“I’ve been thinking,” I tell Bob English on Monday morning.
“Yeah? About what?”
“About the taste test. About the rules.”
He leans his head on his hand. “Which ones?”
“All of them.” And I tell him my plan.
“I like it,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He reaches for his bag of Sharpies, fishes around in it, and pulls out a blue one. “Give me your hand.”
The former members of the Blue Team are scattered all over the cafeteria at lunchtime—twelve bodies orbiting the white-hot sun of the cool table. There are a few loners like me and Bob, a few twos like Carl and Karl, and one group of three: Chad, Anita, and Paul. We’re like Seurat’s orange dots hidden in the bright green grass, the ones you don’t even see unless you know to look for them.
We talk to half of them at lunch and catch the other five after gym. I explain my plan while Bob stands behind me and flips his blue Sharpie. They all listen carefully and agree right away, but I make each person stop for a second, and I ask, “Are you sure?”
And every one of them says yes, and then holds out one hand, to Bob.
After school, Bob walks me to Bennie’s, flipping his Sharpie into the air and catching it. His eyes never leave his blue pen. He doesn’t even look for cars at the corner.
“You should really look for cars,” I tell him.
“We’re a team now,” he says. “You were looking for both of us.” And then he waves and walks off.
Dad is home when I walk in, sitting on the couch with his laptop. The apartment smells like chicken and garlic.
Safer doesn’t call.
There’s no note under the door.
I check under my pillow before bed. Nothing.