A Little Bit Ninja

15: Ponderings Over a Pickled Coke

“And you have to use a straw. No chugging,” Brady said toward the poor slob who would be consuming this travesty of a beverage.

“Why does it matter?” The black haired kid asked.

“Because we want him to enjoy the flavor for as long as possible, duh.”

Or was he being real when he was playing the part of the ruthless switchblade practitioner, who put the fear of deity into the Gigantic Goon downstairs in the closet? He called me a drama queen.

Answer: Nobody but Anton will ever know for sure when he’s being real.

All this new information was overloading my cerebral cortex, weighing it down like wet jeans. Knowing that my mom had a super, secret, do-gooding career—and never told me about it—added five pounds to my spirit, or soul or whatever.

Knowing that my brother had a file with a list of “Obstacles To Be Dealt With” which would probably be just as horrific as every other folder I had read, added another ten pounds to my heart. Knowing that I probably won’t live another week adds a few more pounds.

Knowing that I have been—and will continue to—lie to the people I love most about what really happened since Monday, and will never have a chance to apologize, adds another twenty pounds. And walking around with this information bulging from my insides, I felt like I was heavy enough to wear the pants I loaned Anton yesterday. 

“Brian, I think he said no body fluids,” Millie said, moving the cup away from a kid with a pointy nose and brown eyes.

“Hey!” came Jackson’s cry, muffled by the jacket, “If any part of anyone’s body ends up in that coke, that’s a deal breaker. I’m not drinking it.”  

But I most definitely wasn’t ready to share that information with anybody yet, maybe Abe. Of everybody that I knew, he deserved to know. After all, she was his mom too. And the file with his name on it should be put into his hands, right? Or would the truth hurt him so much it wouldn’t be worth it?

“Okay, you can come out now,” Abe patted Jackson on the back, a sign of encouragement.

I definitely couldn’t tell Anton. It would be, like, unethical to share such private information with a near stranger, especially one who is involved in the very organization that Mom fought against, who happened to have kidnapped me, and consented to someone shooting me with a dart—even if it strengthens my case of me not being the progeny of King Psychopath.  

My phone buzzed again. My eyes scanned the new notification.

Thirty-five new messages from Anton. I almost opened it there, just to reply a command to cease fire. He’s totally blowing up my inbox. But Erica was leaning in, ready to read whatever Ant had written me. Who knew what sensitive information he might be sending via text?

“Aw man! Who put the pickles in?”

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to know what’s in there!” This was a freckly guy next to Millie speaking. “I want my two bucks back.” 

“It’s floating on top you moron. Maybe you should have chosen something that blends in better.” 

Didn’t Anton agree to only use my number in case of emergency anyway?

Or. Uh oh. What if this is an emergency and that’s why he’s spamming me. He probably wants to warn me that Senior Psychopath is onto my little scam, and he’s on the warpath. Maybe he’s going to come nab me as soon as I step foot outside of the restaurant, regardless of witnesses. This could be my last meal.

I gulped, looking down at my salad. I’d perfected the art of salad making, after coming here for lunch every school day for nearly a year now. I have a special recipe that is to die for. The secret is: one spoonful of sunflower seeds, and two spoonfuls of dried cranberries. That seriously makes the salad. Then add the vinaigrette and I’m all set.