“You have fun with my sisters last night?” he asked, tearing off a piece of sandwich and eating it, rather than biting into the bread.
“You do that,” I said, pointing at him, and Oliver stopped midchew and looked down at the sandwich.
“What?” he asked, then swallowed. “Eat?”
“No, you do this”—I mimed him tearing the sandwich—“and then eat it. That’s how you used to eat sandwiches when we were little.”
“You remember that?”
“I do now.”
Oliver smiled, almost to himself, then tore off another piece. “My mom keeps saying things like that,” he said. “You do this or you do that.”
“Preserved in amber,” I said before I could stop myself, and he laughed again.
“Yeah, something like that,” he said. “A fossil in a brave new world.”
“Hey,” Drew said, coming up behind my left shoulder. “We should, uh, go get to that thing.”
I had no idea what thing he meant, but I knew a friendly rescue attempt when I saw one. “Yeah, that thing,” I said. “Oliver and I were just talking about sandwiches.”
“Hey, man,” Oliver said, and he and Drew did the fist-bump thing. (I will never understand how so many guys always know how to do that. Is it genetic? Is it a talent carried on the Y chromosome?)
“Hey,” Drew said. “Sandwiches? Uh, they’re cool, I guess.” He shot a quick smile at me. “Did you maim him yet?”
“Oh my God, please shut up,” I said, then started shoving Drew away and following close behind. “See you later, Oliver,” I said, and he waved before putting his earbuds back in and popping the last crust into his mouth.
“Sandwiches?” Drew hissed at me. “You’re terrible. Is there a dating elective at this school, because you need to sign up for it immediately.”
“Hey, who doesn’t like sandwiches?” I shot back. “People who hate life, that’s who. And I was just saying that I remembered the weird way he ate them.”
“You talked about sandwiches . . . and called him weird.” Drew closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. “Caro’s going to die when she hears this. Secondhand embarrassment will claim yet another young life.”
“I didn’t say the word weird to him!” I protested. “Tell Caro whatever you want.”
“Tell me what?”
Caro was just coming in through the glass doors, carrying a huge soda from Del Taco and pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “I’ll totally believe whatever you say.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Even if you’re lying, I’ll believe you. That’s what friendship is.”
“Don’t become a lawyer,” Drew muttered.
“It’s a long story,” I told her, stealing a sip from her soda.
“A long story about Oliver,” Drew added. “Where’s my burrito?”
Caro looked at him. “What burrito?”
“Caro!” he screamed. “You were supposed to bring me a burrito! I’m starving!”
“I’m sorry! You know I never remember these things!”
I pulled my sandwich out of my backpack and silently handed half to Drew.
“Thank you,” he sighed.
“That’s what friendship is,” I told him. “Just don’t eat it weird.”
THE LIGHT
Emmy devises the lamp system when they’re in kindergarten. Oliver perfects it.
“So I’ll flick the light three times,” she starts to explain, but he interrupts her.
“No, just once. Just turn it on once ’cause our moms might see if we turn it on three times. Just once.”
“Okay, just once. Okay. And then . . . and then you turn it on once.”
“Yeah!” Oliver’s totally excited. He loves secret things. “Then what?”
Emmy hadn’t thought this far. She’s only five years old, after all, just like Oliver. “Ummm . . .” She bites her lip. “Then you look out the window to make sure it’s me. ’Cause what if I’m not there and there’s a witch instead, Ollie?” Emmy is the only person allowed to call him “Ollie” so she likes to say it a lot.
Oliver lights up and hops onto the swing next to her. They swing when they have supersecret conversations because that way, no one can overhear. (That was Emmy’s idea, too.) “What if the witch is wearing a disguise?” he asks her. “How will I know it’s really you?”
Emmy pumps her legs and thinks for a minute. “Well, that’s dumb,” she finally says. “You’re always gonna know it’s me. And I’m always gonna know it’s you.” She pushes her hair out of her face and swings harder. “You’re Oliver. Who else would you be?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and they fly higher toward the sky.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So we were thinking,” my dad said on Saturday. “Maybe you could take Oliver out this afternoon.”
I glanced up at him from an old issue of Real Simple that my mom hadn’t recycled yet, no longer interested in the best way to iron a linen tablecloth. “What?”
My mom came over to stand next to my dad. Ah, the parental sneak attack. I should have seen this coming. Seventeen years of living in the same house with them and yet they still surprise me.
“We were talking earlier with Maureen,” my mom said. “It seems that Oliver is having a hard time making friends at school.”