We walk into the student union together, chatting about nothing until we get to the cafeteria. I walk through as if I’m a regular college student. I feel old, but no one gives me a second glance. We split up and fill our trays, converging on a seat near a window.
“Hey, Brandon,” someone says, walking by.
Brandon raises his hand in a two-finger salute. I can’t believe how cool he is. It’s like he’s managed to figure out exactly the right amount of effort to use to say hello and not an inch more. I laugh.
“What?” he demands.
“Hey, bro,” I tease, pretending to be him.
“Knock it off,” he says, looking around like he’s embarrassed to be seen with me.
“What?” I unwrap my straw. “Do they teach you that in class? How to be cool?”
“Whatever,” he replies with a heavy sigh.
“You’re not the only person with relatives here,” I remind him. “Nobody cares how goofy your older sister is.”
Brandon snorts as if he’s not quite convinced. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to record a podcast at two.”
“A podcast?” I gasp, pretending to be shocked. “I guess you’re not that cool after all.”
“Would you give me a break?” he demands.
“I’m sorry.” I dial it back a bit. I don’t mean to offend him. I’m just happy to see him, that’s all.
“Yeah, I’m doing a podcast with one of my roommates,” he tells me, relaxing a little bit.
“It’s not that guy on the other side of the bathroom, is it?” I ask. I don’t remember any of their names, but I know the guy I don’t like is in the room opposite Brandon’s.
“Todd?” Brandon guesses.
I shrug.
“No, it’s not Todd.” He clears his throat, apparently tired of talking about himself. “So tell me about your new job.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” I lie. I don’t want to drag Brandon into my mess. Working for a mafia man is one thing, but tellingmy family about it is something else entirely. The less Brandon knows, the safer he’ll be. Besides, I still don’t know for sure that Francisco is mobbed up. I’m clinging to the outside chance he could be a CEO.
“Okay,” Brandon agrees. “But what are you doing?”
“I’m tutoring a young man in criminal law,” I say.
“A young man?” Brandon repeats, as if it’s the stupidest thing in the world.
“Yes,” I insist. “A young man.”
“So, what are you?” Brandon asks, stabbing a fork into his coleslaw. “An old woman?”
“Hey!” I object, slapping him on the shoulder.
“You said it, I didn’t,” Brandon replies. He’s more relaxed now, and I can see we have a lot in common. Aside from coming through the same trauma together, neither of us enjoys talking about ourselves. He’s more comfortable when I’m in the spotlight, and I’m more comfortable learning about what he’s been up to.
It seems we should pick a different topic of conversation altogether.
“How’s your football team?” I ask.
Brandon gives me the side eye. “I dunno. I’ve never been to a game.”
“What about volleyball? Or basketball?” I try.
