"Do YOU want to be there?" asked Styg.
"I don't want to be anywhere," Olive said into the lapels of her coat, staring at the sharp lump in the lining.
"Well, then, why don't you give yourself a nice summer by --"
"Look." Olive lifted her eyes to his. "I don't care. I don't care what I do this summer. I don't care what you do. I don't care if you drag me to the garden. And I don't care if YOU care. So stop it, stop caring."
"I'll try," said Styg. He looked confused. "Or ... I think I'll try. Maybe I won't. Whatever. I don't care?" He paused, then leaned forward and whispered, "but I really really want you to come."
"No," said Olive. And she thought it over and over again in her head, each one washing away the last like endless colorless coats of paint.
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