Skinny(52)

Finally I can’t stand it anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut and blurt it out. “I’m really sorry for what I said to you. I didn’t mean it.”

Rat is quiet. I open my eyes and look at his profile. His glasses. The tiny bump on his nose. The place where the dimples would be if he were smiling. But he’s not.

“I was just scared to try out for the musical. I mean, it’s a big step for me, you know?”

He nods but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I know,” he says.

“Of course you know,” I say. “You always know everything.”

“Not everything,” he says, and the silence stretches out again. I look out the passenger-side window and watch a balding old man walk his basset hound down the street. They turn right at the corner and we go straight. My face is a ghostly half reflection in the window, and I try to think of something more to say. I turn back to Rat and try again.

“I’m doing well in theater class. You’d be shocked to see me up on that stage.” I realize I’m talking really fast now, but I just want it to be normal between us again. Like it’s always been. “And you should see my playlist. I’m keeping up with it every week.”

“Good for you,” he says, and it’s not sarcastic, but he still seems distant. He breaks for a red light, but keeps his eyes forward on the road. I know this face better than I know my own.

My eyes search the familiar features for some sign. His eyes, his nose, and then . . . his lips.

“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, Rat.” I reach out and touch his arm lightly. He glances over at me. “I miss you.”

The light changes, and Rat pushes on the gas pedal. “I miss you, too,” he says so quietly I barely hear it, but it’s enough to make the heaviness lift off my shoulders.

“We’re okay?” I ask, as we pull into the community center parking lot. I still need to tell him about Jackson and the dance, but it just doesn’t seem like the right time. He’ll be happy for me, though. I know he will. So why don’t I want to tell him?

“Of course,” Rat says.

When we enter the center, Rat goes off in his usual direction, and I head back to the play area.

Mario glances up from a pile of blocks when I enter the room. He gives me a look, and I feel instantly guilty.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” he says. “Rat’s been here. But not you.”

I kneel down beside him and pick up one of the blocks. “I know,” I say, stacking one blue block on top of the two red ones. We take turns for a little while, stacking and rearranging colors in silence.

“Were you sick?” he asks finally, his eyes still on the pile of blocks in front of us.

“Not exactly. I had surgery.”

“What’s that?”

I think about how to explain it. “They fix your stomach.”

He squints over at me. Then he closes one eye and squints at me again. “Are your eyes bigger?”

“No. I think my face is smaller.”

“You know, I’m in first grade now. We go all day, and we don’t even take a nap.” He pushes at the bottom block on the stack, and they topple over with a crash. For some reason, it makes us both smile. “I might be gone a lot, too, you know,” he says.

“First grade is very important,” I say. “I can understand how that would keep you very busy.”

He nods, very seriously. “I’m learning how to read.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s harder than it looks.”

I laugh.

“Do you want a cookie?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, and I do. The chocolate chip cookies on the tiny table beside us look amazing. “But I can’t eat cookies anymore.”

“You used to like cookies.” He looks at me suspiciously.

“I still like them.”

“Did the surgery make you not like cookies?”

“When I eat cookies, I don’t feel good. It makes me feel sick.”

He looks shocked. “That sucks,” he says, and I don’t try to tell him not to say that, because it really does. Reaching across the scattered blocks, he pats my hand like I’m an old lady who needs comforting.

“Where are the girls?” I ask, trying to get him off the cookie subject.

“They’re outside playing princess and they’re all mad because they don’t have a prince.”

“Not in the prince kind of mood today?”

Mario shakes his head. “What about you? Do you have a prince?”

I remember Jackson and the invitation to the dance. The dizzy, bubbly feeling returns. “Yeah, I kind of do.”