Sidelined

by Kara Bietz

  “Birdie had someone over for dinner tonight,” I say after we walk a few yards in silence. I know neither Camille nor I will let the tension from earlier turn into anything major. We’ve been friends too long and are both pretty good about letting stuff like that go.

  “Oh yeah? Pastor Ernie and Figg again?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She kind of acted like it was supposed to be a surprise?”

  “Ooh, maybe it was Mr. Cooper.” She giggles. “I’ve seen him giving Birdie the eye in church on Sundays.”

  “Knock it off.” I laugh, giving her a little shove on the shoulder at the top of her driveway.

  “Text me!” she shouts, hiking her bags up and jogging to her front door. “I want to hear all about this mysterious guest!”

  I turn and head down Rudy Street toward home. From a few houses away, I can tell there are no extra cars in our driveway, but I do notice that there are an awful lot of lights on inside the house. It’s all lit up, like for a party.

  “Birdie, I’m home,” I say, stepping into the front room and closing the door behind me. My ribs ache when I turn, and I grimace.

  “Julian? We’re in the kitchen!”

  I drop my bags on the couch.

  In the kitchen, both stools are taken. Sitting on one is Birdie with a cup of tea. On the other is a tall boy with shoulder-length wavy hair, wearing basketball shorts and a tank top. The boy turns toward me, and my heart jumps into my throat. I swear I can feel it pounding against my tonsils.

  “Elijah Vance?” I say, my voice sounding small over the sound of my heartbeat banging in my ears.

  “Hey, Julian.” His voice shakes, and a crooked smile touches his full lips.

  My skin prickles from my shoulders all the way down my back when I look at his smile. It’s still familiar to me, even after all these years, but it also looks strange on this older face sitting in my kitchen.

  “Elijah.”

  · four ·

  ELIJAH

  I can’t read the expression on his face when he first sees me. His eyes sweep from the top of my head to my shoes, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck as he stares at me. The room fills with tension that I can feel in my bones.

  “Hey, Julian,” I say, my voice more timid than I want it to be.

  His face is soft for a minute, and I try to smile, even though I know it’s crooked. My stomach lurches.

  “Elijah.”

  “It’s so good to see you, Julian,” I say, the words tumbling from my chest and out of my mouth faster than I can stop them.

  I stand up and take a step toward Julian. To what? Hug him? Shake his hand? I’m moving toward him without really knowing why when I notice his face has turned from soft to stormy in the blink of an eye. I stop short in the kitchen doorway.

  “Why are you here?” His brow furrows and his jaw tenses.

  It’s like a punch in the gut.

  “Julian!” Ms. Jackson admonishes, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Elijah’s going to be staying with us for a while. And there’s no call for that rude tone.”

  My stomach flip-flops. I try to catch Julian’s eye, but he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s looking at Ms. Jackson, a storm brewing just below the surface.

  “He’s starting back at Crenshaw, and he needs a place to settle until the rest of his family gets here in a few weeks,” Ms. Jackson says. I watch the looks pass between them, and I know Ms. Jackson is saying a lot more with her eyes than she’s saying with her mouth. Her eyes are saying things like Don’t you dare say anything ugly, Julian, or you won’t be able to sit down for a week. I’ve seen my own mother’s eyes say the same thing a million times. Even Frankie is learning to perfect those eyes that talk.

  “Ma and Frankie and… everyone will be here in a couple of weeks. When my mother’s job starts,” I say, my voice a little stronger than it was a few minutes ago. “They’re packing up the apartment and stuff.” Julian takes his eyes off of Ms. Jackson long enough to look me in the eye.

  There is dark stubble along his jawline, but his close-cropped dark hair is cut exactly the same as it always was. Same piercing blue eyes that look like they’re looking right through you, too. I wipe the sweat forming on my brow and brush a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “Why are you here before they are?” Julian asks, jutting his chin out at me.

  It’s a simple question, but the acid behind it makes my chest ache.

  “I wanted to start school as soon as possible. I didn’t want to have to transfer a few weeks into the semester. So, Ms. Jackson said…” I trail off when I notice the look on Julian’s face.

  “I said we would be happy to have him stay with us for a few weeks,” Ms. Jackson says. “And you call me Birdie like you did when you were little, Elijah. It’s okay,” she finishes, putting her hand on my shoulder again and squeezing lightly.

  “Thank you, Ms.… Birdie,” I say, remembering the way it felt to call her that when I was younger. Like something warm settling around my shoulders.

  Julian cuts his eyes toward his grandmother, his face full of fury. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Ms. Vance and I only just worked out the details a few days ago. I thought it best to keep it quiet until all our ducks were in a row.”

  “I won’t get in your way,” I say quietly.

  “Oh, now don’t you go fretting about that,” Ms. Birdie says, giving me a playful swat on the back with her dish towel. “Come on now, I’ve got dinner waiting for all of us.”

  Ms. Birdie sets out a feast of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and peas. Julian digs in without even looking at me. I try to relax, but everything feels wrong. I don’t know why I thought Julian would be okay with any of this. I feel too big for this room. Like I’m taking up too much space and too much oxygen. I pull the smallest pork chop from the plate Ms. Birdie passes me and only one scoop of potatoes, even though I know I could probably eat the whole bowl by myself.

  From the dining table, I can see the brown house across the street. My stomach churns, and I have to work to swallow a mouthful of peas. The brown shingles are the same, though they look like they’ve seen a few touch-up paint jobs. The white trim on the front porch isn’t flaking, and there are two bright white rockers and a bunch of hanging ferns near the front door. I wonder what kind of family now lives inside. Wonder who is sleeping in my old room and whether they look out the window into Julian’s front yard and think about him the way I used to.

  I catch sight of him across the table, head down. The curve of his ear, the movement in his jaw while he eats, it’s all so familiar and so foreign at the same time.

  “Things must look a little different than they did when you were here last, Elijah,” Ms. Birdie says in a voice too loud for the room.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “First Federal Bank has closed, where your mother used to work,” she says.

  I just nod.

  Ms. Birdie keeps up a steady stream of chatter, noting what’s still the same about Meridien and what may have changed since I lived across the street.

  Julian gets up from the table in the middle of Ms. Birdie’s tour of Meridien, puts his plate in the sink, and heads down the hallway. There’s a heavy rock in my chest I can’t swallow past.

  “He’ll come around,” Ms. Birdie whispers.

  “Does he know about Coley?” I ask, throat still tight.

  “Not my story to tell,” Ms. Birdie says. “You can tell him when you’re ready.” She smiles at me and then reaches across the table to give me an awkward hug. I melt into her. “I’m so happy to have you here. Don’t you worry about Julian. Now you show me some pictures of that sweet baby girl while I get these dishes.”

  I follow Ms. Birdie into the kitchen and pull out my phone. I scroll through the most recent pictures of Coley and Frankie while she fills the sink with warm soapy water. Her second birthday back in March. Coley wearing Ma’s heels and carrying Frankie’s gigantic purse. Coley and Frankie on the be
ach in Galveston this summer. Coley posing in my glasses. Ms. Birdie makes the appropriate “aww” noises and mumbles “so precious” at least twenty times while she washes the dishes. Coley’s bright green eyes shine at me through the phone screen, and I feel a tug in my chest.

  “I think I’d like to get settled in and go to bed,” I say. “Thank you for the delicious meal, Ms. Birdie.”

  “Don’t you mention it, sweet Elijah,” she says, pursing her lips. Her eyes look like they want to say more, but instead she calls for Julian.

  “Yes, ma’am?” He appears in the kitchen doorway shirtless with a towel around his neck.

  “Can you show Elijah into the guest room, please?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and I see a look pass between him and Ms. Birdie.

  “It’s this way,” he says without looking at me.

  I grab my black duffel from the couch and follow Julian down a short hallway. The muscles in his back flex while he walks, and my fingers remember what it was like to touch his warm skin. Does he remember?

  “It’s here,” he says, flicking on the light and pointing to the next door in the hallway. “That’s my room.”

  “I remember,” I say, a pit in my stomach.

  His eyes are angry and hurt and sad and confused all at once. I search my brain for something to say, anything, that will brighten his face. Make things between us okay.

  “I’m… I won’t get in your way,” I say again, knowing that’s not the right thing but desperate to say something.

  “Whatever,” he says, shaking his head and disappearing behind his bedroom door.

  I drop my bag just inside the guest room doorway and glance inside. The bedspread is white with pink rosebuds and yellow daisies. The window overlooks the patchy backyard, the rickety shed, and a clothesline stretching from the corner above my window to the massive oak ten feet away. A bag of clothespins dances on the line in the evening breeze, lit up by the light spilling from the kitchen window. I pull the heavy, matching curtains tight, drowning out most of the light, and switch on the rosebud lamp on the night table.

  I sit down on the bed and think about Julian just next door. I stare toward the door and wonder if he can feel me thinking about him through the wall. I desperately want to knock on his door and make a joke or say something sarcastic. Just to see him smile at me once.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and call Frankie. I texted both her and Ma when the bus pulled into Corpus Christi, but I really just want to hear her voice.

  “Hey,” I say when she answers. “Just got done with dinner.”

  “Jeez, I miss you already. This is going to be a long few weeks.” She laughs a sad laugh.

  “How’s my girl?”

  “She keeps wandering around the apartment looking for you. I think the boxes are confusing her. I told her you weren’t here, but I don’t think she believes me.” She sighs.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my throat tight.

  “Hey! None of that! We’ll be there in a few weeks, and Coley won’t even remember this. Don’t you think like that. You go to school and play football and do your thing, and don’t even think twice about us. We’ll be there soon,” she says.

  I don’t answer. Not thinking about Coley or Frankie or even my mother for a few weeks isn’t really even an option.

  “How are things…” she says.

  “What things?”

  “Don’t make me say it. You know what I mean.” She sucks her teeth.

  “With Julian? Not… um… not great,” I say, a slight hiccup in my voice. My throat feels thick, and I blink a few extra times.

  “Oh, ’lijah.” Frankie sounds genuinely sad.

  “Maybe this was a mistake,” I whisper.

  “You know things are always darkest before the dawn. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy when Ma said she wanted to move back to Meridien,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.

  “I know,” I say, my gut swirling while I fiddle with the switch on the lamp.

  I remember Ma sitting with her laptop at our tiny kitchen table with the month’s bills spread out around her and a job website open on the screen.

  “What are you up to?” I asked her, filling a glass with ice.

  “Do you know I could make almost double what I’m making right now if I took this administrative job at Dirk Murphy’s insurance agency?”

  “Murphy? Darien Murphy’s dad? In Meridien? Why would you want to move back there?” I asked her. My stomach dropped to my knees at the thought of seeing anyone from that town again, but especially Julian.

  “This is not the place we should be raising Coley.” She shook her head and looked around our cluttered apartment. “We can do better than this.”

  Next thing I knew, she was talking to Dirk Murphy on the phone and telling Frankie to start collecting boxes and milk crates from her part-time grocery store job.

  “Stiff upper lip,” Frankie says on the phone, drawing me out of my thoughts. “School. Football. Keep your head on straight, and me and Coley and Ma will be there before you know it. It’s going to get easier, ’lijah.”

  “Maybe he’ll come around,” I say. I don’t actually believe that, no matter how many times Ms. Birdie says it.

  “Do you think it’s because of what happened before we left? Or is it something else?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He’s barely said two words to me that Ms. Birdie hasn’t forced him to say.”

  “You can do this, you know. Everything will work itself out. I know it,” Frankie says, her voice strong and confident.

  I wish I felt the same.

  · five ·

  JULIAN

  I can hear his voice through the wall. I can’t hear any words, but his distinct low mumble floats through the cheap insulation and drywall and dances through the air right to my eardrums. I lie on my bed with my English homework, but I can’t concentrate on anything with that deep hum lingering around in my head. It sounds like before.

  His eyes are the same.

  And that crooked smile.

  But his hair is longer, falling in golden waves across his forehead and curling behind his ears. When I first saw him sitting on the stool in my kitchen, my first instinct was to touch him. Hug him. Put my hands on his skin in some way. But when he stood up and his frame filled the kitchen doorway, all I could remember was that he left without telling me where he was going, or even saying goodbye.

  Things had been complicated before he left, but had I not meant anything to him at all? All those years we were friends, and maybe something a little more than that, and he just disappeared from my life overnight.

  He had never exactly been a model citizen or a great student. It wasn’t that he actually went out and got in trouble every day or anything, but he always seemed to be around when bad things happened, you know? The teacher’s candy stash disappearing in third grade. Fights in the middle school hallway. Elijah always seemed to be in detention for something. Or sitting in the hallway outside of class because he was mouthing off or otherwise annoying someone. Never serious trouble, but enough that he had a reputation of sorts. He was a joker. A class clown.

  But we were still friends.

  We had been friends since we were seven years old and played peewee ball together. We kind of grew apart for a few years after fifth grade. We were still in each other’s orbit, just not connected at the hip as we had been when we were really little. It had started to bother me that Elijah didn’t take things as seriously as I did. Later on, I realized that maybe that was one of the things I liked best about him, too.

  We started hanging out again that summer after middle school. Elijah showed up on my front porch one morning, and that was it. From then on we were always together, tossing the football back and forth or riding our bikes down to Jake’s Convenience for Cokes and bags of hot Cheetos. We compared the hairs on our chins and made bets on who would be able to grow a beard first. We dared each other to eat the ghost pepper wings at Sir Clucks-A-
Lot. Elijah taught me how to jump from the Main Street bridge to the banks of the creek below without breaking an ankle. I taught him Morse code. That summer, we were as close as we had been when we were seven. Never saw one of us without the other.

  Maybe that’s why it hurt so much that I was the one who found him there that day a few weeks into our freshman year, the window already broken, shards of glass scattered across his raggedy tennis shoes. He had seemed to turn a corner the summer before we started ninth grade. I’m pretty sure the change in his attitude had something to do with football. He knew, as we all did, that the high school coaches didn’t put up with any crap and they’d replace you in a heartbeat if you screwed up in school. Even if you were Elijah Vance, Meridien Middle School’s Defensive Player of the Year.

  But that night, there stood Elijah outside the school, wearing Crenshaw football shorts and a bright red tank top, the rock already thrown into the football coach’s office window.

  I was the one who turned him in.

  I don’t know if he knows that or not.

  I left an anonymous message on the school’s tip line. I still remember what I said. “Elijah Vance broke the window into the football coach’s office. He was trying to steal the car wash money.”

  Even now, three years later, I’m not sure that I did the right thing.

  I remember Birdie jumping up from her La-Z-Boy later that night when the spinning yellow light from the school resource officer’s car streaked across our living room.

  “What in tarnation…” she whispered. “Julian, what in heaven’s name is going on over there?”

  I didn’t answer her, but I did follow her onto the porch.

  It seemed like all the neighbors were out on their porches on Rudy Street that night, wondering what the officer was doing in the Vances’ driveway. It wasn’t like the Vances were strangers to officers showing up at their doorstep, but most of their troubles disappeared when Mr. Vance was put away for good up in Huntsville.