Two of a Kind by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

Konkel’s notice and landed on the floor near his chair. Oliver leaned over to pick it up, and began to massage it gently between his fingertips.
    â€œDo you think her absence is meaningful in some way?” asked Ms. Konkel. “Was it intentional on Shakespeare’s part?”
    â€œI don’t know if it was, like, intentional. But it
is
meaningful. These are motherless girls, right? Maybe that’s why they behave the way they do. Maybe they miss their mother and are . . . acting out.” Oliver had heard that phrase used many times to describe
him
. He pressed the spitball hard between his thumb and forefinger; it took some pressure, but he succeeded in flattening it.
    â€œThat’s an excellent observation, Oliver,” Ms. Konkel said. “Does anyone want to elaborate on Oliver’s point? Or have anything else to add?” Molly Hahn raised her hand and so did Adam Schwartz; Oliver used the distraction to check his phone, but there was nothing from Delphine. Dejected, he put the phone away.
    Even the words of praise from Ms. Konkel did not do anything to lift his spirits and he was glad that he had a joint buried in the pocket of his jeans; he intended to smoke it later, a comforting if not exactly joy-inducing thought. He could have sworn he had a pretty full bag tucked away in his room somewhere. But the last time he checked under the pillow—his usual spot—it was gone.
    The afternoon was warm and golden when he got out of school at three o’clock; he decided not to go straight home, but over to Jake’s, on West Ninety-seventh Street. Jake lived in a town house where he had a whole floor to himself. Turned out Jake had a joint too, and they could enjoy their weed in peace up there; the smoke didn’t seem to register with Jake’s mom. He didn’t leave until after five o’clock, though the light seemed hardly different than it had been two hours earlier.
    Oliver headed south along Central Park West, just because it was where Delphine lived. He texted her to see whether she had gotten the flowers, but she didn’t respond. To distract himself, he decided to walk home through the park. Yeah, that was a good idea. The park was, like, beautiful in June. He entered at Eighty-sixth Street; the trees were a hyperlit green and the flowers—he didn’t know their names—were so bright they might have been covered in paint. He stopped to watch a pair of sparrows, and became fixated on the subtle distinctions of their feathers—gray, brown, black. When they flew off, he felt a loss so keen he wanted to cry. Being stoned affected him like that sometimes.
    Around Seventy-second Street, he got a sudden attack of the munchies, so he bought a Häagen-Dazs ice-cream bar from a vendor and finished it in, like, a minute; then he bought another, and ate it more slowly. When he reached his own apartment building on East Sixty-ninth Street, he was still floating. After riding up in the elevator to the fortieth story, he let himself into the apartment quietly. Nothing brought him down faster than having to engage with his dad.
    Oliver said hello to Lucy, who was in the kitchen making dinner. It would be low fat or low carb or both; his dad was on this kick about healthy eating and gave Lucy strict instructions. Not that any of this was new. But when Oliver’s mother had been alive, the food thing hadn’t seemed so . . . relentless. Good thing he’d had the ice-cream bars.
    Then he went down the hall, toward his own room. When he reached his dad’s study, he stopped. The door was closed, but he heard voices coming from inside. One was his dad’s voice. The door opened. “Ollie,” said his father, using the nickname that his mother had given him; Oliver wished he wouldn’t. “I’m glad you’re home. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
    â€œMeet?” Now the weed was making him fuzzy.