Page 58 of When We Were Magic
“Yeah,” I say, still spinning my empty shake cup, watching Iris and Maryam so I don’t have to look at Roya and think about the elephant that Maryam was talking about. “Sure.”
“Great,” Roya says, and I can see her watching me out of the corner of my eye. “Perfect.”
Maryam drops me off at home after lunch and I walk inside feeling slightly sun-dazzled. It takes my entire body a minute to adjust to the transition from the bright, hot afternoon to the cool darkness of the house. I feel instantly sleepy and hyperaware of the sweat drying on my arms and back. I head to my bedroom, torn between taking a nap or taking a shower.
Thoughts of either leave my head the second I open the door.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I shout. Nico scrambles out from under my bed, one hand clutching a file folder, the other holding a bag.
The bag with the heart in it.
“Why are you in my room?!” I demand as I storm in, reachingfor the bag in his hand. A corner of the duct tape on the front is peeling back, and I can see the corner of the letterJpeeking out.
He jerks it out of my reach. “Chill, okay, I was just—”
“Don’t tell me to chill! What are you doing in here? Why were you under my bed?” My fingers are burning and my palms are prickling and I clench my hands into fists to stop myself from doing something I’ll regret. Something I can’t control. I can’t keep the quaver out of my voice, though.
“I’m trying to tell you, I was—”
“You haveno right to be—”
“Oh mygodjust let meexplain, you don’t have to be such a—”
“Don’t youdare call me—”
“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?”
We both turn to see Pop standing in the door, hands braced on the frame. His entire face is red, all the way up to the top of his scalp, and his eyebrows are a long, low furrow of what-the-hell. He’s wearing his worn-out college sweater and a pair of cargo shorts, which is his sitting-in-the-office-all-day-reviewing-depositions outfit. If he could hear us all the way back in his office, with the door closed and his white noise machine going—we were shouting at each other at top volume. I’m out of breath. Shit.Shit. This isreallybad.
Pop looks between me and Nico and the file folder in Nico’s hand and the bag in Nico’s other hand, which I’m still reaching for.
“Um,” we both say, and Pop crosses his arms.
“Nico was in my room,” I say.
“Alexis was being a total—” Nico starts, then catches the look on Pop’s face and stops midsentence. He doesn’t finish what he was about to say.
“Why were you in her room, Nico?” Pop asks, his voice strained with theextremepatience of a parent mediating between his kids. Nico’s ears flush and he mumbles something unintelligible. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was looking for something,” Nico says, just loudly enough to hear this time.
“What were you looking for?” I demand. “And why didn’t you justask mefor it?”
“Because I knew you’d say no,” Nico says, not looking at me. He brandishes the file folder in his hand. “I was looking for your final essay from when you had Nichols for English in your sophomore year.”
Pop’s brows were already low, but they drop even farther at hearing that. Nico looks like he wants to crawl under my bed and hide. “Why would you want her final essay?” Pop asks. I can’t imagine that he actually doesn’t know—maybe he’s just trying to give Nico an opportunity to defend himself.
“He was going to copy from it,” I answer. Nico’s still holding the bag with the heart in it, and I’m trying to figure out how I can make sure he doesn’t get so distracted by being in trouble that he takes it with him. I reach for it again, but as I do, he turns to me with a look of shock and betrayal.
“I wasn’t,” he says, but it’s for Pop’s benefit. “I just knowhow you save all that old crap, and I wanted to see what approach you took—”
“Ohplease,” I start to say. Pop cuts me off.
“Nico,” he says in a level voice that’s trying very hard not to be lawyerish, “isn’t that essay due tomorrow?”
Nico looks miserable. “Yes. That’s why I wanted help.”
“I see. Let’s go talk about this somewhere else.” Pop gestures to Nico, who turns to trudge out of the room. They walk toward Nico’s bedroom to talk about how much trouble Nico’s in, and I hear Pop saying, “We both know that copying and ‘getting help’ aren’t the same thing, young man,” as he half closes the door to my bedroom behind him. As the door swings shut, I catch a last glimpse of the bag still dangling from Nico’s hand.
