Page 52 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“I’m done!” Penny hands Grant her brick creation. “I think it’s a fish. But also a car.”
19
A LOW SOUND COMES FROMthe gym, and I look up from the phone, waiting for a follow-up. Nope. Nothing. I get back to the screen, trying to find my place in the short story, and my eyes land on the time—Oh, snap!It’s been twenty minutes since I clocked out.
I shove my phone into my bag and stand, my butt smarting from sitting on the slatted locker room bench for so long. I’d only meant to scan the list of “approved” short stories the district in Georgia had sent me, but I started looking up the plot summaries of the ones I didn’t know, which quickly turned into finding them online. Bradbury’s “The Veldt” is wonderfully macabre, but I don’t know where I can use it. I push open the door and step into the hallway. Maybe for an inference activity?
I’m at the drinking fountain when I hear Ian’s voice.
“What do you mean, you’ve spent your dining-out budget for the week?” he’s asking. “It’s only Tuesday.”
“Dude, I just got so hungry, and I wasn’t thinking about it!” It’s Grant.
“How tight a leash are you on—” Ian’s quiet for a moment, then says, “That’s a pretty reasonable amount, Grant.”
“Come on, man. Please?”
I emerge from the hallway, ready to play bad cop before Ian has to, but I don’t see him, just Grant. I have to look past my roommate to spot Ian, who is, oddly, kneeling in the center of the room. He sees me, and hastens to rise, and I notice him wince, favoring his right leg.
I start for him without thinking. I’m about ask if he’s okay when I see his right knee. It’s scummed up, covered in the black that always transfers from the floor surface, and beneath that, clearly abraded, shiny and pink. Did he trip? How—
Ah!I look at the floor. Sure enough, the uneven square is sticking up more than usual. When I return to Ian, he is committed to avoiding my eyes. “So, it finally happened.”
“I’m sure you’re loving this,” he says, with an audible edge.
I frown, stung that he’d think that. “No, actually. I prefer victories without bloodshed.” I turn to Grant, who is also focusing anywhere but me. “What’s up?”
“Nothing!” he says, too loud to be natural. I wait; short of red hands, unnecessary volume is the ultimate indicator of guilt.
He cracks in seconds. “I was thinking about going for tacos.”
I cross my arms, feigning confusion. “Weren’t you lamenting earlier that you’d blown your entire dining-out budget on that spread at the food truck park last night?”
Grant continues to study the floor.“Yes.”
“Then, that’s on you. You can’t just hit up your brother.”
“Yes, he can,” says Ian.
I blink up at him.Really?“Well,yes, literally, but that’s not exactly in the spirit of our arrangement.” I nod at Grant. “We have a fridge full of leftovers and premade meals at home. If you’re already going out, just go home.”
“But…” Grant’s brow pleats, lower lip protruding like a petulant toddler. “I want tacos.”
“Then make them at home,” I singsong with a pout of my own. I look to Ian for backup.
His expression has taken on the hardness I glimpsed when he showed up to mess with Cole. Without the shading of concern, it is chilling. This can’t be about tacos. Is he hanging on to the flooring thing?
Ian reaches into his back pocket, producing his wallet. “Hey, Grant, would you mind going to Torchy’s?” he says, pointedly naming the Austin-native taco chain. “I feel like a Brushfire. And, you know what?” he adds, smile so saccharine, I’m sure his teeth hurt. “How about you get something for yourself? As a thank-you, for running this errand.”
“Um… sure? It’s what I was about to do anyway—”
“Thank you!” Ian gives me a superior look as he hands his brother a twenty. I glare back.
“That’s probably not gonna cover it,” says Grant, interrupting our stand-off. “I was thinking I’d do queso, and that’s already, like, seven bucks, then at least four tacos—”
“You can eat the Brushfire yourself. Just take the money,” says Ian, and returns to me.
“Butdude!” Grant insists. “That’s yours!”
