For things like commercials people remember and different food chains,” I say, realizing I don’t really pay attention to the words my mother says when she’s on the phone all day. I just know she gets to work at home because of it, and that… has come in handy.
“Okay, I don’t think I’ve answered one of those. Just…ya know. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get one of her calls,” he says, his lip ticked up on one side. “I’m not real nice to telemarketers. But I’ll change that; I swear.”
He crosses his chest with his finger then picks up a fry from his plate, chewing it whole.
“Okay, well…you’ll love this then. My dad’s a dogcatcher,” I say, covering my eyes with both hands. When I let my fingers fall open so I can peek at him, he’s squeezing his eyes shut.
“I know…he’s like Cruella de Vil kinda evil. Except he’s not,” I begin to defend my dad.
“Uhm…dogcatcher . I saw Lady and the Tramp when I was a kid. That shit messed me up, and it’s the reason we still don’t have a dog. If I accidentally let it loose, your meanie dad will haul it away and lock it up in the rain somewhere,” he says, shaking his head.
“So…that’s not how it works—and dogcatcher really is more like stray-dog finder. He always finds a home for animals, and usually he gets called on to deal with strange animal situations for animal control,” I explain. Andrew keeps staring at me with one brow quirked.
“Hmmmm, okay, but I’m starting to wonder about you, Delaware. You better want to be something happy when you grow up,” he says through a full mouth.
“Surgeon.” My answer is one word, and it’s definitive. I’ve known what I want to be since the day I understood who the person was that did that job. I want to save people. I want to be their last hope. Because I will never quit.
“Oh yeah sure, surgeon. Like those are good people,” Andrew kids. I pick up one of my fries and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest and drops it on his plate, then taps his foot into mine twice, reminding me it’s there.
He doesn’t move it, though.
We’re quiet while we’re eating. A group of seniors I recognize from my school spill into the diner loudly, interrupting the awkward quiet. It distracts both of us, and we smirk at each other when one of the girls laughs—her cackle comes out almost sounding like a dolphin’s call. I hold a fist to my mouth to keep myself from laughing; Andrew stuffs more fries in his and looks out the window, knowing if we make eye contact again, we’ll both lose it.
After a few seconds, we glance at each other, exchanging a silent look that says we both think that chick should do her best not to laugh out loud—ever again.
The group settles down, but after a few minutes, their whispers are what catch our attention the second time. I notice Andrew glancing up from his plate, beyond my shoulder, then back down to his food. His movement is repetitive, and each time he looks at the group behind me, his scowl grows a little.
His reaction forces me to pay attention, too. Eventually, I hear one of the girls speak a little too loudly, mentioning James and Owen, and then I hear one of the guys in the group say something about betting “he’ll end up shooting himself just like his brother did or becoming some hardcore junkie.”
They’re talking about Andrew—or his brother, Owen. It doesn’t matter which one, because I get the sense that Andrew and his brother are so close that if you cut one the other bleeds.
Everything that follows happens in milliseconds—my eyes zero in on Andrew’s hand, the contraction of his muscles as he grips his fork. Then, I see the flex of his jaw and the strain in his neck followed by the cold shadow consuming his eyes. The hurt he’s feeling is there—I see it—but there’s anger and hate brewing, too.
I sense his conflict—ignore the wave of familiar ridicule being spun behind me or stand up to it and become one
“Okay, I don’t think I’ve answered one of those. Just…ya know. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get one of her calls,” he says, his lip ticked up on one side. “I’m not real nice to telemarketers. But I’ll change that; I swear.”
He crosses his chest with his finger then picks up a fry from his plate, chewing it whole.
“Okay, well…you’ll love this then. My dad’s a dogcatcher,” I say, covering my eyes with both hands. When I let my fingers fall open so I can peek at him, he’s squeezing his eyes shut.
“I know…he’s like Cruella de Vil kinda evil. Except he’s not,” I begin to defend my dad.
“Uhm…dogcatcher . I saw Lady and the Tramp when I was a kid. That shit messed me up, and it’s the reason we still don’t have a dog. If I accidentally let it loose, your meanie dad will haul it away and lock it up in the rain somewhere,” he says, shaking his head.
“So…that’s not how it works—and dogcatcher really is more like stray-dog finder. He always finds a home for animals, and usually he gets called on to deal with strange animal situations for animal control,” I explain. Andrew keeps staring at me with one brow quirked.
“Hmmmm, okay, but I’m starting to wonder about you, Delaware. You better want to be something happy when you grow up,” he says through a full mouth.
“Surgeon.” My answer is one word, and it’s definitive. I’ve known what I want to be since the day I understood who the person was that did that job. I want to save people. I want to be their last hope. Because I will never quit.
“Oh yeah sure, surgeon. Like those are good people,” Andrew kids. I pick up one of my fries and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest and drops it on his plate, then taps his foot into mine twice, reminding me it’s there.
He doesn’t move it, though.
We’re quiet while we’re eating. A group of seniors I recognize from my school spill into the diner loudly, interrupting the awkward quiet. It distracts both of us, and we smirk at each other when one of the girls laughs—her cackle comes out almost sounding like a dolphin’s call. I hold a fist to my mouth to keep myself from laughing; Andrew stuffs more fries in his and looks out the window, knowing if we make eye contact again, we’ll both lose it.
After a few seconds, we glance at each other, exchanging a silent look that says we both think that chick should do her best not to laugh out loud—ever again.
The group settles down, but after a few minutes, their whispers are what catch our attention the second time. I notice Andrew glancing up from his plate, beyond my shoulder, then back down to his food. His movement is repetitive, and each time he looks at the group behind me, his scowl grows a little.
His reaction forces me to pay attention, too. Eventually, I hear one of the girls speak a little too loudly, mentioning James and Owen, and then I hear one of the guys in the group say something about betting “he’ll end up shooting himself just like his brother did or becoming some hardcore junkie.”
They’re talking about Andrew—or his brother, Owen. It doesn’t matter which one, because I get the sense that Andrew and his brother are so close that if you cut one the other bleeds.
Everything that follows happens in milliseconds—my eyes zero in on Andrew’s hand, the contraction of his muscles as he grips his fork. Then, I see the flex of his jaw and the strain in his neck followed by the cold shadow consuming his eyes. The hurt he’s feeling is there—I see it—but there’s anger and hate brewing, too.
I sense his conflict—ignore the wave of familiar ridicule being spun behind me or stand up to it and become one
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