“It’s not safe,” Flo says, every bit as freaked out as his buddy.
“Why?” I ask, skeptically. “I know Mickey didn’t burn a mac and cheese cup again because he’s at the library studying with Viv.” More accurately, he’s at the library pining over Viv, but I’ll keep that part to myself. Not that it’s any secret that our pal is madly in love with Viv McDonald. Anyone who sees the way he looks at her could tell you that in about five seconds. It doesn’t seem like she sees Mickey as anything more than a best friend. I could be wrong, of course, but either way, I’ll stay out of it.
“It’s not Mickey. It’s Liza. And she is pissed.” Flo practically hisses the word. “You can’t go in there. I tried to get ice cream about ten minutes ago, and I swear to god, she hissed at me.”
If Liza’s so upset that these three are picking up on it, you can bet your ass I’m going into the kitchen to find out what’s wrong and see how I can fix it. I wave them off, but Dime vaults off the couch and lands right in front of me, slowing down my progress. I’ve got six inches and at least forty pounds on this kid, so it would be easy for me to pick him up and put him right back on the couch he so quickly vacated, but he looks so panicked right now that I’m afraid if I do, the poor guy will need to change his pants.
“What?” I say, growing impatient. What if something’s really wrong in there? What if Liza’s mom got sick? Or lost her job? Or something else horrible.
“Dude! Do you not hear us? She’s in a very bad mood, and you’re only going to make it worse. If she sees you, her head literally might explode!”
Clapping him on the shoulder, I nudge him out of my way. “Think of it like this: I’ll be her punching bag. She can take her frustrations out on me, and then she’ll feel better, and we can all use the fridge again. It’s a good plan, right?”
I don’t wait for them to respond, but as I cross the threshold into the kitchen, I swear I hear someone mutter, “It’s your funeral.”
They’re a bunch of chickenshits because Liza doesn’t scare me. She used to, back when I was also a chickenshit. But now that I actually know her? She’s the best. She’s not some unhinged villain who's raging on people for no reason. If she’s really as mad as the guys think she is, then somebody must have done something major to piss her off, and for once, I don’t think it was me. Yeah, I’m home an hour later than I said I’d be, but that’s out of my control. And because she works for the team, Liza understands that better than a regular girlfriend would. Not that she’s my girlfriend, but the principle still applies.
When I step into the kitchen, I nearly get beaned by a flying package of pancake mix. I duck just in time to dodge the hit. Fucking pancakes. They’re French toast’s bratty, jealous step sister. Liza doesn’t notice me standing here, but when she lobs a box of cereal behind her, I catch it easily. When she doesn’t hear it hit the counter or the ground, she turns around.
“Hey,” she says, sounding defeated. “Sorry if you got hit with flying shrapnel. I’m looking for something and I can’t find it. This pantry is a freaking mess.”
“I’m good,” I tell her. “But how about you? Rough night?”
“I’m just tired. And hungry. And mad. I’m so far past hangry it’s not even funny. I’m full-on larving. Livid and starving.” In case there was any chance I didn’t get the message that she’s in a bad mood, she crosses her arms, narrows her eyes, and juts out her lower lip. I know she’s not trying to be adorable, but she just can’t help it.
“All right, what can I do?” I ask. “And what exactly are we looking for?”
“Nothing specific,” she answers, leaning forward and plucking a granola bar off a shelf. “This will do.”
“Not possible,” I scoff. “There’s no way you frightened the freshmen and tore up the kitchen so you could snack on a crumbly granola bar. What’s really going on?”
“I’m fine. It’s stupid,” she says, and as she unwraps her snack, crumbs break off in chunks and fall to the floor, so I scoop them up, toss them in the trash, and start gathering up the discarded boxes and putting them back on the shelves.
“This tastes terrible,” she says, making a face. “Do granola bars expire?”
I shrug because I don’t know, but I take the crumbly bar and its shiny wrapper out of her hand and toss them in the trash, too. She walks past me, and I’m slightly worried she’s going to start raiding the fridge next, but she bypasses it and slumps onto one of the stools at the bar. As soon as I’m done restocking the shelves, I position myself on the other side of the bar, grab a soda from the fridge, crack it open and pour it into a glass. When I slide it in her direction, she finally smiles at me. It’s small and it lasts for a second, but I’ll take it.
“Isn’t this one of Jenksy’s sodas?” she asks, eyeing the can.
“Yep,” I answer, grabbing another, popping the top, and taking a swallow. “But he was late today, so Coach Van had us skating our assess off. He owes us.”
“That seems fair,” she agrees, taking a sip.
“So, now that I’m your bartender, aren’t you supposed to tell me what’s bugging you? And don’t even try to feed me that bullshit about you being fine. You damn near decapitated me with a box of pancake mix.”
Liza sighs before meeting my gaze. “It’s stupid and you’re going to laugh at me, but whatever. I had a meeting downtown today about a possible internship this summer. It went pretty well, and I was offered the spot, so I decided to treat myself to a mini buffalo chicken pizza at Rinaldi’s. I didn’t have time to eat it, though, so I clearly labeled it and stuck it in the fridge. When I tell you how much I was looking forward to that pizza…Did you ever want something so badly that you could practically taste it? Well, that was me and this pizza. It didn’t even matter that I skipped dinner because I was busy working on a group project because I knew what deliciousness awaited me at the end of the day. So, imagine my surprise when I came home and my pizza was gone. Completely gone, except for the empty box that still has my freaking name on it.”
In a matter of seconds, I have the app for Rinaldi’s up on my phone. “They’re still open,” I tell her, pretty sure I’m going to earn another one of her smiles.
Instead, I get an eye roll. “I’m fine. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I really don’t feel like going out right now. But thanks for checking.”
“You have to eat something,” I tell her. “Why not order your favorite meal?”
She shakes her head while giving me a look that says I'm clueless. “I said it’s fine, and it is. I’ll grab a bowl of cereal or something, but I’m really not that hungry anymore, just cranky. I’ll probably head to bed soon.”
That last sentence is clearly not an invitation for me to join her. It’s probably too risky because people are milling around, but I also get the sense that Liza’s just done with the day. Ishould probably leave it alone, but I can’t. The whole point of life is to enjoy it, so why deny yourself something if you really want it?
“It’s not that late. It’s not even ten. You can make it with time to spare. I’ll even drive you, so you can just run in and pick it up.”
