Far-Flung by Peter Cameron Page B

says.
    “What do you mean?” I’m not following him.
    “I’m not going.”
    I put my slice of pizza down, and seeing it, half-eaten on the paper plate, nauseates me. I wipe my greasy hands on a napkin, and cover the remaining pizza with it. “What are you talking about?”
    Ellery doesn’t say anything. How I wish he would take those sunglasses off.
    “What are you talking about?” I repeat, and for the first time, I realize I’ve been waiting for this: I know.
    “I’m not going to move to the Philippines. It just doesn’t make sense.”
    “But I thought you wanted to. We’ve discussed all this. You’re the one who thought it would be so great …”
    “I’ve changed my mind,” says Ellery. “I still think you should go. I still think it makes sense for you and Daddy.”
    “And it doesn’t make sense for you?”
    “No. I have one more year of high school. I’ll finish it here, and then get a job. Or go to college, or something.”
    “And where will you live?”
    “Well, at the rate you’re selling the house, I can live there. And if you finally sell it, I can live with someone, or something. Or get an apartment.”
    “And I’m supposed to move to the Philippines and just leave you here?”
    “I’m almost eighteen,” Ellery says. He begins to stack our refuse on the tray.
    “Wait,” I say. I take my paper cup of soda and drink from it. Ellery takes the tray and dumps it in the garbage can. He studies the jukebox. I don’t know what to do. I feel as if I might start crying, but something about flexing my cheek muscles to sip through the straw comforts me, helps hold my face together. I drain the soda and keep on sucking, inhaling nothing but cold, sweet air.
    We drive for a while in silence. Punky-looking kids stand under the streetlights drinking beer.
    “Can I drop you off and take the car?” Ellery asks.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To Fiona Fitzhugh’s. We have a physiology lab practical tomorrow and Fiona has the cat.”
    “What cat?”
    “The cat we’re dissecting.”
    “You’re dissecting a cat? That’s disgusting. Why can’t you dissect frogs?”
    “One does,” Ellery says patiently, “in biology, in ninth grade. In physiology, one dissects cats. Fiona and I are going to quiz each other.”
    “It sounds romantic,” I say.
    “It’s not a date,” Ellery says.
    “You’re allowed to take the cats home?”
    “Not really. But Mr. Gey says that as long as he doesn’t see you take it and as long as it’s back in the refrigerator by 8:30 he doesn’t mind. Fiona has this huge pocketbook. It was easy. Want to hear something?”
    “Is it about dissecting cats?”
    “No,” says Ellery. “People.”
    “Sure,” I say, brightly.
    “Mr. Gey was telling us, in the lab where he studies—he’s getting his Ph.D. or something—they’re dissecting cadavers, and they keep them in this big walk-in freezer and inside the freezer, on the door is a sign that says “YOU ARE NOT LOCKED IN!” Who do you think it’s for?
    “What do you mean?”
    “Do you think it’s for the cadavers, you know, if they come back to life, or something, or the people dissecting them, like if they freak out in there?”
    “I have no idea,” I say. “Who?”
    Ellery chuckles. A strange, forgotten sound. “No one knows. Mr. Gey had us vote. With our heads down and everything.”
    “Does Mr. Gey have a problem?” I ask.
    “Mr. Gey is cool,” Ellery says.
    “Oh,” I say. “Well, who did you vote for?”
    For a second Ellery doesn’t answer. Then he turns to look at me, the streetlights reflecting across his sunglasses. “I voted twice,” he says. “I think the sign was there for everyone involved.”
    Ellery drops me off, and I walk across tufted, crab-grassy lawn, the only imperfect one on our block. There’s a note stuck in the front door. It says: “Brought my daughter to see your furniture. Sorry to miss you. We’ll come back tomorrow eve. (Wed) If you won’t be here will you