He frowned for a moment, thinking. Finally, he spoke a full sentence, “I don’t have problems.”
It wasn’t defensive; he knew he was lying. It was…elusive; he was trying to stop me from bothering him. I played along, though I hated doing it, “Oh you don’t?Then this question shouldn’t bother you at all… How are you getting on over Cynthia’s death?”
As soon as I said it, I felt terrible, but I kept my face impassive. Drew let out a strange strangled sound, the pain contorting his face. “Drew,” I said softly, “I didn’t want to say that.”
He was gasping for air like I’d punched him, and was glaring at me with sudden hatred, “Then why did you?”
He stood up and walked jerkily out the doors, leaving his tray behind. I sighed and picked up the tray, stopping by a table on my way out and handing it to a kid who was asking people for lunch money.
Drew hadn’t made it far. He was sitting on the floor, the tears already here.
I sat down next to him. “Drew,” I said softly, “I’m sorry. That was very immature of me.”