THERE’S A BOTTLE in the trash can in 109.
I hear the clink sound when I go to throw away the empty can of beans we had for dinner last night. I stare at the trash can for a minute. Maybe I imagined the sound, or maybe it’s something else, like the can of beans from dinner the night before last. I glare at the bathroom door, where Mama’s taking a shower. Charlie’s dressed, but she’s under the covers trying to sleep. I reach into the trash.
I feel like when me and Sneaky were wrestling and he accidentally elbowed me in the stomach, hard.
The bottle is cool and smooth in my hand and I want to fling it at the wall and watch it explode into a million pieces.
“What’s that?”
Charlie’s voice makes me jump. I drop the bottle into the trash and whirl around.
“Back up!” I say. “You can’t be creeping up on me like that!”
“I’m not!” Charlie says. She tries to peek into the trash, but I push her back toward her and Mama’s bed.
“I’m telling! You pushed me!” Charlie yells.
“So? You get on my nerves!”
Charlie and I scowl at each other. The phone rings, and she bounces to it before I can stop her. Mama told us to never answer that phone, and to only use it if there’s an emergency.
“Charlie, don’t—”
“Hello?” Charlie picks up the phone. “No, she’s in the—”
I snatch the phone from Charlie, and she sticks out her tongue at me.
“Hello?” says the voice on the other end, sounding upset. “Is Lisa Dunn available?”
“Um, no, she’s not available right now.”
The voice sighs. “Well, we need her to call the main office right away. Can you tell her that?”
“Yeah, I can tell her,” I say, my heart thumping.
“Thank you.” Click.
Mama comes from the bathroom, and her face is a cloud. I’m pretty sure the person on the phone was only bringing rain. So I don’t say a word about the call. Not today.
When Mama drops me off at school, I climb from the car without saying goodbye.
“ ’Sup, Isaiah?” says Sneaky when I sit down across from him in the lunchroom for breakfast.
“Hey,” I say. I stab a Tater Tot with my fork, and I can barely taste it when I pop it into my mouth.
“Check the kicks.” Sneaky grins, sliding his foot out from under the table. “Got ’em yesterday.”
I stare at his shoes, and for some reason, seeing them just makes me even madder. Sneaky’s my best friend and all, but right now I feel like dumping a spoonful of ketchup on his brand-new shoes.
“Nice,” I say, not really caring about his stupid shoes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sneaky asks.
“Nothing.” I dunk my French toast sticks in the little tub of syrup. Sneaky likes his plain, but he always gets an extra syrup for me. He tosses it to me like always, but it bumps the one I already have and spills on my tray.
“Watch it!” I yell, louder than I mean to.
“Dang, chill out, bro!” Sneaky says, giving me a look. “It was an accident. Why you trippin’?”
I stand up without giving Sneaky an answer. I’m not hungry anymore, so I pick up my tray and toss everything in the trash. And even though it’s stupid, I don’t talk to Sneaky for the rest of the day.