Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  “Aiden and Nick told me to tell you hi,” Mom says. “I saw them the other day when I was making a delivery to Nick’s mom. Nick says he’s switching to Penn State.”

  “That’s good,” Jack says, but the smile that he forces looks more like a grimace. All of his friends are a year ahead of him in college now. They won’t be graduating together because he was dealing with the trial and then doing this.

  Dad sets the bag full of stuff that we brought on the table. The guards already looked through it all when we first got here. It’s just antiperspirant, toothpaste and shampoo. I tried to load up the snack food in there, but Mom says it’s against the rules. If he wants snack food, he has to eat it during the visit or to buy it from the commissary—he’s not allowed to store it in his room.

  “We added money into your commissary account,” Dad says, as if he’s riding my train of thought.

  “Thanks,” Jack says. He looks at me. “How’s school?”

  How’s Maya? He’s really asking.

  “It’s going okay,” I say. “Better.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Hank says he’s putting you on the schedule the minute you get back,” I tell him.

  “He’s only going to have me for the summer,” he reminds me. “I’m up to Boston in August.”

  “He doesn’t care. He’s having a hard time finding anybody since Eric quit.”

  “Eric quit? What happened?”

  “He got a job at Target. They pay more.”

  “Everybody pays more than Hank,” Jack says with a look of pure disgust.

  “You should work at Target,” Mom says to me. “Think of the employee discount. And you wouldn’t come home smelling like red meat.”

  “She’d make you shop for her with your employee discount,” Dad points out, and quite accurately.

  I look around the room. “So that’s all they have you do with your time, laundry and painting?”

  “It’s a boot camp program, remember?” He tells me. “Since they can’t train us to fight and use weapons, we get all the physical stuff like calisthenics at six a.m. and a ten mile runs, and then they fill up most of the rest of the time with all the grunt work it takes to keep this place running. The group sessions and classes are a joke.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “You need to be taking this seriously, Jack. You were very lucky to get in here, and we want this time to go by without any issues.”

  “I’m just saying that group therapy with a bunch of guys who sold drugs or broke into houses isn’t really teaching me anything,” he says.

  “I would hope it’s teaching you that you don’t want to be here again,” Dad notes.

  Jack nods begrudgingly. “And we have these ‘Betterment’ classes three days a week,” he goes on. “Mostly it’s just motivational stuff that sounds like Mom’s Post-it notes. And we talk about career plans.”

  “Well, at least that’s easy for you,” Mom says brightly. “With your scholarships, you’re all set.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Nobody knows about that. Can you just keep your voice down please?”

  “What?” Mom looks offended. “You should be proud of that.”

  “I’ll sound like just another bored rich kid, who got in trouble because he’s an asshole,” he says, making a face. “Some of these kids have real problems. I just let them talk.”

  “And you don’t have problems?” Mom asks.

  “Leave him alone.” Mom’s head swivels to look at me, clearly annoyed that I interrupted. “You don’t know who he has to deal with in this place,” I tell her. “Or what people are saying behind his back. Or how he feels when they’re looking at him.”

  My eyes meet Jack’s, and he gives me a grateful nod.

  Dad clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “If we’re going to go get Chinese, we’d better get a move on.”

  Mom sighs. “All right. You want your usual?” she asks Jack.

  “Make it sesame chicken this time,” he tells her.

  “I’ll have chicken and broccoli, sauce on the side,” she tells Dad.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” he replies. “That’s a lot of food to juggle. I’ll need an extra hand.”

  She wants to object, but Dad sends her another message through his eyes, which shift from me to Jack, then back to her again.

  “Okay, okay,” she finally relents. “Blue? Shrimp fried rice?”

  “And two spring rolls,” I add. “And a Diet Coke.”

  “You really should drink water,” she says.

  “Diet Coke it is, and iced tea for Jack,” Dad says, getting to his feet. “Maybe when we get back we can all play a board game.” He gestures toward a family playing Monopoly at one of the other tables.

  “Board games here are crap,” Jack says. “Monopoly has half its money missing. And somebody wrote all over the Scrabble tiles with a Sharpie.”

  “Do they have Uno?” I ask.

  “Used to,” he replies. “Until the deck got down to like, twelve cards.”

  “We’ll bring a fresh deck next time,” Dad promises. He takes Mom by the elbow and leads her out the door.

  Jack’s shoulders slump in relief as soon as they’re gone.

  “Is it always like that?” I ask. “Do they bust on you every visit?”

  “Not every time,” he says tiredly. “To tell you the truth, I like that better than when she used to cry. She cried a lot the first few visits.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to get you to recruit people for her downline.”

  He smiles. “She did. One of the girls in the office gets regular deliveries.” He glances around at the cafeteria. “Want to get out of here?”

  My eyes go wide. “You want me to break you out?”

  He leans over and lightly smacks my arm. “No, you big derp. I was talking about the exercise yard. It’s better than sitting in here. I’m tired of smelling garlic.”

  “It’d be nice to stretch my legs after that car ride.”

  “Did you fake sleep all the way up here so they’d leave you alone?” Jack walks over to get his coat and let the guard know where we’re going.

  “Who’s faking?” I answer. “I’ll sleep wherever I can.”

  He directs me through another set of doors and then outside into a large open area surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. It’s easily the size of a football field, circled by a track worn into the grass. At the far end, there’s an area that looks like an obstacle course, with tires laid out on the ground, overhead bars to cross, and a couple of walls with ropes attached at the top.

  I gesture toward a pile of sandbags stacked against one of the walls.

  “Is that to help you get over the wall?” I ask as we begin walking.

  “Nope. That’s what the ropes are for,” he replies. “The sandbags we have to pick up and carry and then stack somewhere else. And then pick them up and carry and stack them back again.”

  “Seriously?” I sneer.

  He holds up an arm and curls it to show off his bicep. “I’m starting to look ripped. You should see my abs. One hundred sit-ups every morning.”

  “You really have calisthenics at six a.m.?” I ask. “In the freezing cold?”

  “Yeah, it sucks balls.”

  “It does.”

  Suddenly, my miserable semester doesn’t seem nearly as bad in comparison. I get to wake up in a cushy bed in my room, in a house that smells like Mom’s Solstice Sparkle scented wax melts. I can sleep in on weekends. And since I don’t have gym this semester, my physical activity is entirely voluntary and most definitely does not include calisthenics. I know Jack is shrugging it off, but damn. It does suck balls.

  “This whole place is awful,” I tell him honestly.

  “The group sessions are a waste,” he goes on. “Everybody sa
ys the same old shit in response to their stupid questions. But the individual counseling helps.” He takes a breath. “It helps a lot.”

  “I guess nobody thinks to ask how you’re dealing with the hardest part of this.”

  Silence hangs between us. Finally, Jack shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes show it is. And I know it is.

  “You know Dad—if we all just ignore it, it’ll go away. Mom keeps telling me to be resilient. Keep climbing until I’m on top again. Pave a new road. Bullshit like that. And you don’t talk to me at all.”

  “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you have to be here.” My voice is a strangled thing, like the guilt is lodged in my throat.

  “You’re not the one who put me here,” he reminds me.

  I stop walking. “Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”

  He stops, too, at the seriousness on my face. “Sure.”

  “That night . . .” I don’t have to clarify which night I’m talking about. He watches me in wary silence as I fight to ask the question I’m not sure I want the answer to.

  “That night,” I say again. “When you texted me. And called me.” I take in a deep breath and let it out. The words come out in a rush. “Were you trying to call me to come and get you? Were you afraid to drive?”

  He looks confused. His eyes narrow and then shift up and off to the side as if he’s trying to remember.

  “I called you?” He asks, still confused.

  “You texted me first, and when I didn’t answer you tried to call me—about an hour before the accident. But I was asleep. I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I was asleep.” I hold my hands out in a pleading gesture. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shit.” He reaches out, grabs my hands. “Blue—”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t even remember. Maybe I was—wait—I was trying to remember the name of that kid who lived in the neighborhood that ate the stick. Remember? We dared him?”

  “Conner Bateman?” I ask, screwing up my face. “Why would you call me about Conner Bateman?”

  “There was a guy at that party who looked just like him,” he runs his hand through his hair. “Or what I thought he would have grown up to look like. He was from Downingtown.”

  “Didn’t Conner’s family move to New Jersey?”

  “I thought so, but this kid looked a lot like him. They could’ve been twins.” He looks at me again. “You thought I was trying to call you because I was too drunk to drive?”

  I shrug, and my eyes fill up. “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t feel that drunk,” he says quietly. “I didn’t feel drunk at all that night. Seriously. I mean, I had a couple of beers, but it had been over an hour since the last one by the time I left. You know I wouldn’t have gotten in the car if I thought I was drunk.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” I said.

  “I know I was close to the limit when they gave me the blood test, but I didn’t feel drunk,” he says again. He’s silent for a minute, and his mouth goes tight, as if there are more words, but he’s not sure he wants to say them.

  “I guess I could have been too buzzed to really judge my limit,” he admits. “I just don’t know.”

  He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and starts walking, so I fall into step beside him. “I’ve gone over that night so many times,” he says. “It all happened so fast, and some of it’s such a blur because of the concussion.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish I could take it back. I wish I could go back in time, and never go to that party. If I hadn’t been on that road, everything would be different now. Everything.”

  He walks faster because he doesn’t want me to see him rubbing his eyes. Up until the accident, I hadn’t seen him cry since he was six and he jumped off the monkey bars on the playground and broke his wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I wish I knew how to make it all better. For everybody.”

  He looks at me and his face softens. “Is she still giving you a hard time? Maya?”

  “Not really,” I say. “Not anymore. Believe it or not, we’ve been talking.”

  He looks surprised. “You’re friends now?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “They made us do detention. We have to develop a club together.”

  He makes a face. “What’s the point in that?”

  “Teaching us to get along,” I say with an eyeroll.

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess it worked for you. You said you two are cool now.”

  “I don’t know what we are. But we’re not fighting anymore.”

  “That’s good. That’s good.” His relief is apparent. Was he really that worried about me? I feel a twinge of guilt again. I haven’t been nearly as worried about him, and he’s the one dealing with all of . . . this.

  “Does anybody in school ask about me?” He wants to know. “Are they talking about me?”

  “No, not really,” I tell him honestly.

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better, or worse.”

  “It would’ve been that way if you were in college right now,” I tell him. “You know how high school kids are. It’s all about the drama. You’re not drama anymore. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re old news.”

  “I guess.” He shrugs. “Maybe I should have eaten a stick so people would remember me.”

  “Mom would be thrilled that you’re getting fiber in your diet.”

  He huffs a laugh and we stand silently, watching our breath curl in the air.

  “Don’t let her get you down,” he says. “She means well. And honestly, sometimes I miss her when I’m here. I miss all of you.”

  “I miss you, too. And I’m sorry I haven’t come before now. Or called you. Or written you back. Not that I would ever write a letter.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You came today.”

  “I’ll come next time, too. We’ll play Uno.”

  He tries to smile, and I know the memory of our family Uno games is making him sad as much as happy. Me, too. We haven’t done that sort of stuff in a long time. Once we got older—and Jack started high school hockey, and then I started high school, and we both got jobs—along with Dad’s job and Mom’s downline, we’re just too busy for stuff. Family stuff.

  “We should get back,” Jack finally says. “It’s freezing out here. And Mom will be sneaking broccoli into my sesame chicken if I don’t grab it away from her first.”

  We pick up our pace, and circle back toward the doors.

  “Hey, didn’t you have Mrs. Linza?” I ask him.

  “Yeah. You have her for English?”

  “I have to do a presentation. The Fahrenheit 451 thing.”

  “We read 1984.”

  “Of course you did,” I grumble. “I have to pick a book that I would preserve for all posterity. Any ideas? Do you have any good books in your room?”

  “Do not be nosing around in my room,” he warns me. “Just pick an easy book. Make it a short one.”

  “I grabbed some dumb book of Mom’s.”

  He shakes his head. “It should at least be a book you like. Linza will be able to tell if you’re just faking through the presentation.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  As we make the final turn back toward the building, we see Mom and Dad pull into the parking lot. She waves at us as they’re getting out of the car.

  “Race you inside,” Jack challenges.

  “Not fair!” I exclaim as he takes off in a burst of speed and I run to catch up. “I’m not working out every morning. I’m out of shape.”

  “Later, Barfinator,” he calls over his shoulder.

  For a moment, he’s eight, and I’m six, and we are on the playground at school, or in the neighborhood. And he’s running and I’m running, a
nd we’re both laughing. And in a minute we’re going to go inside and eat Chinese food, and we’ll almost feel like a family.

  Almost.

  Mostly.

  It’s not perfect. But we’re all here. We’re all here for each other.

  Despite the sweat, disinfectant, and garlic—it’s not the absolute worst place to be.

  29

  In the car, I try to get some work done on my book presentation. We’ve got a two hour ride home, so I might as well make good use of it.

  Except my traitorous brain keeps making me check my phone over and over. Still no texts. It’s been three days, and Devon hasn’t been in school.

  I finally broke down and texted him last night. If I thought this was all because we had a fight, I would’ve left him alone. But he’s missed school. Something is wrong. Something is really wrong.

  All I said was I’m here if you want to talk. I left the door open. The rest is up to him.

  I’ve had a lot of time to think since my last conversation with Maya—about my parents, about Jack—and about Devon. Perspective is an important thing. How things are right now doesn’t have to be the way things are forever. Not with Maya, not with my family, and not with Devon.

  So much about Devon and me was right. We laughed. A lot. We talked—really talked—about so much stuff. All kinds of things. One night we went to the playground and laid on the picnic table and stared up at the stars. It was freezing cold but the night was crystal clear and we talked about solar systems and extraterrestrials and climate change and the real meaning of life. The next day at lunch we had an entire conversation about paper cuts and the ways they could legitimately be used as a form of torture during wartime.

  Then there’s all the dozens of little, intimate things, things Devon always did that made me feel . . . cherished. The way he used to play with my hair when we were sitting next to each other. He’d put his arm around me and his fingers would just idly play with the ends of my hair. He loved it when it started to frizz up. He liked my curls. And when we’d say goodnight in person before he’d leave to go home, he’d always kiss my forehead after he kissed my lips. Just one soft little kiss and he’d say “sweet dreams.” If we were saying good night on FaceTime, he’d make me hold the phone to my forehead so he could kiss it.