Chapter 13 - I'll Be a Home for You

Chapter 13

we sign the bounty–hummus bilateral agreement

JJ

I stare at the vending machine. The lockers dance in front of my eyes, pointing at me and laughing. One of them is waving a Polish flag, trying to jump me.

My brain’s melting.

I forgot how mentally draining math competitions are. I need sugar. Preferably a Bounty, but any chocolate bar will do.

Footsteps echo to my left, and I tense up.

Aang leans against the vending machine. He got rid of the blazer, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. He crosses his arms, and his metal watch glitters in the hallway lighting. I look away.

“Do they not have Bounty?” he asks.

“You know very well they don’t.” I train my eyes on the machine.

“You shouldn’t be surprised. They’re not very good.”

“They are. You just have faulty taste buds.”

“I’d call them developed.”

He used to say this as a joke all the time. I ignore the knot of pain in my throat, my eyes still on the machine.

“I’ll make you an offer. You answer the question I asked before the round,” he says.

“In exchange for?”

He produces a Bounty from his pocket.

I stare at the blue wrapper. “Where did you get that?” They don’t sell these chocolate bars in the US. You have to import them.

“My mom forcibly placed it in my backpack, rambling about freshman year Halloween.”

An unwilling laugh escapes me. “I got so cranky because no one was giving out Bounties.”

“Hard to forget all the complaining.”

“You complained about the lack of sugar-free options.”

Another universe might see Bryn and Aang as allies in their war against refined sugar. Of course, Bryn’s reasons stem from medical necessity, while Aang is an octogenarian trapped inside a teenage body.

He shrugs. “I stand by what I said.” He waves the Bounty in front of my face. “So what is it going—hey!”

I snatch the bar from his hand.

He snatches it back. I attempt to grab it again, but he raises his arm above his head. I’m not reaching that, and he knows it.

I prop my hands on my hips. “Since when do you have quick reflexes?”

“Since I have to catch flying girls three times a week.”

And I won’t be one of them. My nails drill into my hipbones. I need sugar to drown my sorrows.

“Fine.” I extend my palm. “But Bounty first.”

“Absolutely not. You have no credibility, and the attempted theft just proved it. Answer first.”

He’s not wrong. I was going to run away with it. “Fine. I came last year.”

“Why?” He lowers his arm.

I snatch the Bounty from his hand, tear open the wrapper, and take a bite of the coconut–chocolate happiness. “Good shit.” I moan, sliding down the wall and sitting cross-legged.

“Shit indeed. Not sure about the good part,” he grumbles, and the joke is just so familiar that the words escape my mouth.

“I wanted to support …”

A ghost of a smile flickers on his face.

Shit. I rolled my “R” on support.

My accent is slipping, but I don’t have the mental energy to keep it up. So, I let my tongue do its thing.

What a feeling. Like taking a bra off.

I’ll put it back on tomorrow.

“I wanted to support …” I repeat, looking at his lips curling that little bit more. “… the team.”

He slides down the wall, leaving enough space for our shoulders not to touch. I inhale. He still uses the ginger soap. How did I not notice before? The scent travels through my bones, muscles, and cells until everything relaxes. I extend my legs in front of me.

He bites the inside of his cheek and tugs on his tie, then loosens it. I follow the knot as it goes from his neck to his chest.

“I came to the first home game last year,” he blurts out.

The synapses in my brain scramble. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “I asked myself that question the whole time I was there.”

We sit in silence as I process this information. Aang was there. My parents couldn’t get off their shifts to make it, but he was there. Someone came to see my first cheerleading performance.

I didn’t know memories could get better retroactively.

I open my mouth. No words come out, because I don’t actually know what to say.

Apologize.

I roll my shoulders and swallow my pride. It goes down like knives. “I’m sorry I said you dropped me on purpose during the game. You’re a good backspot, and I appreciate how hard you work to keep us safe. Thank you.”

He draws in a breath.

I drum my fingers against the floor. “Yeah … so, that’s all.”

A beat of silence. Two.

He leans a touch closer, stopping before his knee grazes mine. “I’m sorry for dropping you. During the game. And during the first practice. Both of them were my fault, and I …” When he turns his head, my eyes get tangled in his. “I’ll never let you touch the ground again, JJ.”

My heartbeat turns arrhythmic, and my body moves toward him of its own accord.

Co ty kurwa robisz?11 Abort! Abort! Abort!

I jerk away, scrambling up. “My mom packed me carrots and hummus. She was hoping I wouldn’t find a chocolate bar to eat. She claims that, as a doctor, I must promote healthy eating at all times. I argue that everything in moderation is a better concept, as it allows patients more flexibility, and really, does she expect me in the future to tell a woman who has painful periods to not self-medicate with chocolate? As a surgeon, she doesn’t talk to patients enough, and her bedside manner flabbergasts me.”

There’s a swallowed sound of amusement in his throat.

I bite my lip, trying to find the train of thought I displaced. “You can have the sugar-free, healthy hummus. As a sorry for accusing you of attempted murder.”

He hesitates, and it stings.

“It’s just hummus,” I say.

“Okay. Just hummus.” He stands up.

We’re indoors, but the corridor looks like the sun just shone a bit brighter.

Aang and I are sitting next to each other. Georgie’s on my right and Drew’s on Aang’s left. In front of us is the Finsbury High team table.

“Next question! What’s the probability that …” The emcee reads out the question.

“Georgie, you worked on this,” Aang says, but Georgie’s a step ahead of him, already writing the equation down.

“I think it’s 12.75 percent.” She presses the button.

“Blackstock High?”

Georgie hesitates and looks at Aang. He gives her a thumbs-up.

“12.75 percent?”

“That’s correct! One point to Blackstock High. The score is 4–0.”

Georgie beams, and I remember the thrill of my first competition. Aang was sitting in the first row, cheering me on. I was on the B-team while he was on the A-team. We were so looking forward to being on the team together the following year. I wonder if he remembers the handshake we prepared two years ago.

Drew gives another correct answer. The score is 5–0. Fifth question done. Five to go.

“Next question! A mix of logic and geometry! Let ABCD be a quadrilateral …”

Aang and I grab our pens at the same time. He’s scribbling away as my hand’s flying on the paper.

“It’s 120,” I announce at the same time as Aang says, “It’s 130.”

We both still, our pencils suspended over our papers. The ceasefire built on a carrot-and-hummus foundation trembles. No. I’m not doing this again.

“Captain, hello!” Drew shakes Aang’s arm. “What’s the answer?”

Aang’s gaze bounces between Drew and his own paper with the 130 clearly visible.

Before he looks at my sheet, I put my hand over it, hiding the numbers. “Actually, I think I’ve made a mistake. It can’t be 120.” I smile. “It’s your answer, Aang. It’s 130.”

He frowns. “But—”

I use my other hand to press the buzzer.

“Blackstock High?” asks the emcee.

Aang looks at the teacher, but his eyes stray back to me. He blinks like his glasses have stopped working.

“Blackstock High? You have to answer.”

I motion for him to respond. Come on. You said it’s 130.

“It’s 120,” he answers, still staring at me.

What?

“That’s correct! It’s 6–0 to Blackstock High,” says the emcee.

Whatever happens now, we’ve already won.

They get the next question correct and beat us to the buzzer on question eight. We’re faster on question nine, and they take question ten.

“Blackstock High wins seven points to three! We’ll be posting the cumulative scores of the individual and team rounds for each school in fifteen minutes. The closing ceremony is in twenty minutes in the gym hall.”

I grin at Aang, and he almost grins back but stops himself. My insides shrivel.

An hour later, we’re packing ourselves back onto the bus, with Georgie hugging a first-place trophy.

“Aang, wait!” I stop him before he boards. I play with the Bounty wrapper in my hands, the aluminum foil crinkling. “Thank you for giving me the chocolate bar. And saying my answer instead of your own. That was really nice.”

“Of course.” He scratches the back of his neck. “We’re teammates, and you were right.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen,” he cuts me off. “There are five weeks until cheerleading Regionals, and today proved that when we work together, we win stuff. And we have to win for Stanford and Columbia. So, from now on, I will stop fighting you, and you will stop fighting me. We’ll be civil. But I can’t be friends with you again. I just … I don’t think we can go back to how it was before.” He steps onto the bus.

“No matter how much I’d kill for it,” he says quietly before leaving me alone on the sidewalk.

Clouds bury the sun, leaving the afternoon gray.

11 What the fuck are you doing?