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empty and we’ve had two apple fritters plus leftover Boston cremes from yesterday, I bring it up. I keep picking at my nails and my jeans which are getting pretty brown. There’s a hole starting in one knee; I make it bigger thread by thread. What I really want to ask is: was she crying inside Brian’s room and why, but I think that she might kill me if I do. So I just say “How come you were so nice to me before?” which doesn’t make any sense, and of course she asks me what the fuck I’m talking about and I have to explain I mean on the way to my house when I told her about Brian. Personally I think it’s kind of obvious after that, but she looks at me and goes “What do you mean? I wasn’t nice to you.”
    I rip the rest of the apple fritter up into little tiny pieces; it looks like donut turds. Then I try to explain: I mean when I told her about Brian and looking at the ceiling, how it started in fourth grade and at first it was nice having him in bed with me and then it started getting scary and by the end of that year I’d start throwing up the closer it got to bedtime. I mean when I explained how I could never tell Linda because all she cares about is her stupid job and Brian, and I can’t tell my dad either, even though I kind of wish I could, because if he ever believed me it would mean he’d have to kick Brian out, which might make Linda leave, and I’d mess everything up and everyone would hate me. I feel like a major asshole going through it all again, especially when the donut pieces get too small to rip up anymore. I start back in on the hole in my jeans but she’s still not talking so finally I look up at her and she’s crying again, not like normal where you can hear it and the person moves their face, but in this weird way where her eyes are like a statue and she’s hardly even breathing.
    It’s like two things are fighting in her face: one, she keeps almost opening it up like she really wants to say something or touch me; but the other, she is really, really mad. And the first thing I think is: she knows it’s kind of my fault that it happened. She feels bad for me, which is the first thing in her face and why she was so nice before; but I’m so stupid for it happening, and even stupider to want to tell my dad, and that’s the other thing. It doesn’t explain the crying but it’s all I can think of so I think it must be true. “I’m sorry,” I go, and really mean it. She doesn’t talk for a long time. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, and then stands up and grabs me and we go out into the street.
    That night we sleep behind Whole Foods again. Halfway through the night I wake up and Tracy is curled up around me, pressed into me through our sleeping bags. She’s on her side, her bony arm across my chest, holding tight, breathing loud. I wiggle sideways toward her so she won’t have to work so hard to hold on.
    That morning she doesn’t look at me the whole way to Tang’s Donut. She doesn’t say much either and at first I think she might be embarrassed. I try to keep my hands and knees away from her so there’ll be a cushion of space between us in case I was touching her too much last night. When she comes back from the counter with the bag she takes three donuts for herself and only gives me the dried-out cinnamon one with the powder half worn off. Usually we split them and I get jelly or a fritter or at least glazed. She keeps picking at some scab or something on her head and looking everywhere except at me.
    I try asking her different questions. What time is it, and what does she want to do today, and how much cash do we have left. She just looks around and picks at things and gives me just enough answers to make me stop asking. She seems mad and I think maybe she doesn’t like me anymore, now that she thinks the whole Brian thing is my fault. I want to ask her if it’s true but I’m too afraid to hear the answer. I tell myself there are a lot of things that could be