Page 28 of This I Know
Mara nods quickly. She says, too loudly, “You called him a dick. You finally get it. I’m proud of you, Avery.”
Our friends are watching us by this point, their attention no doubt drawn by Mara’s obvious loudness. And maybe a little has to do with the profanity, too.
Camille intrudes on our space. “Who are we talking about?”
Camille is Pretty Girl of the group. Mara insists I’m the one who fills that title, but I disagree. It’s unbelievable; I watch Camille eat like hell every single day, and yet she always manages to stay perfectly toned, with all the right curves in all the right places. Yeah, she’s one of those girls. I guess you could say I’ve always been a little jealous.
She bounces her thick, curly brown hair back over her shoulder, out of the way of her face. “I know most everyone in this place. Tell me.”
“We’re talking about Ethan,” says Mara.
“Ethan. Ethan who?”
“Ethan no one,” I say, returning to my sandwich.
Camille gasps. “Is it that new boy? I think I know who you mean. He’scute.” She twiddles a strand of curls through her fingers.
“That’s him,” says Mara, perking up at the excitement of a fix-up. “Don’t you think they’d make a cute couple?”
I shoot Mara a look. I’m really surprised she’s doing this. She’s usually good at picking up on how I feel, but right now she’s letting me down. I do not want to talk about Ethan. Isn’t it obvious yet? Because I think I’m laying it on pretty thick.
“Oh, yes,” Camille says. She leaves her hair alone for a moment to dig into her bag of Doritos, watching me intensely. “Well, Avery?”
I’m motionless. They’re both just sitting there, looking at me, surely wondering why I haven’t said anything. But what is there to say? “Well, what?”
“He’s in my English class,” Camille says, smirking through bites. “I can mention you to him.”
“No,” I say, louder than necessary. “No, thanks.” I put my sandwich down on top of its plastic wrapper. This is awkward. They’re both still watching me, quizzical looks upon their faces. “It’s just that … I don’t need that right now, you know? It’s too much. You know, with my leg and everything.”
They both take a moment to consider what I said, and then Camille resumes eating. She shrugs and says, “A cute guy is too much. I guess I get it.”
Camille is a sweetheart, but I can’t help but think,You totallydon’tget it. And your sarcasm isn’t helping.
Mara says, “Sorry,” from under her breath, so quietly that Camille can no longer hear us, which doesn’t matter because her attention has drifted back to the others at our table. Mara’s head is down and she’s wearing a bit of a frown, watching for my reaction.
I’m so glad I have her. I’m so glad she gets me. I’m gladsomeonegets me.
Because I’ll take whatever I can get.
Ethan
I’m pretty sure I gripped the edge of my chair with white knuckles when I saw here sitting there on the ground. She was holding her head, and I recognized the innocent confusion in her eyes as the same one I’d once seen at the hospital, her looking at me in her state of half-sleep. The door hit her, and all the worst possibilities ran through my mind. I heard the thud, for crying out loud, and my heart broke just as loudly. It sounded bad. I thought for sure paramedics would be called to carry her away, back to the hospital that she’d fought so hard to leave. I prepared myself for it, and for that fact that just maybe, I’d have another chance to see her again.
No, I wouldn’t do that again – it was too weird, and a little too criminal … even for someone like me, who just so happens to have criminality run in the family.
But thankfully, that won’t happen. I won’t be visiting her in the hospital again any time soon, because she seemed fine.
She’s got an attitude on her, though. I can tell. When she passed, I looked into her face, trying to catch those pretty eyes one more time for my own benefit, I admit; but really I was trying to see if that John guy had hurt her. The look she gave me in return was nothing short of a glare.
I didn’t expect that. And after I was safely out of her view, I smirked into my hands at the silly exchange we just had.
It’s later in the day, and I’m cooking for my mom and me at home. The sun is already setting and shadows pour in through the windows of the kitchen. I flick the light on to get a better view of the countertops and I’m instantly illuminated with a steady stream of light over my laid out ingredients and pots and pans. That’s much better.
On days when my mom has to work late I usually try to prepare a dinner for us both. I know it’s something she appreciates, and I love to cook, so it’s a win-win for both of us. Tonight I’ll be making a roast chicken with an arugula salad. One of our favorites.
I pick up my favorite chef’s knife and get to work loosely chopping some sprigs of thyme. The rhythmic motion of the knife slicing and creaking against the cutting board relaxes me, and in the repetitive movement I can get a rest from all the recent drama. I rinse the chicken, allowing the cold tap water to run over my fingers like a kind of meditation. I dab it dry with layers of paper towel, then I grab a lemon out of the fruit bowl, slice it in half, and stuff it, along with the thyme, inside.
When all the other ingredients are added, I double check to make sure I’m not forgetting anything, playing the recipe over in my head. I’ve got everything. This is good. I truss the chicken’s legs and place the whole thing over a few layers of bread inside my cast iron skillet. A drizzle of olive oil, and I’m done. I slide it into the burning hot oven, set the timer on the microwave, and retreat to the living room.
