by Robin Roe
There’s a loud bang behind me.
I angle my chair just in time to see Charlie and Jesse smirking through the door’s narrow glass pane. I’m about to flip them off when the little elderly ISS lady orders, “Turn yourself around.” I return my gaze to the gray brick wall, and it feels like I’m back in the refrigerator box.
When I was in the fifth grade—the same year I became Julian’s reading buddy—there were two kids with ADHD in my class: me and Darren Holt. I didn’t see much similarity between us, since he played alone and was constantly doing weird things like using strips of Scotch tape to collect tiny bits of debris from the floor.
One morning, when we got to class, a refrigerator box was standing in the corner, and Darren’s desk was missing from its row. Mrs. Nethercutt explained that Darren preferred peace and quiet to do his work, meaning he and his desk were inside the box.
A few weeks passed like that, then one day Darren didn’t come to school. I was pissing Emerald off by swinging her braids like double-dutch jump ropes when Mrs. Nethercutt suggested I try working in Darren’s little room.
It didn’t occur to me to say no, so I went into Darren’s box and sat at his desk. The cardboard walls were taped with magazine photos and computer printouts of different kind of insects, and in one corner were dozens of balls of Scotch tape. It was creepy, but even worse than that, it was boring.
I pitied Darren for all the days he’d spent like this. I vowed to never be off task again. I would stop pouring glue on my hand and pretending it was an old-man-hand. I would stop trying to deconstruct Emerald’s perfect hair. I would take a vow of silence and do my freakin work.
Needless to say, when I told my mom how I’d spent my day, she did not take it well. The following morning she walked me into class, a protective arm around my shoulder, and demanded to know if Mrs. Nethercutt had locked me in a box.
My teacher started to stutter that the hyperactive child thrives in such a situation. They could focus without all the overwhelming stimuli of windows and bright colors and other children. They were happier this way.
“Happy?” Mom shouted. “My child was traumatized!”
That was an exaggeration. I was bored, definitely, but it wasn’t like I stayed in there all day. I got out for lunch, recess, the bathroom, and a million other times to ask questions.
Mrs. Nethercutt looked panicked. “It was an experiment.”
I think that was a poor choice of words as far as my mom was concerned. I remember her saying something about the Stanford Prison Experiment, and then she said a lot of other things neither of us is proud of, and Mrs. Nethercutt started to cry. In front of the entire class.
When Darren got back to school the next day, he was pissed at me because the principal had confiscated his little room. But I didn’t get why he was so upset. Why would anyone want to spend their day inside a box?
My hidden room is darker than usual. It’s drizzly and gray outside, so very little sun makes it through the porthole. It’s quiet, the echoey kind that throbs inside your ears, and it will stay quiet since Miss Carlisle took back our dolls today. I pull my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my backpack and take a small bite.
All morning I’d been planning my answer for the question I knew Adam would ask: Anything interesting happen today? But when I went into the hall to meet him last period, he wasn’t there. I kept waiting, counting time. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then I saw Dr. Whitlock striding down the hall. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I assumed if you didn’t see Adam, you’d come on your own.” She explained that he wouldn’t be coming at all today, but she wouldn’t tell me why.
I take another bite of my sandwich. My father used to pack them in my lunchbox every morning. It seems like they’d be easy to make, but now they never taste right.
It’s strange how many ways there are to miss someone. You miss the things they did and who they were, but you also miss who you were to them. The way everything you said and did was beautiful or entertaining or important. How much you mattered.
When I was little, thoughts would always fill my head, because I knew as soon as school ended, my mom or dad would want to hear them all. When you know you’re going to tell someone everything, you see your day through your eyes and theirs, as if they’re living it alongside you.
But when you don’t, it isn’t only not seeing double—it’s not seeing at all. Because if they aren’t there, you aren’t either.
“JULIAN?” DR. WHITLOCK’S careful tone catches my attention. “Would you like Adam to join us today?”
While Adam and I walked from my Art class to her office—slower than normal, because he was limping a little—he told me he’d been in ISS on Friday. He said it wasn’t all that bad, since after an hour or so the teacher warmed up to him. “Do you want to go back?” I asked, and Adam said, “Do you mean am I going to intentionally get myself thrown into ISS so I can spend the day playing poker for Oreos with Miss Agnes?” I nodded. “You’re funny, Julian.” He laughed, but he never answered my question.
And I haven’t answered Dr. Whitlock’s yet.
Of course it would be much better if Adam were in here, but Dr. Whitlock is watching me with such intensity that I don’t know what answer to give. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, and Adam probably won’t want to come in anyway. So it becomes awkward, because neither one of us is speaking.
“It’s fine,” she finally says. “I just thought you might prefer it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“He can. If he wants.”
She nods and leaves the office. A couple minutes later he bounces inside and starts digging through the games. “Yes!” he cheers. “Jenga. Wanna play this?” He’s already grabbing it and kneeling down in front of the bright purple coffee table.
“How do you play?”
“You’ve never played Jenga?” Normally a statement like this would embarrass me, because it’s usually followed by some kind of insult. But his smile is good-natured and doesn’t feel mean.
He dumps the box on its side and dozens of small wooden blocks tumble out. I slide off the couch to kneel down by the table like he is.
“We can play Sorry next,” Dr. Whitlock says a few minutes later. “I know how much you like it.” I don’t like Sorry. I’ve never liked Sorry. But I can see she’s trying to be nice.
“I like this game.” I peek up, hoping I haven’t offended her.
She doesn’t look offended. Her smile is as big as Adam’s.
ON FRIDAY, INSTEAD of taking the normal route to Whitlock’s, I veer off course. We trek the upstairs hallways, head back down, then up, then down again in the most ridiculous, complicated route imaginable.
I keep waiting for Julian to ask why. I’m not sure what I’ll say, because I sure as hell can’t tell him that I’m now officially getting class credit for being his friend. It’s kind of sweet really, Dr. Whitlock telling me to just walk and talk with him the whole period. Well, except for the part where I’m supposed to report back anything concerning. Which, obviously, I won’t do. But the other part, the part where she wants him to have friends—even if they are assigned friends—is sweet.
After about thirty minutes of looping around the school, we head into the courtyard. “Smells like someone’s burning leaves,” I say. Julian shivers even though it’s not that cold. “I love that smell. Makes me want to carve a jack-o’-lantern or something.”
“Adam?” He’s holding his arm in that weird sore-shoulder way.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“For what?”
“For not taking me to Dr. Whitlock’s.” Finally. “I don’t want you to get fired.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re funny.” I eye the brick wall, wondering if I could do that thing where you run up a wall and backflip. “I won’t get in trouble. She said we could just hang out.” I take a leap and end up falling on my ass. “Ow.” I lie
here while Julian cautiously sits on the wooden bench. “What are you doing later?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like tonight, this weekend.”
“I’m not sure. What are you doing?” he asks it carefully, like a kid who’s just learning correct phrases like please and thank you.
“Going to a concert. You like concerts?”
“We never went to concerts.” Julian hardly ever talks about his parents, but whenever he does, it’s like this. Like if something didn’t happen while they were alive, it never would. “My…”
After a while I realize he’s not going to finish, so I prompt, “Yeah?”
“My mom loved music.”
“I know.”
“She could play every instrument. She could sing anything. But we didn’t go to concerts. I don’t know why.”
“Do you want to come tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to come to the concert?”
“I don’t have a ticket.”
“I can get you a ticket.” I think I can, anyway. “I can text you as soon as I get it.”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
“Seriously? Everyone has a cell phone.” He looks embarrassed. “Doesn’t matter. You can just meet me at my house at six.”
I’ll have to prepare my mom first. Julian had been with us for eight months when, out of nowhere, a social worker took him. It turned out there was a relative, sort of—Julian’s godfather/uncle by marriage. Mom and I thought we’d be able to at least visit Julian, but then she got a notice from the woman handling his case. The uncle said Julian needed to adjust to his new home and that he believed seeing us would harm the process somehow. I remember Mom carefully folding that letter before tucking it into a drawer as gently as if it were Julian himself. Losing Julian—for Mom, for me—it was like a death.
“So do you wanna come?” I ask.
He smiles, wide and happy like a kid about to blow out the candles on his birthday cake. “Yes.”
FOR THE FIRST time in four years, I’m standing on Adam’s front porch.
But I can’t make myself knock.
I have a strange, dizzy feeling, like the time Mom and I went on a hike and had to cross a tall suspension bridge. I remember being right at the edge and how it felt to peer over the side—terrifying and incredible all at once.
I take a deep breath, then I knock.
A moment later, Adam opens the door, saying, “Hey, come in.” The house is just like I remember: yellow and cluttered and alive like an electrified current. “I’m almost ready.” He darts off toward where I remember our room was.
There are still a ton of photos of Adam everywhere. Adam as a naked toddler in a bathtub with a soap beard. Adam proudly holding a badly carved pumpkin. Adam at a roller-skating party with dozens of other children when he must have been five or six.
I step closer to a photo framed in black—it’s me. I’m nine years old, and I’m smiling as I stand on that wooden box I used to pretend was a stage. I scan the crowded wall of pictures and find my face again. In one photo Adam is carrying me on his back. In another I’m holding his hand.
“Hey,” Adam says, appearing behind me. “You ready?”
I nod and try to smile, but it probably comes off more like a grimace.
He doesn’t seem to notice, and tells me to come on. I follow him through the swinging doors. Standing in the center of the bright yellow kitchen, a rolling pin poised over a mound of dough, is Catherine, Adam’s mother. She’s pretty, just like I remember, and I feel a particular type of pain—the same squeezing heart I get every time I open the trunk. Suddenly I have this thought that I should have dressed up, the way you would before you enter a church. Instead I’m wearing my too-short jeans and too-small shirt with the holes in the armpits and along the collar.
She steps from behind the island, reaching out both hands as if she’s going to hug me, then she glances at Adam and lowers her arms. “How are you, Julian?” There’s a certain inflection to my name, the same tone people use to say honey or sweetheart.
“Fine.” It seems wrong to give an automatic response like fine to her, but it’s all I can say. No one starts filling the silence and it’s awkward until I hear a bass pulse from outside, so loud it rattles the copper pots and pans hanging against the wall.
“Sounds like Camila’s here,” Adam says. Catherine smiles at him, sparkling and entertained like every word he says is worth hearing. “Gotta go, Mom.” He kisses the side of her head.
“Julian?” She stretches out one hand, almost but not quite touching my shoulder. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
I nod, then follow Adam back through the swinging yellow doors. From the living room window, I see carloads of older kids disembarking and spilling across the lawn. That’s when I realize it won’t just be Adam and me going to this concert.
While he’s shrugging on his jacket, I bolt out the back door, setting off a motion sensor light. “Hey.” He’s followed me into the backyard. “Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go. Thank you for inviting me.” When I take another step, he hops over to block my exit.
“Why?” He follows my gaze to all the strangers filling the house. “My friends are cool.”
And that’s the problem. They’re cool and I’m me and I won’t know what to say and he’ll realize that soon enough.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
That sounds terrifying and I regret ever coming here.
It’s as awkward as I could imagine. Not because they aren’t nice, but because I don’t know what to say. I’m annoyed with myself for being so bad at things that everyone else can do without trying.
After a long, uncomfortable ride in a girl named Camila’s car, everyone grabs blankets and joins the thousands of other people milling around the giant field. I’m still a little queasy from the drive, and the loud music is giving me a headache. Adam and his friends talk and laugh and pile onto each other like puppies or children. It’s uncomfortable watching people who know each other this well, like how it might feel to invade a stranger’s Thanksgiving dinner.
It’s even worse when Adam disappears into the crowd.
A few minutes later, someone asks where he is. The tall blond boy named Charlie answers, “Where do you think? Running up and down the field.” Everyone nods as if they know what this means. Charlie sees me watching them and scowls. He doesn’t like me, which isn’t so unexpected, but it still stings.
I sit on the grass and pull my knees to my chin, trying to keep warm while everyone else sits on the quilts and talks. After a while Adam comes back and says hello to me, but then he races off again, smiling and chatting and hopping.
As it gets darker, the temperature drops. Soon I’m so cold I start to shake.
I’m startled when a figure wrapped in a blanket sits down beside me. It’s dark; maybe she didn’t know I was here when she decided to sit. Now that she realizes, she’ll want to move.
But she doesn’t. Instead she looks right at me and says, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“You haven’t? I mean…you remember me?”
When I lived with Adam, sometimes Emerald would visit. She always wore dresses, and she was pretty like an angel or someone’s mother. I remember walking along a blue-green lake, and Emerald saying something about my blue-green eyes. I remember that whenever my legs got tired, Adam would kneel so I could climb onto his back, and when I wasn’t tired anymore, I would walk between them, holding their hands.
“Of course I remember you,” Emerald says. “You were like Adam’s little brother.” A look flashes over her face, one that’s uneasy. I must have said or done something, but I don’t know what. As we sit without talking, I expect her to leave, join the others.
Instead she smiles and says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
AFTER THE CONCERT, Saturday and Sunday are silent.
Monday is lik
e all Mondays. Like I’m sitting at the bottom of a pool, listening underwater to people living up above.
On Tuesday I see Adam, and after so much silent drowning, I can breathe. But after a few laps around the school and a few minutes in the courtyard, it’s over.
Then there is a long invisible Wednesday and an even longer Thursday.
In the middle of the night between Thursday and Friday, I wake to a dark silhouette in my doorway. Sometimes when I’m afraid, I think I see things that aren’t really there.
I find my flashlight, shine it, and say, “Russell?”
No answer.
But it is Russell, his eyes full of some emotion I can’t name. We watch each other without speaking until he turns and walks away.
Now it’s Friday, and I’m hiking the halls with Adam again. He’s brimming with energy and smiling at sad teachers as my stomach clenches tighter with each step. I need this to keep going. I need to keep circling the school. I’m afraid for it to be over, and I’m embarrassed for being afraid.
Adam glances over at me and plucks the wrinkled paper from my hand. We both cringe when he sees the grade. I make a weak attempt at taking my essay back, but he just keeps walking, which doesn’t seem like the best idea, since he often trips even when he isn’t trying to read and walk at the same time.
“You write essays in Science?” he asks.
I nod.
“Weird.” He flips the paper over and halts. “Now this is just mean.” I guess he found Miss West’s comments at the end. “I thought they couldn’t take off points for spelling.”
“Why?”