Target on Our Backs
Page 42
"You going to have some delivered?"
"No, I'm going to cook."
"We don't have any Campbell's."
"I don't need any," I tell her. "I know how to make soup from scratch."
She stares at me with disbelief as she throws the covers off that I just got on her. "If you're cooking, I'm watching."
Laughing, I force her back into the bed and once again put the covers over her. "Relax. You can watch some other time. Right now you need to take it easy."
She pouts but again doesn't argue, staying put. I plug my phone in to charge, laying it on the bedside stand, as I leave the bedroom.
Killer stands in the hallway between the bedroom and the stairs, watching me. He growls a bit as I pass, but I ignore him, heading downstairs.
The pantry is loaded with ingredients, thanks to her incessant desire to learn how to cook everything she sees on television. I want to make her my mother's Italian Chicken Soup, and pull out everything I remember her using for it when I was a kid, but I'm drawing a blank and having to wing some of it.
Or most of it, rather.
It has been a long time since she last made it for me.
I spend a while getting it together and letting it simmer on the stove before heading back into the den, this time alone. The theme from The Godfather echoes through the room as the credits roll on the television screen. Grabbing the remote again, I flip through channels, stalling when I reach the local news, catching a breaking report about a small corner store in Hell's Kitchen exploding, taking out the entire apartment building above it.
Gas leak, they're calling it, but I know better.
Because I know that store. I know those apartments.
I was just inside them, visiting Armando, threatening him for information.
I'm staring at the live feed playing from the site, barely listening to what the reporter's saying, but I catch a few of her words, the tail end of her segment.
A black car seen lurking near the business, missing a license plate.
I wonder why that is.
I turn off the television and sit in silence for a moment, letting that sink in.
I didn't give up any names, but I wouldn't be surprised if Lorenzo riddled it out. If he figured out where I got my information and decided to silence the source.
I may have very well gotten Armando killed this afternoon.
And I might've even helped Lorenzo get away with it.
When the soup's finished, I carry a bowl of it upstairs, finding Karissa lying in bed, playing on a phone. My phone.
The sight of it stalls me.
Not that I've got anything to hide from her. I try not to keep any secrets. If she wants to know, I'll tell her. But still, my natural instinct is to balk. "What are you doing?"
She looks up at me, smiling, and sets the phone down. She doesn't look alarmed, like she's been caught doing anything she shouldn't have been doing. "Just changing your ringtone to something more you."
"More boy bands?"
"Does it count if they're boys in a band?"
"Pretty sure that's the definition."
"Then yep," she says, as I hand her the soup. "But hey, at least it's still not Bieber."
"Thank God," I say, taking the phone from her and again plugging it in. "I'd hate to have to divorce you."
"You'd divorce me?"
"Or worse."
"M iss Vitale? A word?"
It's still strange to me, going by that last name. So strange I don't respond to it sometimes, because it doesn't click it's me they want until they say it again.
"Miss Vitale?"
Glancing up, stalling the packing up of my backpack, I look at Rowan as he stands at the end of the aisle, beside my desk. Most of my classmates have already jetted out of here, but I'm running a little behind the crowd today.
Like an idiot, I fell asleep in class.
I dozed right through his entire lecture, missing all of it. I remember siting down and well... here I am, an hour later, getting ready to leave again.
Oops.
I clear my throat. "It's Mrs."
That takes him aback. "Excuse me?"
"There's a Mister, so I'm not a Miss."
"Oh. You're married."
"Yeah."
He seems genuinely surprised by that tidbit.
Must not have read my file.
Thank God.
"Oh, well, Mrs. Vitale, I was hoping I could have a word with you."
I want to say no, because having a word with me leads to more words, which leads to me saying words back, and judging by how the last conversation I had with a professor in this room ended up being one of his last, I'm going to go out on a limb and say having a word with me probably isn't wise. Another thing he'd know if he read my file. But how can I explain that without actually explaining anything?
I don't know.
I can't.
So I merely shrug and continue packing up my things to leave, figuring if he wants to have a word with me, there's really nothing I can do to stop him.
"I just wanted to tell you that I graded your Napoleon paper."
"Oh?" Putting on my backpack, I eye him warily, feeling this strange sense of déjà vu about this conversation. "Let me guess... unimaginative? Mediocre? Pretentious?"
That's what Professor Santino always said about my papers.
His brow furrows as he pulls the paper out of a folder he's carrying, holding it out to me. "I actually found it to be refreshing."
That word stalls me for a moment. Refreshing. I take the paper from him, glancing at it, seeing the red A+ written on the top of it.
Whoa.
"Thanks," I say, unsure what I'm supposed to say in this situation. "I wasn't sure..."
"Most people were literal about the assignment," he says, like he knows where I'm going with what I'm saying. "But you explored the concept deeper, and it's appreciated. I know history, to most people, is rather boring, so it's refreshing to have a student actually attempt to analyze things. That's how we learn from history, so we don't find ourselves repeating it... if you know what I mean."
"Yeah..." I know exactly what he means. "Thanks again."
He smiles kindly. "I should be thanking you."
"Well... you're welcome, I guess," I say with a laugh, turning to leave. He's right beside me, walking along with me. "I don't really have a good track record when it comes to writing analytical essays. I sort of bombed my first philosophy class because of it."
"Daniel Santino's class?"
"Uh... yeah. That's the one."
"I never met the guy, but I heard he could be quite difficult."
Difficult. Hell of an understatement.
"I wasn't exactly his favorite person," I tell him as we head outside. "We had some issues, so that probably had something to do with it, too."
"Probably," he agrees. "Because I doubt your essays did you in, especially if they were anything like this."
Reaching over, he shakes the paper I'm holding onto, giving me another smile before walking away. I stand there, in front of the building, watching him.
Weird.
"Friend of yours?"
"No, I'm going to cook."
"We don't have any Campbell's."
"I don't need any," I tell her. "I know how to make soup from scratch."
She stares at me with disbelief as she throws the covers off that I just got on her. "If you're cooking, I'm watching."
Laughing, I force her back into the bed and once again put the covers over her. "Relax. You can watch some other time. Right now you need to take it easy."
She pouts but again doesn't argue, staying put. I plug my phone in to charge, laying it on the bedside stand, as I leave the bedroom.
Killer stands in the hallway between the bedroom and the stairs, watching me. He growls a bit as I pass, but I ignore him, heading downstairs.
The pantry is loaded with ingredients, thanks to her incessant desire to learn how to cook everything she sees on television. I want to make her my mother's Italian Chicken Soup, and pull out everything I remember her using for it when I was a kid, but I'm drawing a blank and having to wing some of it.
Or most of it, rather.
It has been a long time since she last made it for me.
I spend a while getting it together and letting it simmer on the stove before heading back into the den, this time alone. The theme from The Godfather echoes through the room as the credits roll on the television screen. Grabbing the remote again, I flip through channels, stalling when I reach the local news, catching a breaking report about a small corner store in Hell's Kitchen exploding, taking out the entire apartment building above it.
Gas leak, they're calling it, but I know better.
Because I know that store. I know those apartments.
I was just inside them, visiting Armando, threatening him for information.
I'm staring at the live feed playing from the site, barely listening to what the reporter's saying, but I catch a few of her words, the tail end of her segment.
A black car seen lurking near the business, missing a license plate.
I wonder why that is.
I turn off the television and sit in silence for a moment, letting that sink in.
I didn't give up any names, but I wouldn't be surprised if Lorenzo riddled it out. If he figured out where I got my information and decided to silence the source.
I may have very well gotten Armando killed this afternoon.
And I might've even helped Lorenzo get away with it.
When the soup's finished, I carry a bowl of it upstairs, finding Karissa lying in bed, playing on a phone. My phone.
The sight of it stalls me.
Not that I've got anything to hide from her. I try not to keep any secrets. If she wants to know, I'll tell her. But still, my natural instinct is to balk. "What are you doing?"
She looks up at me, smiling, and sets the phone down. She doesn't look alarmed, like she's been caught doing anything she shouldn't have been doing. "Just changing your ringtone to something more you."
"More boy bands?"
"Does it count if they're boys in a band?"
"Pretty sure that's the definition."
"Then yep," she says, as I hand her the soup. "But hey, at least it's still not Bieber."
"Thank God," I say, taking the phone from her and again plugging it in. "I'd hate to have to divorce you."
"You'd divorce me?"
"Or worse."
"M iss Vitale? A word?"
It's still strange to me, going by that last name. So strange I don't respond to it sometimes, because it doesn't click it's me they want until they say it again.
"Miss Vitale?"
Glancing up, stalling the packing up of my backpack, I look at Rowan as he stands at the end of the aisle, beside my desk. Most of my classmates have already jetted out of here, but I'm running a little behind the crowd today.
Like an idiot, I fell asleep in class.
I dozed right through his entire lecture, missing all of it. I remember siting down and well... here I am, an hour later, getting ready to leave again.
Oops.
I clear my throat. "It's Mrs."
That takes him aback. "Excuse me?"
"There's a Mister, so I'm not a Miss."
"Oh. You're married."
"Yeah."
He seems genuinely surprised by that tidbit.
Must not have read my file.
Thank God.
"Oh, well, Mrs. Vitale, I was hoping I could have a word with you."
I want to say no, because having a word with me leads to more words, which leads to me saying words back, and judging by how the last conversation I had with a professor in this room ended up being one of his last, I'm going to go out on a limb and say having a word with me probably isn't wise. Another thing he'd know if he read my file. But how can I explain that without actually explaining anything?
I don't know.
I can't.
So I merely shrug and continue packing up my things to leave, figuring if he wants to have a word with me, there's really nothing I can do to stop him.
"I just wanted to tell you that I graded your Napoleon paper."
"Oh?" Putting on my backpack, I eye him warily, feeling this strange sense of déjà vu about this conversation. "Let me guess... unimaginative? Mediocre? Pretentious?"
That's what Professor Santino always said about my papers.
His brow furrows as he pulls the paper out of a folder he's carrying, holding it out to me. "I actually found it to be refreshing."
That word stalls me for a moment. Refreshing. I take the paper from him, glancing at it, seeing the red A+ written on the top of it.
Whoa.
"Thanks," I say, unsure what I'm supposed to say in this situation. "I wasn't sure..."
"Most people were literal about the assignment," he says, like he knows where I'm going with what I'm saying. "But you explored the concept deeper, and it's appreciated. I know history, to most people, is rather boring, so it's refreshing to have a student actually attempt to analyze things. That's how we learn from history, so we don't find ourselves repeating it... if you know what I mean."
"Yeah..." I know exactly what he means. "Thanks again."
He smiles kindly. "I should be thanking you."
"Well... you're welcome, I guess," I say with a laugh, turning to leave. He's right beside me, walking along with me. "I don't really have a good track record when it comes to writing analytical essays. I sort of bombed my first philosophy class because of it."
"Daniel Santino's class?"
"Uh... yeah. That's the one."
"I never met the guy, but I heard he could be quite difficult."
Difficult. Hell of an understatement.
"I wasn't exactly his favorite person," I tell him as we head outside. "We had some issues, so that probably had something to do with it, too."
"Probably," he agrees. "Because I doubt your essays did you in, especially if they were anything like this."
Reaching over, he shakes the paper I'm holding onto, giving me another smile before walking away. I stand there, in front of the building, watching him.
Weird.
"Friend of yours?"
