And the signature doughnut, a voodoo doll, pierced through the heart with a pretzel rod. I point to that one. “Apropos.” “I knew you wouldn’t be in school today,” he says. “What was your first clue?” I say, going back to my sketch. I don’t want to make nice with Connor. Not yet. “That’s awesome, by the way,” he says, pointing to the project at hand. I shrug. “You got some balls, girl. Calling that douchebag out. Well done.” “That comment? Not making me feel better.” He goes back to picking petals from my shoulder. Like a monkey preening its buddy for lice. He says, “Did you collide with a Rose Festival float or something?” “Sort of. What the fuck do you want, Connor?” Connor drops the box of doughnuts on the grass, grabs my charcoal-wielding hand, and turns it over in his.
