Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

feet. “He’ll walk right past you in class tomorrow. If you corner him, he’ll be civil and smug and call you by the wrong name. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.”

As Rachel watched Paul walk away, she wondered why he was so angry. Perhaps he was feeling some vicarious strains of her own doubt, fear, hope, and confusion. It wasn’t until two weeks later that Rachel finally understood the extent of Paul’s involvement in her encounter with Harry Gallagher.

Harry had not called, of course. And so she, after a week of wondering and agonizing, had finally convinced herself that it would be all right to call him.

“Hello, Harry?” she said, when a man answered. She could barely hold the phone. Her hand felt as if it were broken. She wished she’d never done this, after all.

“No,” he said. “Harry’s gone out. You want me to give him a message?” He had a slight British accent, which Rachel thought quite lovely. She had not known of a roommate.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess you could tell him that I called. It’s Rachel. I’m a … friend of his.”

“Oh, Rachel,” he said, with a great deal of emphasis on the first part of her name, as if he were saying, Oh, that friend. “Yeah, Harry mentioned a Rachel.” She listened carefully for clues but was not sure what Harry might have said about her. “This is Skip,” he said. “Harry’s apartment mate.”

“Hello,” Rachel said, feeling foolish.

“Listen,” Skip said. “Harry will be back soon. You can try him again in a bit. Better yet, come over and wait for him. I know he’ll be glad to see you.”

Rachel began to smile. She swung her foot.

“I guess I will,” she said. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“I’m sure,” Skip said.

Rachel changed clothes, and then again, then stripped and quickly showered, dressed, and was on her way to Harry’s before she realized that her AmCiv discussion group was about to begin without her. She had spent three hours the night before preparing for group. She felt unlike herself, suddenly, and was both elated and alarmed by the sensation. But, as she had on the night that had ended in Harry’s bed, Rachel gave herself up to fate and possibility and the hope that there would always be an exception to every rule.

“You don’t mind if I eat something, do you?” Skip said. “I’m starved.” He offered her white bread, pink bologna, emphatically yellow mustard, and a knife. Still Life, she thought. I haven’t eaten bologna in years.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m really not hungry.”

“Beer?” It was one-fifteen in the afternoon.

“No. Thanks.”

Skip took a bottle for himself, pulled out two chairs at the wobbly kitchen table, one for him, one around the corner for her. He ate his sandwich in immense bites. It was gone quickly. His lips were vaguely yellow, and the beer made him belch.

“Sorry,” he said. “We’ve sort of let our manners lapse around here.”

Rachel glanced at the clock above his head. She listened for the door. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “You said Harry mentioned me?” she said, and could have ripped out her tongue. She looked down at the tabletop and saw her finger scratching a furrow in the sticky brown skin it wore. She put her hands into her lap.

“Indeed he did,” Skip said, smiling. “He had to, really. I do the laundry around here.” He grinned, leaning back in his chair.

For a moment, Rachel could make no sense of this. And then, remembering the bedsheets, she understood. She let her breath out slowly and looked right at him.

“What did Harry say?”

“Well,” Skip said. “I have to whisper this.” He moved his chair next to hers.

Rachel began to know that this was not what she had been hoping for, but she wasn’t sure. She had only just met Skip. Perhaps he was simply eccentric. She had met so many eccentric people here at school. They had, in the beginning, astounded her, but after a time she had found them to be far more trustworthy and predictable than many of the more ordinary people she had encountered since leaving home. And so she gave Skip the benefit of the doubt and reluctantly, her shoulders hunched, offered her ear.

“Harry said,” Skip whispered, at the same time sliding his hand around her arm, “that the two of you were a perfect fit.” He drew back for a moment, then again into her ear said, “Nice and tight.”

By the time she realized what he was saying, he had put his tongue into her ear and was reaching for her with his other hand.

Rachel knocked her chair over backward as she gained her feet and ran to the door. She ran for blocks before she lost her breath. She had left her jacket behind, but there was no way she was going back for it. She had her wallet and her keys. And she now knew everything she needed to know.

Two days later, when Rachel finally found herself face-to-face with Harry, jostled together on their way into class, he had not spoken to her, had shown not the slightest recognition. She had not been surprised but, nonetheless, felt unspeakably sad and embarrassed, especially when she noticed the other boys from his fraternity looking at her in a way that made her want to gouge out their eyes with a spoon.

Even so, even after everything had gone wrong, she had not gone crying to Paul. He had come crying to her.

“I have something to tell you,” he said without preamble when she found him waiting outside her room on Friday evening. He was sitting on the floor, drinking a bottle of beer and working a crossword puzzle. Seeing him like this, Rachel was not at all prepared for the confession he had come to deliver. “Come on in,” she said, unlocking the door and turning on the lights.

Once inside, he immediately said, “I know you’re feeling awful about Harry,” but she