Annie hooked her right arm around Rune’s left, the two teens holding and drinking from their bottles with their opposite hands. Rune noted how symmetrical they looked, almost exactly the same height, both wearing stocking caps, even the same style of jacket (mid-thigh length, no hood). Boots landing into crunchy snow at the same time.
“You were born in June?” His question more a statement.
“Yeah, the thirteenth.”
“Huh.” Rune squinted as they crossed the barrier of shade into another patch of late-afternoon winter sunlight. He tapped the chest of his jacket with his bottled hand. “Mine’s the nineteenth. We were born the same week.”
“Huh.” A patch of clear sidewalk where the sun had melted the snow. “Wednesday.”
Rune nearly stopped, considering the possible meanings of Annie’s one-word response. Did she think today was Wednesday — this is Annie, not Butch. Was something happening next Wednesday — normal school week, next tournament’s not until the end of the month.
“You were born on Wednesday.” Dammit, he really wanted to figure that out before she told him, like an exasperated teacher. “The thirteenth was a Thursday, I looked it up. So the nineteenth, that had to be a Wednesday.”
“Yeah, I know.” No, I didn’t.
“So we weren’t born the same week. You were one week after me.” She was speaking with that confident tone he often found irritating.
“Huh.” Their feet were back in the shade, boots stepping into white crunchiness again. “But that’s only if you think that weeks begin on Mondays.”
“They don’t.” She stopped, turned to face him, an odd look on her face. “The weeks begin on Sundays.” Hearing the hyperbolic indignation in her voice convinced Rune that her face conveyed mock seriousness.
He put his hands on his hips. “Monday.” He raised his hands above his head. “Everybody knows that.” He looked around where they had stopped, saw they were surrounded by almost pristine gentle snow, no glint of ice or mixture of salt and gravel. She wanted us to stop here.