We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  “It’s too soon,” she would say, even when Lane, Sam’s tutor, told her he was making a lot of progress.

  It wasn’t the schoolwork she was worried about. Sam hadn’t been around lots of kids his own age in years. But Josh was always around our house, and Donal and Chita and the girls had been coming around a lot, too—to watch movies, for game nights, an occasional sleepover. Even Grace came over once for dinner, and Sam was shy around her and everything, just like old times. He’s still getting used to being around other kids.

  And they’re getting used to being around him.

  “I worry,” Mom told me one night in March when we were talking about it, when Sam was back in his room. “I worry about how Sam will be treated. By his classmates.”

  “They’ll be cool, Mom. They’ll like him,” I said, though I knew there might be some jerks. “He’ll just be like any other freshman.”

  “But Sam’s different.”

  We’re all different, I wanted to tell her. Instead, I said, “Mom. He’ll have me there, and Josh. And all my friends. We’ll protect him.”

  It was Donal, of all people, who convinced her. He came over one day when the weather had finally gotten better and we all played soccer in the front yard. All those moves Sam had as a kid came rushing back.

  “Sam could make the team if he tried out,” Donal said in an offhand way, when we were back inside. “He’s so quick on his feet. We need fast guys.”

  I could see Mom looking at Sam, like she saw something new about him. “You think?” Mom said.

  “Oh, most definitely,” Donal said.

  Sam cracked open a Coke and took a sip, then let out a ridiculous burp.

  “God, Sam,” I said, but I was smiling.

  A week later, Mom relented. She went to the school, talked to the principal, a few of the counselors, and then to Sam’s tutor, his psychiatrist. It was decided that it would be good for him, for socialization purposes more than anything else. Lane the tutor is going to stick around, because he’ll still need a lot of extra help.

  “We’re gonna be late,” I say, wanting to avoid any emotional displays. I want this to feel just like any old day for Sam, though I know that’s impossible.

  “Okay, go,” Mom says, hugging Sam, then me. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  We hug Earl, too. “You kids have fun,” he says, like we’re going to a movie and not school.

  We drive along, listening to the radio. Sam seems too nervous to talk. And I guess I kind of am, too. Or maybe it’s excitement.

  I pull into the Central parking lot and find a spot in the back. Sam gazes ahead at the school, and through his eyes I see that it’s big and ugly and kind of imposing. But I can see an excited twinkle in his eye.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says, his smirk bursting into a confident smile. A smile that I’m seeing more and more of. At times I’ll still see flashes of darkness cross his face, too, like he’s remembering something—or trying to forget. “Sam,” I’ll say, when this happens, “you okay? You want to talk?” Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. But he knows I’m there for him either way.

  Up ahead, I spot Josh, waiting by the back doors.

  “You go on ahead. I mean, I don’t want to cramp your style,” I say, teasing.

  I think about my first day of school as a freshman, and how alone I felt. How alone I was.

  But Sam’s not alone, like I told Mom. He already has more friends than I had on my first day.

  “Okay. Here I go,” he says.

  “Remember, meet me at the soccer fields after school?” I say. Donal wants to introduce him to his coach, because eventually he’ll try out for next year’s soccer team.

  “Got it,” he says, but he seems suddenly wary.

  “It’s gonna be great,” I insist. “It really is.” I think about that first moment I’ll pass him in the hall. Seeing Sam where he belongs. Seeing Sam leading the life he was meant to live. I feel like I might turn into a big sap and start crying, but I hold it in and smile.

  Sam grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I know,” he says. He gets out of the car and I watch him walk toward the building, my hand still warm from when he touched it.

  Josh

  I have Dad drop me off at school on the early side, out front, and then I walk through the halls to the back entrance, where I’m supposed to meet Sam. I take a few breaths, hoping I can get rid of the butterflies in my stomach.

  I try to not worry about how other people might act. It’ll be the first time most people see me with Sam.

  The first time most people realize we’re friends.

  I’ve been mentally preparing. I’m the class vice president, I keep reminding myself. Sure, maybe it’s a dumb, meaningless role, but people voted for me. They look up to me in some way. And when they see me with Sam, maybe they’ll think twice before they judge him.

  The heavy back door of the school bangs open and I turn and see Nick step out.

  “Oh, hey,” I say, a little startled to see him.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Last Friday, after tennis practice, I told Nick that Sam was coming back to school.

  “For real?” he’d said, like he hoped I was kidding.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He starts on Monday.”

  However he really felt about it was plastered over by him saying, “Cool.”

  I’m about to acknowledge Nick, but then I see that he’s staring out at the lot. At Sam. Sam, walking toward us, a confident smile spread across his face.

  It’s Nick who speaks to him first. “Hey,” he says, a pitch of nervousness in his voice. “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks,” Sam says. Like this is no big deal.

  “Yeah, welcome back,” I say, even though he’s never been to this school. But maybe it’s a welcome back to something bigger than a dumb building. I bump his fist, and I see Nick lift his arm but then drop it, but Sam holds his arm out and Nick bumps his fist, too.

  “I’ll, uh, see you later?” Nick says to me.

  I can tell he feels uncomfortable around Sam. But at least he’s making an effort. “Yeah, for sure,” I say.

  Nick nods at Sam and goes back inside.

  Now it’s just me and Sam, and somehow meeting him here feels like it’s always been our routine.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah. Let’s do this,” he says, surprising me by taking the lead. He grabs the door handle, swings it open, and walks inside. And I walk in right behind him, hoping he knows I’m there. That I always will be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Eternal Thanks

  To the late George Nicholson, who gave me my start. I miss you and will always cherish our partnership.

  To Francoise Bui, who read early chapters and gave me enthusiastic encouragement to push onward.

  To these friends who were kind enough to read early drafts of the novel:

  Daphne Benedis-Grab, thanks for our Korean dinners, for your constant stream of helpful advice, and for always boosting my spirits. You’re a wonderful writer, a lovely human being, and a great friend.

  Bryant Palmer, I’m so glad we found each other all these years after college. Thanks for your insights and your friendship and your general awesomeness. I can’t wait to read your books.

  Helen Ellis, my fellow Alabaman-slash-New Yorker. Thank you for the margaritas and tipsy book shopping and for your exacting, wonderfully ruthless edits. You killed my darlings and helped make this a much stronger book. I’m proud to be friends with such a talent (and a badass).

  To Patrick Ryan, for pointing me in the right direction, and for writerly encouragement when I really needed it.

  To Amy Chozick, for always being there. Your fearlessness has always been an inspiration. Looking forward to toasting your book
in 2018.

  To Alessandra Balzer, for giving me the kick in the pants that I needed.

  To Angela Weisl, for allowing me into your classroom and for reminding me of why I do what I do.

  To Will Walton and Tyler Goodson, for cheerleading and doing the good work.

  To David Levithan, for everything you do for so many of us.

  To Reiko Davis and Erica Rand Silverman, for their helpful feedback on the manuscript.

  To all my friends and colleagues at HarperCollins. I couldn’t think of a better and more talented group of people to work with day in and day out. I can’t single out everyone, but know that your support and collegiality mean the world to me. Tina Andreadis, on that one dark day, you gave me your shoulder to cry on and told me everything would work out. You were right. Kate D’Esmond, Heidi Richter, and Sharyn Rosenblum, thanks for keeping me (somewhat) sane. Thanks to Team Ecco—Daniel Halpern, Sonya Cheuse, Miriam Parker, Ashley Garland, James Faccinto, and everyone else—for welcoming me into the fold. And to the Harperettes, for the love and the shade: Yasir Dhannoon, Paul Florez-Taylor, and Brian Perrin.

  To my amazing friends who, as I wrote and edited this book over the past few years, put up with my whining and neuroticism, gave supportive pats on the back, and, most importantly, took me out of my head whenever I needed an escape: Damian Fallon, James Pritchard, Constantine Hatzis, Dennis Gesumaria, Chetan Nagesh, Jon Greenway, Jason Bentley, Wayne Chang, Jason Wells, Chris Shirley, John Sellers, Robert Ennis, Kate Runde Sullivan, Clay Smith, Temo Callahan, Christopher Oakland, Scott Landry, and many more.

  To my pen pals and kindred spirits: Debra Berman, Julie Kapphan Davis, and Melissa Tullos.

  To Duvall Osteen, the most amazing and fabulous agent anyone could hope for. Thanks for rescuing me. Thanks for putting up with me. Thanks for helping me get this book into shape. And, most of all, thanks for finding this book a wonderful home. I look forward to all the amazing years ahead. And thanks to everyone else at Aragi for their support and hard work on my behalf.

  To Stacey Friedberg, editor extraordinaire. Your passion for this book and these characters has meant the world to me. Chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, word by word, your edits have been nothing short of brilliant. This novel is the best that it can be thanks to your hard work.

  To the entire team at Dial Books for Young Readers, including Kristin Smith and the rest of the Puffin design team, for the perfect cover; Nancy Leo-Kelly, for the gorgeous interior design; Rosanne Lauer, for her copyediting expertise; and Lily Yengle and the ace publicity team.

  Finally, to my family. Thanks, as always, for your love and support and belief all these years. I’d truly be nothing without you: Mom and Dad; Avery and Conan; Eric and Julie and Ethan; Mandy and Mary; Tilla, Anna, Sam, and the Yother girls; and Valerie, Jeff, and Clare.

  NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Martin Wilson grew up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where both of his novels take place. He is a graduate of Vanderbilt University and the University of Florida, and his work has appeared in Tin House, One Teen Story, and other publications. His first YA novel, What They Always Tell Us, was the winner of an Alabama Author Award and a Lambda Award nominee. He currently lives in New York City, where he works as a publicist at a publishing house.

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