Anything Could Happen

by Will Walton

  “Jesus, Farm,” he says again.

  “And, I mean, are you smoking out here? For Christ’s sake! Your mom died from cancer. Remember that? When we were five? Do you want cancer?”

  Bobby wrinkles his face. “Sure!” he says. “Sure I want it!”

  “You know, my granddad’s got cancer, too, now. And, guess what? He’s probably gonna die from it! And you know what else? He’s not a smoker! And neither was my grandma when she got cancer, and neither was your mom!”

  “So what?”

  “So, what I’m saying is that freaking cancer is a real enough possibility without you having to freaking ask for it.”

  Bobby jumps at me again. “So what, Farm! So what?”

  I press against his shoulders. “Bobby, stop!” I shout. “Get a grip!”

  He wraps his arms around me and lands a punch to my back, though not hard enough to hurt. In fact, Bobby is softening; I feel it. Eventually, it’s like I’m holding on to a big stick of butter. “Bobby,” I say, out of breath. I feel him shaking. In that moment, a switch flips. Bobby Handel is crying, and I’m holding him, and maybe it’s what I wish I could have done for him when we were five. When he was five years old and had lost his mom and didn’t understand it; he probably still doesn’t understand it, because how can you really understand something like that?

  I pat his back. “Bobby,” I say. I feel a wetness land against my hand and realize I’m crying, too. “Bobby, I—” A sob escapes from him and reverberates against my chest. “Bobby, I’m sorry,” I say, and I hold him close for what must be minutes, though not even hours would be enough, really. Not even if I’d been able to hold him through all the years of our childhood would it have been enough. Enough to replace the emptiness Bobby feels.

  “Do you have a scar?” Bobby asks. We’re crossing the parking lot outside the school. “From that time. You know, that time when I pushed you into the locker and you got that cut?”

  I shake my head. “No, why?”

  We’re walking so close I feel Bobby shrug. “Gooby said so.”

  “Matt did?” I turn to look at him. His face is still red but probably more from the cold now than anything. “Hm, wonder why.”

  “Yeah, he said you had a scar, and that if I ever laid a hand on you again, he would get his dad to call my dad.”

  “Ha!” I try to picture it. Mega laid-back Landon or high-strung Ron. Either one of them speaking on the phone to Tim Handel seems like the setup for some kind of comedy skit. “Wonder which one,” I say.

  Bobby cracks a smile. The way his lips are chapped at the corners makes me think of the Joker. “What are they like?” he asks. “The Goobys.”

  I think about that for a second.

  “Well, Mr. Landon is super chill, and he has this awesome scraggly beard. And Mr. Ron—” I remember sitting around the breakfast table with them that morning before they left. “Mr. Ron is a little more uptight, I guess. But he’s cool, too. I mean, they have a nice balance between the two of them.” I pause. “And Matt’s just—”

  How do I begin?

  My shoe is untied, and I stop to tie it, setting my newly tattered copy of On the Road down beside me.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I just gotta tie this.” I fiddle with the laces, my fingers all pink and cramped from the cold. “Gosh, it’s hard to do when it’s this freezing out.”

  Bobby stops a couple steps ahead of me and turns. He eyes the book for a second, then tilts his head up to look at the night sky. The moonlight catches in his breath. “I’m sorry about your book,” he says.

  With some effort, I pull the knot tight on my shoe. “Oh, psh.” I stand up. “It’s all right.”

  “I could buy you a new one, you know. I’ll—”

  I catch up to him and we start walking again. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

  “But I’d kinda like to, if you’d let me.”

  “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “But this copy’s special.”

  Bobby stands still, and I turn to face him. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Well, now I feel really bad,” he says.

  “No!” I swat the air with my hand. “No, no, it’s special because now I have a memory to go with it.”

  He squints his eyes at me, unsure. And then I laugh. “I mean, it’s the memory of the night we became friends.”

  He takes his hands out of his pockets and looks up again. Then he crosses his arms. “True,” he says. And we don’t say anything else until we reach the parking lot of Yarborough Antiques some minutes later.

  “Well,” I tell him, “I go this way.” I swing my head toward home.

  “All right,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  “Ugh. That soon? Man, where did this winter break go?”

  Bobby shrugs. “It sure as hell beats me.” He looks back up Barrow Street, all the Christmas lights still up and illuminating every storefront. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark out, really. Barrow Street is still light as day.

  “It seems like they leave these lights on longer and longer every year,” I say. “I mean, New Year’s is over, for crying out loud.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby says. “I always miss it, though, when they take it all down.”

  I follow his gaze all the way to the courthouse lawn. The light from the big Christmas tree leaves the William Griggers statue in shadow. The brave shall know nothing of death.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, me, too,” I tell Bobby.

  On the last day of winter break, I’m sitting in my room. I want to listen to “Anything Could Happen” again, but for some reason Joe’s CD keeps skipping. It’s like it has a scratch on it or something, which is impossible. I’ve guarded that thing with my life.

  I’ve already finished On the Road, too, so I don’t have that anymore. I decide that I like that book a lot. I especially like the way it ends, with the line, I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Moriarty. I love the way it sounds in my head.

  So here I am, sitting in my room on the last day of winter break, and for the first time ever in my life I am trying to write. I am trying to keep a journal, since I got the nice one from Joe at Christmas.

  I start out, Well, it’s been one heck of a winter break. Then Mom calls up the stairs. “Hey, Tretch!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “I was just trying out that journal I got for Christmas.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  There’s a beat.

  “Well, you want to ride to Target?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. The last time I rode to Target, it was to pick her Christmas gift. The last time I rode to Target, I came out to Joe.

  I look at the words I’ve written on the page. Pretty boring sentence, really. Not exactly how I want to start. “Just give me a second.” I take the pen and scribble it out. Then I think for a while, just staring at the page, until finally Mom calls, “Tretch? Still coming?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. Then I decide.

  I think of Matt Gooby, I write, I think of Matt Gooby, I think of Matt Gooby. After that, I add, But I don’t think about him as much anymore.

  I drop my pen next to the notebook and swing my legs off the bed. Mom is at the foot of the stairs. She has her purse and the car keys, ready to go.

  “We takin’ the highway?” I ask.

  “Mm, I thought we’d back-road it.”

  I smile. “Nice.”

  At Target, Mom goes to do returns, and I find myself in the CD aisle. I have a ten-dollar bill in my wallet and a little loose change in my pocket. The Ellie Goulding CD is only $9.99—an album called Halcyon. I check the back cover. “Anything Could Happen” is song number three.

  “Halcyon,” I read aloud.

  The total cost is $10.69. I have exactly $10.75, so I’m in the clear. I work on the plastic wrap while Mom drives us home. She swapped the Charlie’s Angels DVD box set Joe and I got her for Christmas for store credit. Now she has a bran
d-new orange sweater, which, I have to say, looks a lot better than the Pepto-Bismol turtleneck she usually wears.

  “What’s Halcyon?” I ask her, through a mouthful of plastic wrap.

  “Hmm?” We stop at a red light, and she reaches into her pocket to pull out her iPhone in its bright purple case. “Look it up on here.” I’m basically a pro at using the iPhone to search for things at this point. I punch the keypad and enter the words halcyon definition into the search bar.

  What comes up is this:

  halcyon: (adj.) calm, peaceful; rich, wealthy; happy, joyful (n.) a mythical bird that breeds in the wintertime, in a nest that floats on the sea

  The second part of the definition is highlighted in blue, which means I can click on it if I want. I press the screen with my thumb, and the page disappears for a second. When it reappears, it has a picture of the halcyon bird on it.

  “ ‘Breeds in wintertime, in a nest that floats on the sea,’ ” I read aloud.

  “What?”

  I give Mom the full definition.

  “Hm,” she says. “Good winter word.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Good winter word.” I turn my head to the side and watch her. She stares ahead, bouncing her thumbs on the steering wheel, humming along to the Taylor Swift song playing through the speakers. For a split second, I think about telling her. I think about telling her—

  “I have a dance to this song,” I say.

  “Really?” Mom looks surprised.

  “Mhmm.” I watch the expression change on her face. Something like confusion fading away to a smile, then a laugh.

  “So Matt and Lana weren’t kidding? You really do have the moves?”

  “Oh yeah, Mom,” I say. “I got the moves.” Then I shrug my shoulders and bob my head. For about twenty seconds, I’m a passenger seat Michael Jackson. Mom continues to tap the beat against the steering wheel, laughing so hard that tears form at the corners of her eyes, and she has to wipe them away.

  Sitting on the floor next to the stereo, I take out the old burned CD and replace it with the Halcyon one. I sprawl out and listen from song number one all the way to song number thirteen. Then I start it all over again.

  It turns out “Anything Could Happen” is only a taste of the magic of Ellie Goulding.

  Outside, the sky is growing dark. I’m on song number six for the second time when Joe sticks his head in. “I dig this,” he says.

  I nod. I’m up and moving around, my shoulders bobbing, my arms waving. “It’s Halcyon,” I say. “It’s amaaaazing.”

  Joe smiles. “Well, I hate to break up the party, but Mom says it’s time for dinner.”

  “Sweet!” I say. “Give me a minute. I’m just going to finish this song.” I shut my eyes and spin. I hear Joe laugh, but when I open my eyes back up, he’s gone, and it’s just me and my tunes again, in my room. Me and my tunes and my moves, I think. I strain my ears for the chorus, this one a lot different than the chorus on “Anything Could Happen.” On this one, instead of just a bunch of eeh-eeh-eehs, Ellie repeats a single sentence. “It’s gonna be better,” she sings, again and again. “It’s gonna be better, it’s gonna be better, it’s gonna be better …”

  And you know something?

  I believe her.

  I believe things are going to get better for me, even though sometimes it’s hard to. Even though if I shut my eyes and try so hard to picture it, sometimes I can’t.

  But the thing is, if things are really going to get better, then that’s great.

  Because, right now, dancing in my room by myself, knowing I’ve got a whole life folding out ahead of me, with a million things to learn from it, I can feel only one thing.

  Things are already good.

  They really are.

  They really, really are.

  So much love and thanks to Sabrina Orah Mark and Reg McKnight, who found the heart of this book first; Laurel Snyder, who taught me about fevers; and Alex Reubert, who started it all with a talk.

  Janet Geddis, Rachel Watkins, Frankie Brown, and Nick Simmons, you are my favorites and the heart and soul of the greatest place on earth: Avid Bookshop. Thank you guys so much. To all of our customers, thank you!

  David Levithan, my editor, my friend, my reader, my hero, you are the one who said, “It’ll all be all right,” before we ever even spoke. Your books are the reason books like mine exist, and your belief in this story has meant the world. To everyone at Scholastic, for all of your hard work and devotion, I am so grateful.

  Pete Knapp, for your dedication, your kindness, your friendship, and your quiche, I am forever indebted. Jacob Graham, Nick Eliopulos, Andrew Harwell, Jeremy West, and Jeffrey West, thank you all for witnessing. To everyone at the Park Literary Group, I am so thankful for your care.

  To Tyler Foy, Rachel Kaplan, Taylor Lear, Rainey Lynch, Hope Hilton, Deirdre Sugiuchi, Beth Thrasher, Anne McLeod, Jenny Wares, Amy Ingalls, Leah Isbell, and Helene Halstead, thank you all for the early encouragements. To my friends—Cleve, Matt, Brian, Nikki, Steven, Natalie, Phil, Ryan, Erin, Graham, and Laura—thank you.

  To Granddad, who taught me to work hard; to Grandma, who taught me kindness; to Nana, who taught me to read; to Pop, the greatest storyteller; to my dad, who taught me bravery; to my mom, who taught me strength; to my brother, Ben, who is everything true; to my sister, McKinley, who is everything good—I love you all so much more than should be containable by one person.

  And to Tyler Goodson, well, here’s to the big one. Thank you.

  Will Walton is a book-selling pop music fanatic who grew up on a farm and lives in a bookshop. He’s a graduate of the University of Georgia and currently lives in Athens, Georgia. Anything Could Happen is his first novel.

  For more about Will, please visit www.willwalton.com.

  Copyright © 2015 by Will Walton

  All rights reserved. Published by PUSH, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. PUSH and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957924

  First edition, June 2015

  Cover photo by Evan Walsh

  Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-70955-2

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.