Knox
“Hey,” I say. “You feeling better?”
“You weren’t lying, were you?” Sylvie murmurs.
“About?”
“That it was a piece of tire. You could have just said that to make me feel better.”
“I could’ve. But then what would I do if you asked me if I was lying about it and I said no and you didn’t believe me and you went to go look and there was a dead—”
“Knox!” Her shoulders are loosening up.
“I was going to say Nazi!”
“I don’t—listen, it’s not like I dig Nazis, but can we wait a minute before we talk about dead people?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says.
“My point was simply that it would have been easy to catch me in a lie.”
“Do you only tell the truth when it would be easy to catch you in a lie?”
“Okay, I’m taking this as a sign that you are feeling better.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says.
“No. I don’t only tell the truth when it would be easy to catch me in a lie. Why, do I seem like a liar?”
“You seem like someone who doesn’t say everything that’s on his mind.”
“That’s not the same as lying.”
She puts her hands up. Surrender. “I’m not saying it is.”
“Is this a fight? Are we having a fight in our last hour of hanging out?”
“No, I just have all this adrenaline I don’t know what to do with.”
“Wanna arm wrestle?” I try to pass it off as enough of a joke that I have plausible deniability but not so much of one that there’s no chance she’ll say yes.
“Your dominant arm is broken.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I’m still kind of shaky.”
“That just means I’ll definitely win.”
At that, she laughs. “I mean, how can I deny you an easy victory? All right. You’re on.”
We walk to a picnic table in front of the store, sit, and square up, clasping hands. I like the feeling of her palm in mine. “Ready?” I say.
“Wait, what are the rules?”
“Okay, so if neither contestant forces the other contestant’s hand more than twenty degrees toward the ground within the first twenty seconds, a thirty-three-second period ensues in which—”
“Wait, are you being serious?”
“No. We just try to force each other’s arms to the ground.”
“To the ground?”
“To the top of the picnic table ground. I’m starting to feel like I might be getting hustled here.”
“Ready . . . set . . . go!”
We strain against each other. Sylvie is surprisingly strong so I don’t have to pretend too hard to draw things out, which was my plan. Then she stands for leverage, grasps our clenched hands with her other hand, and puts her weight on it.
I laugh, which weakens my grip. Soon my arm is at a forty-five-degree angle to the tabletop. “That’s cheating!”
“Did you not have an opportunity to explain the rules?”
“I did.”
“Did you say anything about me being able to stand and use both hands?”
“Admittedly, I didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth, my arm at a seventy-degree angle. Now my honor is at stake.
“Probably. Should’ve.” Sylvie grunts and then slams my arm the rest of the way to the table.
I’m laughing. Then she is. Until the point where we’re mostly laughing at each other laughing. “How’s the adrenaline situation?” I ask.
“What we didn’t account for is the rush I’d get from demolishing you at arm wrestling, so not great I guess.”
“I guess we better sit here for a while, then.”
We do. It’s a warm summer day and it’s nice to just be with her. We don’t say anything but make eye contact a couple of times and smile shyly. I look down and draw in the dirt with my foot. “I’m going to miss you,” I murmur.