“Well,” Denise said. She cleared her throat, and the clearing was almost a laugh, but the laugh had lost its weapon. “Well. Ninety-three. You did it with him. I should be precise about that, since we are being precise. You didn’t snatch the pencil and perform. You made him walk.”
“He already knew the walk,” Emily said. “The twelve was in the way.”
“Don’t be modest at me,” Denise said. “Modesty is often a way of taking a compliment and making the other person work for it twice. You saw an impossible remainder from a standing position with a coffee pot. Then you knew which thread to pull. I manage people who are paid to notice less. I am not going to pretend I didn’t see what I saw because the noticing occurred in an apron.”
Caleb ducked his head, pleased and embarrassed, which in boys of eleven is frequently a single emotion. He pulled the fry basket toward himself at last and ate one fry, then another, as if the contest had given him back his mouth. The fries were no longer at their best. He did not seem to mind. Salt scattered on the blank side of the sheet, and he brushed it away from the ninety-three with a care that was almost tender.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.