Page 47 of Wicked Brutal

I slap her hand. “Those are mine.”

“You weren’t eating them.”

“I was going to.”

“You still have plenty.”

I pull the bag closer. “Get your own.”

“I didn’t bring any.”

“That sounds like a personal failure.”

She smiles and opens her own lunch. That’s it. No weird entrance. No explanation for why she’s here. Becca saw me in the library and sat down. I like that. I like it more than I want to admit.

“So,” she says after a minute, “how’s today?”

I shrug. “Weird.”

“Bad weird?”

“No.”

She nods. “That’s good.”

“I keep expecting it to be.”

“What?”

“Bad." Becca looks at me. I pick at the corner of my sandwich wrapper. “I spent all weekend waiting for Dad to find out.”

Her expression tightens slightly. “Did he seem suspicious at all?”

“No. That’s the weird part. Nothing happened.”

“Good.”

“I know.” I laugh quietly. “I sound insane. I told approximately six thousand people everything Friday, then went home and spent forty-eight hours convinced somebody was going to immediately betray me.”

“That sounds pretty reasonable considering your dad.” She nods toward the paper beside my elbow. “What’s that?”

“My English essay.” I turn it around and push it toward her. “Read the note.”

Becca takes the paper. Her eyes move over Mrs. Whitmore’s handwriting. Then she looks at me. “Okay. That’s cool. Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Write.”

I look down at my sandwich. “I already do sometimes.”

“Like stories?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“Why would you?”