Page 42 of Interpreter

By the time we get to her car, the two kids on my shoulders have started drooling.

“Thank you for carrying him all the way to my car.”

I squat down so she can get him since I don’t have a free hand.

Her eyes narrow in the dome lighting of her car. “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

I try shrugging, but I don’t get far. “I didn’t think of it earlier.” I did, but I enjoyed seeing her attempt to reach him. She really is short. “Besides, he’s almost as big as you. You wouldn’t have made it to the car.”

“I would have been fine,” she argues, sliding the sleeping boy off my shoulder, holding him over hers.

I open the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gives me a timid smile. “I’ll get your shirt back to you,” she promises, and I wave her off. I don’t give a shit about the shirt. But I know she’ll have it for me tomorrow because she’s fucking stubborn like that.

It’s not until I get to the car and buckle Aspen up that I check my phone again.

Milah: Detached is a lonely island.

And because I probably pissed her off by not checking my phone during the movie, she followed it up with another text that makes me chuckle.

Milah: You know what? I’ll sign to you if I feel like it.

And with that, I close my phone knowing that is exactly what Milah Iglesias will do: whatever the fuck she wants. And I think I’m okay with that.

Motherfucker. She had to meet him sometime.

“Let me in, Milah, or I’ll tell him about the time we tailgated at the soccer game and you had to—”

I clamp a hand over her mouth. “Fine. Come in, but don’t be all—” I do this little thing with my hand. “—aggressive.”

Her eyes narrow, and I take a step back. I might be crazy, but Gretchen can match my crazy equally. “You know I wouldn’t have to do this if you would have just answered your phone last night. But nooo. You had to pretend you were asleep.”

I pretended nothing. I simply didn’t answer, which, in hindsight, was not a smart thing to do. But I was shaken from mine and Tim’s text conversation. And then he left all standoffish like we didn’t make friends or something, and that pissed me right off.

I’m a nice person, dammit!

“I’m sorry. I was really tired after taking Oliver home, and I just wasn’t in the mood for talking.” It’s the truth. At least part of it. The other part of it is that I may have wanted to read that conversation over and over until I could figure out the real Mr. Lambros, the one he doesn’t let you see very often.

“You’re a liar, Milah Iglesias. A big, fat liar.” Her eyes have gone from crazy little psycho to suspicious little psycho. “Youreallylike him.”

I scoff. “No. I don’t. I just think he’s a nice guy, and I try to keep his privacy.”

“His privacy? I can’t even blow my nose in this school without someone reporting to Principal Moorehouse that I’m in the bathroom stall snorting a line of coke.”

I snort. She’s right. These teachers love to conjure up drama.

“There is no privacy at this school, Milah.”

Okay, so maybe I feel a little bad for not answering her call, but I knew she would bombard me with questions that I didn’t want to answer. The fact is, I don’t know that much about Tim. But what I do know, I will forever keep to myself. Tim didn’t mean for me to see that side of him, and yet I have. I wouldn’t betray him by telling my bestie everything I know. I haven’t even told Pe.

“Admit that you really like him, and I’ll be your friend again.”

Have mercy. My life has come to this—admitting that I think the new kid is hot in order to get my friend back. The demons have rubbed off on us.

Giving Gretch a sigh that basically blows her bangs away from her face, I flop down in my desk chair and level her with a serious look. “Okay, I like him. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

Her penciled-in eyebrow calls me a liar. “How am I thinking?”

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