The Memory Key by Liana Liu Page B

smell, but when I tell Wendy she only says: No complaining, you can’t even see it, barely even. Come on, let’s go back outside. If you won’t, I’ll go without you!
    I blink. We’re walking out of the classroom after a history exam, everyone chattering as they push out the door, knocking elbows, trampling feet, backpacks bumping in their rush to escape. Except for me. I’m worrying over the last question, and the first question, and the questions in between. I’m berating myself for not studying as much as I should have. Wendy grips my arm and asks: What’s wrong? Is something wrong? But before I can answer she giggles and says: Never mind. Guess who called me last night? You’ll never guess.
    I blink. We’re in my bedroom and I’m crying, swollen-eyed, achy-faced, breaking-heart crying. Wendy pats a soothing rhythm into my back, fingers playing the piano on my spine. But when she speaks she sounds more bemused than consoling. She sighs. I can’t believe you like Tim. You know better, Lora, you really should know better. Tim is . . . he’s just so immature.
    â€œCome on, I need some driving music,” Wendy says. Sheis grinning at the windshield, at the road; she is grinning at the world, and doesn’t notice that I am sitting, seething, next to her. My hands ball up into fists, my fists are shaking with frustration, and Wendy doesn’t notice. She never notices.
    â€œWould you please take this seriously?” I say. “I know it’s hard for you to do that when it’s not all about you, but could you try? For once?”
    She stops grinning. “Are you kidding? Why would you say that?”
    â€œBecause it’s true,” I tell her, and as angry as I am, I’m also surprised: I’ve never said anything like this to Wendy before. Even if I’ve thought it.
    â€œAren’t I going with you to see this guy? Didn’t I call him and lie to him for you? I can’t believe you said that. Just because I made a joke doesn’t mean I’m not taking things seriously. I’m trying to help. I’m trying to keep you from moping around, like you’ve been doing.”
    â€œI haven’t been moping around.”
    â€œYou really hurt my feelings.” Wendy folds her lips together. She looks as if she might cry. But I refuse to be convinced by her forlorn expression; I know better than to be convinced by any of her expressions.
    The car speeds down the highway, trees a blur of green on either side of the road. The back of my head is throbbing again. We spend a mile in silence, and another.
    After the third silent mile, I start feeling remorseful. She’s right: it was mean of me to say those things when she has beenhelping me. And if what I said is also true—that she has trouble taking my problems seriously—it’s only a little bit true. Wendy is a good friend, my best friend.
    It was my memory key’s fault, feeding me years of resentment in one bite.
    â€œWendy,” I say.
    She doesn’t respond.
    â€œYou’re right. You’ve helped me so much.”
    She doesn’t respond.
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just my key messing with my head.”
    Finally, she nods. She mutters, “Turn up the music, okay?”
    I turn up the music. We don’t talk for the rest of the ride, but when we arrive at the correct address, Wendy parks the car, looks at me, and says: “So what should we say to this guy?”
    As it happens, Carlos Cruz is dashing and handsome. And his voice is really sexy.
    â€œPlease come in,” he says in his really sexy voice. He sits us down on a tattered couch surrounded by dusty stacks of paper. I repress a sneeze. The cluttered room is in direct contrast to the man who lives there. Mr. Cruz is tall and lean, his dark hair clipped short. He is wearing a shirt so brightly white it looks brand-new, and an equally crisp pair of pants.
    He asks if