I slid across the bed until I was sitting at the edge. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to return.” I stood up and walked to my desk. I opened the bottom drawer and pushed aside the can of SpaghettiO’s to find what I was looking for.

“Here.”

She was reading the poem and chewing on her lower lip.

“I think this belongs to you.” I handed her the thermos with the little black footprints on the side that still had some red paint splattered on the lid.

“I was wondering where I’d left that.”

And that was it. That was all she had to say.

I stood in front of her, arms crossed like a mother waiting for her naughty child’s confession.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Her eyes sparkled and reminded me of ginger ale. “Yep.” She went back to reading the book.

“Lavi, are you going to tell me or what?”

“It’s none of your business.”

For a brief moment, I was hurt, but then I felt insulted. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice came out louder than I had intended.

“Which part did you not understand?” She closed the book and brought it up to her chest and I wondered if this was some kind of joke. One eyebrow was raised and her lips were pursed tight, as though she was sucking on something sour. For a second, I didn’t recognize her. Then her face softened and she was the old Lavi again.

When she spoke, her voice cracked. “When were you going to tell me about your thing with my brother?”

I knew it wasn’t possible, but suddenly it felt like the temperature in the room had risen by ten degrees. I walked to the window, trying to think of how to answer.

“Forget it,” she said, obviously frustrated.

“Lavi, there is nothing to tell.”

One of the things I liked best about my room was the way the sunlight warmed it in the afternoon. Now it cast a triangular wedge of brightness onto her head, making her hair twinkle as though it was sprinkled with glitter.

“Daryl and I are just friends.” I sat in a chair, breathed out a heavy sigh, and hoped it made me look more irritated than guilty.

“Has my brother told you anything about Daddy?” she asked.

I shook my head. The way she said it made her sound like a little girl.

“Daryl’s the problem. He’s why my mom and dad aren’t together. He always gets in the way.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “So when you wrote that nasty thing about West and painted the entire hallway in red, did you know Daryl would be blamed or were you just hoping?”

“My father is back in town. This time Daryl isn’t going to ruin it.”