Grim anthology

“I knew this would happen,” Tyler says. “I told her to knock it off.”

“Wait, how did you know?” Jules asks him.

“I have eyes. Eyes that saw you feeling her up in the school parking lot last week.”

“Tyler, you knew and didn’t tell me?” Eli says. “I thought you were my best friend.”

“I didn’t want to make you mad.”

He didn’t want you to break up the band, I tell Eli. He wanted to do it himself.

“Well, I’m twice as mad now.”

“I can see that.” Tyler pounds the ketchup bottle again. “What is with this stuff? It’s stuck.”

“Eli, I’m sorry, man. I really am.” Jules sounds sincere.

He’s not sorry.

“It’s my fault,” he continues with a full mouth. “You shouldn’t blame Vanessa. I’ll stay away from her, I swear.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I’m just saying, it’s over with us. So you might as well keep her.”

“Keep her?” Eli’s voice rises above the din of the crowd. “She’s a girl, not a doll!”

Tyler snorts. “Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eli’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“You’ve gotten a little too attached to that stuffed cat your loser dad gave you.”

“I’m not attached.”

“Oh, really? Then let me have it for a week.” Tyler sets down the bottle hard on the table. “It’s the least you can do, Mr. I’m Too Talented for My Band.”

“Why would you even want him?” Eli’s voice turns hot with anger again.

“It’s a ‘him’ now? Is he your new best friend? Is that why you don’t need me anymore?”

Jules breaks in. “Take it easy, Ty. Eli didn’t say we weren’t still friends. The band stuff is just business.”

“‘Business’?” Ty says. “This is your fault, Jules! It wasn’t business when you had your hand inside Vanessa’s shirt.”

Eli’s silverware hits the table with a clatter. A fork or knife bounces onto the booth seat beside my bag. “Screw you guys both.”

Suddenly I’m lifted, bag and all. He’s walking fast toward the door, faster than he’s ever headed to class. The corner of his calculus textbook digs into my stomach with every step, and I’m very glad I have no pain nerves.

A door creaks open, and Eli says, “I’m sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, but what...” The girl’s familiar voice fades as Eli keeps going.

We stop suddenly, and a car door handle rattles. Eli curses. He tears open the bag, letting in bright sunlight I can’t blink away.

Your keys aren’t in here. I didn’t hear them jangle.

“Looking for these?” Tyler says behind us.

Now I hear them jangle.

“Give me my keys,” Eli demands.

“I’ll trade you.” Tyler laughs. “The keys for the kitty.”

“Why do you want him so much?”

He doesn’t want me. He wants to destroy me to hurt you, because you hurt him.

Eli lunges, and now it’s Jules’s turn to laugh, though more nervously than Tyler did. “We’re just messin’ with you. Come on, our burgers are getting cold. Give Ty the stupid doll for two seconds so he’ll stop being a dick. Or give it to me, whatever.”

Eli drops the bag on the ground. “Haven’t I given you enough? My songs, my time, my girlfriend?”

“Vanessa wasn’t your girlfriend—she was just a regular hookup. You know what she called you? Her favorite charity.”

There’s a smack of bone against bone, and Jules cries out. Then a thud and the sound of denim skidding over blacktop.

Suddenly, I’m pulled out into the brightness. By Tyler.

“How do you like him now, dude?” He rips off my hat and boots. “Nothing better than a naked p—”

Tyler buckles over with an “oof!” He clutches me against his stomach, groaning. Something in bright blue leather—a gloved fist? A booted foot?—flashes past me, up into his chin. Released from his grip, I fall to the pavement, rolling to rest faceup.

Appearing above me are wide blue eyes, like those belonging to the girl on Eli’s ceiling. Lyra scoops me up and stuffs me into her bag. There’s candy in here. Watermelon flavored, I think.

Tyler cries out again, higher-pitched this time.

“Let go of the keys,” Lyra says. Her body rocks forward, and Tyler shrieks louder. “Sorry, does that hurt? You know what would hurt worse? If you didn’t let go of the keys and my foot accidentally broke all your fingers.” She bends over, and the bag on her back rises. “If you ever want to play that stupid ukulele again, you know what to do.”

A sharp jangle, then Lyra says, “Thank you.”

I can’t hear much over the rush and jostle of her bag, which is soon dumped on the floor of Eli’s car (I recognize the smell).

“You okay?” she asks.

Not bad, but—

“I’ll be all right,” Eli answers.