Chapter 5: Twelve Before Friday

Rafe's kitchen smells like browned butter, and it has since we were kids.

His mother used to leave the back door unlocked for me, and I used to come in without knocking.

That night I knocked.

"It's open," he called.

I went in with the diary under my arm.

He was at the stove in a gray T-shirt with a skillet going, and he didn't turn around.

"Sit," he said. "I'm making grilled cheese. You skipped lunch."

"How do you know?"

"Because you skip lunch when you're upset."

I sat at the table.

The yellow tablecloth was the same one, and so was the burn mark on the corner where Rafe once set a pan down too fast at fourteen.

He put a plate in front of me.

The sandwich was cut diagonally, the way I like it, and I almost said thank you.

Instead I said, "You told me not to give Delaney the diary."

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down with his own plate.

"Thursday night," he said, "I stayed late in the lab to scrub the flat-top. It was about nine. The book was open on the pass, and I looked at it."

"You said you never wrote in it."

"I didn't. I looked. Your name was at the top of the tally page, and the against column had twelve lines under it."

"Twelve."

"I counted twice." He rubbed his face. "Twelve is not a majority. But it's one vote from it, and your third slip was due in the morning."

I put the sandwich down.

"You counted twelve Thursday night. Delaney read fourteen on Friday."

"Yes."

"Two more people signed against me overnight."

"Or two more signed on Friday before Chef came in. I wasn't there."

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