Because

Conjunction. A word that connects things. As in, “Why you do me like that?” “Because.” Nuf said.

Alma goes to the main room of the library for study hall and I go to the back room for In-School Suspension. They don’t even bother to call my mother anymore because she changes her number every other week. Actually she changes her boyfriend every other week, because that’s how she has phones in the first place. That’s also how I have a phone. (See F for Fine Print.)

ISS is in a room at the back of the library, and I can see Alma through the window. It’s like that Tantalus thing again. I have a lightbulb. I know she feels me like I feel her. But she don’t want to admit it yet. I got a secret weapon, though. The problem is Mr. ISS Teacher, who won’t let me leave my seat. I decide he needs some convincing.

Me: (Making the sound of a ticking clock.)

Mr. ISS: “Can you stop that?”

Me: (Pulling out my eyebrow hairs.)

Mr. ISS: “Can you stop that?”

Me: (Pulling out my eyelashes.)

Mr. ISS: “Can you? Uh, that is disg—!”

Me: “You like that? I can do it all day.” LONG PAUSE. “But I don’t have to.”

Mr. ISS: “What do you want? Gum?”

Me: “Ha. No. Yes. And also, just to go see her.” I point through the window at Alma reading cookbooks. Cookbooks of food that she is never going to cook or eat.

Mr. ISS: “I can’t do that. I can’t have any trouble.”

Me: “Nah. No trouble. I just want to give her this.” I show him.

Mr. ISS: “That’s it? Uh. Okay. You got five minutes.”

SCORE.

I make a field trip to Alma’s table and sit across from her. Alma don’t look up from her book. I do a big sigh and set the apple in front of her.

My eyes say: I only have this one left. A bonafide Honeycrisp. But I was saving it. Not for my dinner. For you.

Alma looks over the top of her book. Her mouth don’t say nothing. But her eyes say: For real?

My eyes say: I didn’t even take one bite. Not even a lick.

The librarian says: “Shhhh.”

Alma and I look at each other like WTF and laugh.

Alma puts her book down. She laughed so she knows I win. “Hey,” she says, “today’s your birthday.” She takes a bite of the Honeycrisp. My stomach growls.

“I guess so.” But I don’t want to talk about that so I pull out my dictionary. “Check this out. I made it while you wasn’t talking to me.”

She flips the pages and wrinkles her perfect nose. Even her damn nostrils are pretty.

“Silly,” she says. “Always comes after Afraid.”

I don’t drop-kick her because she’s Alma. (See B for Bestie.)

“I remember when you used to think LMNOP was one letter!” She smothers a laugh. “And it started with an E!”

I don’t split her lip because she’s Alma. I do slam the book shut but Alma sticks her hand in the way.

“Wait,” she says. She turns pages and reads me for what feels like a century. “I changed my mind. We can pretend you did the mistakes on purpose. Whatever’s confusing we’ll just call poetry. Symbolism. Famous writers do it all the time.”

Famous writers? Alma always makes the stupit things I do seem smart. A writer? I can’t even imagine myself typing in the price of a Big Mac at McDonald’s. I can’t even imagine tomorrow. Tomorrow is for people like Alma. I’m still somewhere between today and yesterday.

The librarian says, “No eating in the library!”

Alma passes me back the apple. “I’m regifting,” she says.

“Why?”

“Just because. Now, you heard the librarian. Go! Call me tonight. Oh. And FYI: I still detest you.”

I grab the apple and run away before I drool in front of her. I love you, Alma!