Armin isn’t going any further unless he absolutely has to. He does so many things that involve people (He is the Student Council Treasurer, you know.) but he gets so uncomfortable that every time he speaks to a stranger, the sound of his internal screaming seems to seep from his pores. 

Lucky for him, though, he has me, a person who has seen enough to know I have nothing to lose. So, even though I’m not so skilled in the art of friendship, there’s no point in being afraid of a little confrontation either. 

I brush past him and nudge his shoulder along the way, mosey down to the car, and stare into the window before giving it a light tap with my knuckles. I look closer into the glass when I don’t get any response. 

Nephew looks fine. He doesn’t even look like he’s sweating yet if I’m seeing this correctly. He’s a tough nut to crack. He makes his glare worse when I don’t turn away. 

“I don’t want to do this either,” I say through the glass and make a slicing gesture across my neck with my finger. 

I tap my fingers on the handle and try pulling to see what happens, hesitate when the door swings open. 

There’s the cool breeze of leftover air conditioning when I lean down and rest my elbow on the plastic siding, my other hand still holding on to the door handle just in case. 

“Wow,” I say and look over my shoulder at Armin, “it’s open.” 

Armin takes a few steps closer to see, and Nephew looks through the opening under my arm. He snarls at Armin until he shrinks back, and I smirk at him, keeping it on when I turn back to Nephew locking his phone in his lap and pulling his headphones out of his ears. 

One of Nephew’s legs is tucked under the other on the leather seat, his big white t-shirt so loose I can almost see through it, silver necklace peeking out from underneath the round neckline. His fingers holding his phone are littered in silver rings and nails in chipped, iridescent black paint. He tilts his head at me and sticks out his chin. A clump of his wavy, washed-out green hair falls over his eye. He looks young but no more than me or Armin. 

“What’s your name?” I ask and lean a little more on the door panel. 

He skims over my face, my arm on the door panel, my tank top. Then his eyes flick back up.

“What’s your deal? Don’t talk to me.”

“You’re the one that opened the door,” I say.

“No, you opened the door,” he bites back.

“Come on.” I tilt my head down lower. “I’m trying to be nice.” 

“I don’t want you to try to be anything. Get. Lost.” 

“What?” I scowl, my grip on the door getting tighter. Oh, I have patience, but not enough for this. 

Armin swoops in just as I cock my head and my mouth drops open with the intent to kill. He lays his hand on my back and grabs a ball of my shirt to yank me away. 

“Look,” Armin starts, holding me out of the way while he keeps going, “we just came over here because we had to. Obviously, you want to be left alone to go through whatever you’re going through, so we’ll leave you be. Sorry.” 

Armin doesn’t wait for a reply and drags me into the grass between Mr. Anderson’s driveway and the path to my house. He lays his palm on his forehead under his loose, chocolate curls while I fold my arms tightly across my chest and clench my teeth as I stare down at the grass. 

“I don’t know why you apologized,” I mutter. 

Both of our heads turn at the sound of the car door slamming. Nephew is trudging up the driveway, his headphones dragging on the ground behind him. He’s mumbling to himself when he stomps up the porch stairs and forces the door open, slams it closed. 

“Huh.” Armin cups his cheek in his hand. “Is that success?” 

We watch the house as if it’s going to combust at any moment. It doesn’t combust, but Mr. Anderson does come around from the back and press his hands together at us with a bow as a small thank you. 

“Guess so,” Armin settles on. 

I scoff and roll my eyes at him. “Screw that brat.” 

“Don’t be like that,” Armin says. “Maybe it’ll get better. He looks like he’s having a bad day.” He digs in his pocket for his keys. 

Maybe Armin is right. If he was shipped off to stay with his uncle forever or something, it wouldn’t be fair for me to judge him for having a bad day, right? That would probably be an awful day. The worst day. 

I frown at the house while Armin walks past me swinging his keys around on his finger.