Page 62 - My FlipBook

L IS A J. L A W R E N C E

“Maybe you could make him cookies or something.”
“You make him cookies,” Greta said. “You did the crime;
you do the time.” It was a classic Rogerism, oddly satisfying to
say. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the bus doors slide
open and the couple slip off, dodging the line filing on. Greta
relaxed back in her seat again.
She knew Ash wasn’t trying to be a caveman, asking
her to bake the cookies. They never talked about it, but Ash

always used to bake with their mother. How many times
had Greta seen him standing on a kitchen chair next to her,
leveling a cup of flour with a butter knife? Or him guiding a
mixer around a bowl, her hand clamped firmly on top of his?
Greta had always darted in to stick her fingers in the batter,
but Ash was methodical, almost scientific. Patty offered to
bake with him once, before she and Roger got married. Ash ADVANCE READING COPY

just stood in the kitchen doorway and dropped his chin, his
eyes still fixed on her. Like one of those psycho kids who’s all
quiet until he snaps and stabs someone with an apple corer.
Now Greta only saw him wander in for crackers or to make
macaroni and cheese.
Last day of the term. Greta paused outside her biology
classroom and repeated those words in her head, wanting
some comfort from them. One more class trapped in a
room with Rachel and Priya, avoiding Priya’s curious looks,

watching Rachel avoid her. She should have sailed through
the door. Instead, anxiety—like she’d swallowed a stick
whole—jammed up her center, threatening to push every-
thing up through her mouth. Ms. Nordstom, the teacher,

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