Justice. Faye Kellerman

Fully extended, he could palm my eight-foot ceiling with little effort.

      He said, “Tomorrow’s our free day, right?”

      “Right.”

      He gathered his backpack. “Then I’ll see you on Thursday.”

      “Chris?”

      “What?”

      “I need a favor.”

      He looked at me. “Shoot.”

      “Can you keep the money you give me? Hold it for me at your place?”

      He stared at me.

      “I have my money hidden upstairs,” I said. “I’m afraid Jean’s going to find it and start asking me questions.”

      “She doesn’t know you’re tutoring me?”

      “She doesn’t know you’re here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, I’ve been telling her that I’m out with friends. She thinks I’m tutoring you once a week. Like I do with most of my students.”

      “Why the subterfuge?”

      I rubbed my hands together. “I’m afraid she’ll hit me up for some of the cash. You know … family obligation. I’m trying to save as much as I can for college.”

      “She’d ask you for your money?”

      I looked at the ceiling. “My father was laid off from work a couple of years ago. He started drinking heavily—”

      “This sounds familiar.”

      “No, no, he’s getting better,” I said, defending him and not knowing why. “He has a job now, but it doesn’t pay much. Jean’s as nervous as a cat.”

      “So what does that have to do with you?”

      “You don’t understand my stepmom. She won’t demand it. But she’ll … you know … the guilt. Look, if it’s too much—”

      “Why don’t you just put it in the bank?”

      “They’ll send the statements here. If I don’t get to the mail before she does, she opens my stuff.”

      “Jesus!”

      “Look, Chris. I don’t like her. But she takes care of my dad, keeps him sober enough to be respectable. So I don’t want to anger her. If it’s too much of a problem—”

      “Give me the money. I’ll keep it for you.”

      “Thanks.” I ran upstairs, retrieved my wad, and handed it to him. I laughed nervously. “One of the reasons why I never took drugs. I knew Jean would find my stash.”

      He stared at me.

      “I’m kidding!” I said. “I don’t do drugs. Actually, I don’t do anything except study. I’m a grind. It’s pretty pathetic.”

      He kept staring at me.

      “Look, just forget it.” I made a grab for my money but he pulled it out of my reach, then pocketed it.

      “You want to go out for a hamburger or something, Terry?”

      I became aware of my heartbeat.

      “Just as friends,” he amended. “Nothing else.”

      Crushed, I averted my eyes before my blighted hope slapped him across the face. “I have to make dinner.” I turned to walk away, but he held my arm.

      “Believe me, Terry, it’s not you. It’s me. I can’t. I’m engaged.”

      My eyes met his baby blues. “You’re what!”

      “I’m engaged to be married.”

      “You’re eighteen years old!”

      “I know that.”

      I couldn’t find my words. Finally, I managed to ask him who the girl was.

      “Someone I’ve known forever. She lives back east.”

      “And you’re serious?”

      “Am I ever not serious?”

      This was true. Chris had a good sense of humor, but he was a grave boy. Always organized and completely controlled. Just like me. Two hyperadults—had turned out that way because our families were nests of insecurity.

      I threw up my hands. “I appreciate your honesty.” I bit my lip. “I guess I also admire your loyalty. That’s unheard of in this day and age. You must be deeply in love.”

      “She’s okay,” he said.

      “She’s okay? That’s it? She’s okay?”

      “She’s okay,” he repeated.

      “Chris, why are you marrying a girl that’s just okay?”

      He shrugged.

      Suddenly, it dawned on me.

      Chris caught my look. “No, she’s not pregnant.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll keep your bread safe. Bye.”

      He left before I could ask another question. And maybe that was good.

      As usual, he was waiting at my locker after school. We walked to his car, neither one speaking. But he didn’t drive to my house. Instead he drove to the bank. He pulled into the parking lot and shut the motor.

      “I feel funny keeping your cash. What if you need it and I’m not home?”

      “I told you I can’t put it in the bank.”

      “We’ll open up an account together. I’ll make sure the statements come to my house.”

      I paused. “How cute. Like playing house.”

      “Terry—”

      “I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl you don’t love.”

      “I didn’t say I didn’t love her.”

      “Do you?”

      “No.”

      I slumped in my seat. “This is none of my business, right?”

      “Right.” He opened the car door, but I held his arm. Instantly, he stiffened. I jerked back my hand.

      “Sorry.”

      He closed the car door, looked at his arm, then looked at me. Without embarrassment, he said, “I have a problem with being touched.”

      “I’ve noticed.”

      “I’d like to go into the bank now. How about you?”

      I didn’t move.

      He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer to wait out here, Terry?”

      “You’re very polite.”

      “I was trained with manners—yessir, nossir. I wasn’t polite, I got the shit kicked out of me.” He started the car. “Bad idea. Let’s forget the whole thing.”

      I started to place my hand on his arm, but caught myself and pulled it back.

      “Sorry. I’m a touchy person.”

      He killed the motor. “Terry, anyone touches me, I tense. It doesn’t mean I’m mad. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. It’s just a habit. So don’t worry about it, okay?”

      “Doesn’t it get in the way?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean with your fiancée … if you don’t like being touched …”

      He stared at me. I should have cut my losses and shut up, but I didn’t. “I noticed you carried … stuff … in your backpack.”