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That gets me off the sofa.

“What part?”

“The eyes.”

She pours a glass and leans against the counter.

“He looked at his friends before he came over. Then his hands stopped doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“He pulls on his sleeves when he’s talking normally.”

“So you moved.”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

“For about ten seconds.”

I wait.

“He followed me.”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it.

“Where?”

“Hallway. Between science and math.”

She sighs. “He talked.”

“About what?”

“Me.”

“Tova.”

“He did the smelling thing again.”

I know the one. For months he’s been telling other kids she smells and making sure she can hear them laugh. Apparently three weeks in Sweden hasn’t improved his material.

“What exactly?”

She looks toward the stairs.

“He asked his friends if they could smell Sweden coming.”

I stay where I am.

“They laughed?”

“Some of them.”

“How many is some?”

“I don’t know. Three.”