“Really?”
“Sure,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. If Patrick could skip out early, I could skip the whole thing. If nothing else, it would bring my A average down to something more familiar.
“Great,” she said, and relaxed her stranglehold on her bag. “So should we meet up at, like, ten? On the library steps?”
“Whatever.”
She was silent for a minute as the bus slowed down and then spoke in a rush as the brakes squealed us to a stop. “I’m going to get breakfast at Blue Moon before.
I’ll be there around nine. If you want . . . you could meet me there.”
She stood up before I could ask her if she was having 196
an aneurysm. I stared at the bus floor, with its covering of rail ticket stubs and crumpled newspapers, until the bus started moving again. At the next stop, I got off and called home.
Dad and Mom both came to get me. Dad was driving.
He kept his head turned away when I got in the car, but as I sat down I got a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were red and swollen.
Mom said, “I don’t think what you’ve done is something to smile about, Amy.”
I reached up and touched my face. There was a grin stretching across it, so wide and sharp my fi ngers skimmed across the edges of my gritted teeth.
On the way home she asked where I’d gone and why. I told her about the bus. I didn’t mention Corn Syrup.
“Why did you leave the mall?” Dad asked as we pulled into the driveway. In the dark his eyes looked fi ne.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Amy, we understand that you need your space, but your mother and I—”
“I left because she was on the phone with you, talking about me. You know, the stranger you two live with. The killer.”
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