“It’s gonna be great,” I say, making an effort to keep my voice light, though it’s hard to get excited about spring break when he and Teddy are both leaving me behind.
Months ago Teddy assured me that we’d make the best of it, since he wasn’t going anywhere either. “You and me,” he promised. “We’ll paint the town.”
“Red.”
“What?”
“I think it’spaint the town red.”
“Why red?” he asked. “Why not blue? Or green?”
“We can paint the town blue if you want.”
“Okay,” he said with a nod. “Then it’s settled. We’ll paint the town blue.”
But then he won the lottery. And plans changed. Now he’s taking the entire basketball team to Mexico, where he rented a private bungalow at a fancy hotel. All his treat, of course. And I’ll be staying behind, the town to remain unpainted.
“Don’t make me feel guilty about leaving you here,” Leo says, smiling at my expression. “Not when you could’ve gone to Mexico.”
I give him a look. “Oh yeah. Me and Teddy and the entire basketball team. Sounds like a dream vacation.”
He laughs. “I’m actually a little jealous. Apparently the place has a hot tub and a private pool. With a waterslide.”
“Of course it does,” I say, not the least bit surprised by this. Teddy might’ve only gotten the check this afternoon, but this is just the latest in a long string of big purchases: a new phone and a new computer, new sneakers and a new jacket with too many zippers, a hoverboard he can’t figure out how to ride, and a watch so expensive it took him a week to work up the nerve to wear it. And all this from a guy who used to agonize over whether to pay extra for guacamole on his burrito.
At school a few weeks ago, the television in Ms. McGuire’s room gave out in the middle of a video about World War II, and to the teacher’s delight Teddy ordered a better one right there on the spot. Then last week he stood on a table in the middle of the cafeteria and waved around a thick manila envelope.
“Season tickets,” he called out. “Who wants to see the Cubbies with me?”
For the remainder of the lunch period, there was a kind of makeshift draft while Teddy doled out tickets with a magnanimous smile.
The next day he bought pizzas for everyone in the cafeteria. And the next there was a coffee cart outside the school, free to anyone who wanted a cup.
“Teddy McAvoy for president,” one girl said as she walked away with a steaming macchiato, which seems to be the general consensus these days.
“He just won the lottery,” Leo says now, as if I need reminding. “You can’t really blame him for living it up.”
“I don’t. I just—”
“You think he’s going overboard,” he says, looking out at the gray drizzle.
“And you don’t?”
“Honestly? I think he’s just getting started.”
I nod, staring down at my damp shoes.
“Here’s the thing you have to remember,” Leo says. “If you give a tiger a cupcake, you can’t be annoyed with him for eating it.”
In spite of myself, I laugh. “Why would you give a tiger a cupcake?”
“Why not?” he asks with a shrug.
But the problem is this: I’m not annoyed with Teddy for eating the cupcake.
I’m annoyed with myself for giving it to him in the firstplace.
The next morning I’m a few blocks from school when I hear someone honking. I turn around, alarmed to see a bright red sports car—the kind you might find in a cheesy eighties movie—coasting leisurely behind me.
