Two of a Kind by Yona Zeldis McDonough Read Free Book Online Page B

now, like most of his classmates, they just seemed stupid to him. Delphine was the only one who was different; she just seemed to understand things that other people didn’t. She was tall—taller than he was, even—with long, shiny brown hair. Her clothes were different too: short, pleated skirts, sweaters that looked like they belonged to her older brother, button-up blouses with funny old-fashioned collars, black tights, flat shoes. And that accent of hers: he could come just hearing her say his name—Ol-lee-
vair
—with the emphasis on the last syllable. She was the reason he’d been so insistent on going on the retreat; otherwise, he’d have totally blown it off.
    Just then, Cunningham opened the door and stuck his big head out. In a deep, fake-friendly voice he said, “Come in, young man. Come in, come in.” Oliver shuffled into the office and sat down on the lumpy, blue-flowered sofa that everyone called
the hot seat
. His dad was already here, sitting in a stiff chair and trying not to look at his watch; it was like a tic or something with him. Ms. Warren, the school psychologist, was here too. Her gray hair had a serious case of bed head, though he did like the cherry red frames of her glasses; his mom might have worn them. Rounding out the group was Mr. Pollock, the grade dean. He had a pathetic comb-over and called the boys
dude
; no one thought he was in the least bit cool.
    Cunningham shut the door with a definitive smack. “Thank you all for coming,” he said, looking around the room. “And thank
you
, Oliver, for gracing us with your presence.” Was the guy sincere or ragging on him? Cunningham droned on for a few minutes. . . .
Bright boy
,
not living up to his potential
,
potentially at
risk
were some of the phrases that flitted across Oliver’s radar, but then they too were gone.
    â€œSo, Oliver, what do you think of what Mr. Cunningham just said?” asked Ms. Warren.
    Oliver looked at her and blinked. “Uh, I’m not sure.”
    â€œDude, were you even listening?” Mr. Pollock chimed in. Oliver ignored him and focused instead on his dad, who was of course checking his watch.
    â€œYou can go,” he said to his father. “Really, Dad, it’s okay. If you’re busy, you can just leave now and I’ll tell you about the conversation when you get home tonight.” He had a phony smile pasted on his face, but inside he was seething.
Yeah, throw me under the bus, why don’t you? Throw me under the bus and let it roll right over
me.
    â€œLeaving? No one’s leaving until we’re through here,” Andy said. He sounded pissed off, but he was finally able to pull his glance away from his wrist.
    â€œMr. Cunningham was saying that he thought your behavior might have to do with your mother’s death; do you think that’s true?” Ms. Warren looked at him earnestly.
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t think about her death too much,” said Oliver. Now, that was a major lie. It seemed to him that he thought about little else, except for smoking weed and, lately, Delphine. She had art this period; he’d memorized her schedule.
    â€œYou must miss her,” Ms. Warren continued as if he had not spoken. “And missing her might make you act out in ways that are not always in your best interest.”
    Miss her? Of course he missed her. Did Ms. Warren need a wall full of degrees to figure that out? She was his mom, after all. He had loved her and been devastated when she got sick. But what no one seemed to get was that he didn’t accept that she was dead, not really. He knew she had
died
; he had seen her at the end, scrawny and terrifying, the remains of her curly hair like wisps of fluff around her poor, nearly naked head. That she
stayed
dead, though, day after day, month after month—that was the part that tripped him up. When he’d once said as much to his best friend,