Nothing was said in the locker room. No one on the team acknowledged the sudden breach between the two players. But before Saturday’s tie-breaking face-off, when Liam made a calculated decision to sit in the middle of the bench rather than at his usual position on the end, he heard the mumbled complaints as the first string took the ice.
“What’s with Bossy?”
“Can’t believe this!”
“What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
“Today of all days!”
Brandon moved past the bench without so much as a glance. Who knew if it would have happened anyway? Still, there was something weirdly coincidental—some would later claim jinxed—about how the Warriors lost: in the last minute of play, an opposing forward slipped the puck around Brandon’s ankles almost exactly as Liam had done during the practice match. The Warriors still had a perch in the play-offs. There was a good chance they’d take the division again. But their perfect record was ruined. And Liam knew there was very little doubt in anybody’s mind who was responsible. Not Brandon, who fumbled the most important defensive play of the afternoon, but Liam, who had refused to offer up his head to the team as a good-luck charm. Well, Brandon would have his head now, Liam knew, but, with a growing sense of elation, he realized that he no longer cared.
For the rest of the day he felt weirdly jubilant. Wired and restless, he skipped dinner and went for a long walk up into the woods behind the main campus. He climbed to the top of the highest ridge. The school had cut a ski run down the mountainside, and Liam—hatless and gloveless—rolled down the snow-covered slope on his side, circling faster and faster. When he finally came to a stop at the bottom of the run, he was so dizzy he could hardly stand. Laughing, he staggered back to his dorm.
It was only then that his actions began to sink in. The building seemed so empty. Unwelcoming. Carey was away for the weekend at a piano competition. He suddenly realized how cold he was—cold and hungry. But the cafeteria had closed hours ago. He climbed under the covers, shivering. But his mind wouldn’t stop moving. It felt like his thoughts were rolling over and over—spinning out of control. He realized that he had to find some way to calm down.
Texting Phoebe usually helped him. She had become a lifeline out of the hell that his life at Moorehouse had become. But the decision to talk to her on the phone that night was a mistake. He suddenly broke down and started to cry like some sniveling little kid. God, he was so spineless! Such a loser! He felt worse after they hung up than he could ever remember feeling before. Bad enough to even wish that Carey were there—any other human being besides himself.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the soundproof ceiling. Outside, a full moon lit up the snow-covered landscape and shimmered across the dorm room floor. If only he could dematerialize into that otherworldly glow! If only he could escape from himself. Nothing gave him pleasure anymore. Even the Warriors, his one sure source of pride, had turned against him.
He chose to ignore the persistent knocking on his door. But he couldn’t pretend not to hear Brandon when he whispered into the keyhole:
“Hey, Bossy! Get your skanky little ass out here!”
With an effort, he sat up in bed. Why not just get the damned thing over with? he thought. He already felt so bad, it almost didn’t matter that Brandon was bound to beat him up. If the older boy was surprised when Liam pulled open the door without argument, he didn’t show it. Brandon stood there, swaying a little, his usual posse ranged behind him.
“We’re going into town. Girl I know is hosting an open house.”
“Have fun,” Liam told him. He started to close the door again, but Brandon grabbed the door handle.
“Oh, come on, man. Let it go! I’m sorry if I hurt your tender feelings, okay? But we all deserve a little fun tonight. We need to get that old Warriors spirit back! We need to pull together now. And we need you with us.”
• • •
It had been a lovely Victorian once, but it wasn’t anymore. Half the railings on the front porch were broken or missing. An upstairs window was covered in plastic. Cars were parked on the front lawn. The boys came in through the back entrance, which led through a butler’s pantry into the kitchen. It was empty except for a girl who was washing dishes in the sink. Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now” rose plaintively from a boom box on top of the refrigerator.
“The party’s kind of over,” the girl said, turning to face them. She was wearing a red checked flannel shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Though her body was already fully developed, she had the gawky stance of someone barely into her teens. Her face was round and wistful.
“Says who?” Brandon replied. “Where’s Suze?”
“Upstairs,” the girl said. “But it’s time for all you guys to go home. You’re just going to get her into more trouble.”
“Take it easy,” Brandon said, opening the refrigerator and crouching down to examine the contents. He stood back up, brandishing two Heinekens in each hand. “Let’s rock this place!” he cried, holding the bottles above his head as he strode out of the room. The others followed him, but Liam stayed behind.
“Need any help with that?” he asked, nodding to the sink.
“No, I’m fine,” the girl said. She had on yellow rubber gloves that came up to her elbows. Even Liam, who knew next to nothing about housecleaning, could tell that her dishwashing skills left something to be desired. She fished a handful of silverware out of the suds and deposited them—unrinsed—into the grubby-looking rack beside the sink.
“Is Suze your sister?”
“Not legally, no. Not yet.”
“Meaning?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. There was something about the girl’s proud self-possession that Liam found appealing. “I guess I’m just trying to be polite. I guess I’m just killing time. If you know anything about Brandon Cowley, the party isn’t over until he says so.”
“Yeah, I know,” the girl said, her shoulders drooping. “But if our foster parents find out about this, it’s going to be really bad news. We’re already on probation after last time. And I bet you anything they told the Linaweavers next door to keep an eye on us. We’re probably already fucked.”
The word sounded funny coming out of her mouth. Liam guessed she’d picked the phrase up from Suze and was trying it on for size.
“Where are your folks?”
“Foxwoods Casino. They usually get home by two thirty or three—that’s why I’m trying to kind of straighten things up around here.” She turned back to the sink, her fine blond hair falling over her face and exposing the fragile curve of her neck.
“At least let me help you dry,” Liam said.
“You know what you could do to help? Convince your buddies that it’s time to go home.”
Liam reluctantly left the kitchen and followed the music and jumble of voices down a hallway and up a worn, uncarpeted stairway to the second floor. A number of rooms branched off from a central corridor, each occupied by groups of teenagers, some of whom Liam knew from Moorehouse, others he’d seen around town. Cigarette and marijuana smoke mingled in the air. Liam wandered from room to room, looking for Brandon, torn by his desire to leave—and his impulse to do something to help the girl downstairs. In what looked like a makeshift study at the end of the hall, Liam found teenagers sprawled on a futon and beanbag chairs, watching an old Star Wars film. Feeling useless and exhausted, Liam found a place to sit down, his back against the wall. He closed his eyes against the flickering light of the TV screen.
He woke to the sound of someone crying. It was coming from downstairs and was more a kind of keening—like that of a hurt dog or a frightened child. The movie was over now, the room empty except for a couple making out on the futon. The digital clock on the DVD player registered two forty-five a.m. Liam got to his feet and headed back down the hallway. Except for another couple in one of the bedrooms, everyone else seemed to have gone home.
It took Liam a m
oment or two to orient himself when he reached the bottom of the staircase. The downstairs was dark. He had to feel his way along the wall of the corridor leading back to the kitchen, where, though it had stopped for the moment, he was pretty sure the crying had been coming from. As he pushed open the door to the kitchen—the sudden light blinding him for a split second—the keening started again.
“Oh, come on,” Brandon was saying, “just shut up and enjoy it!” The young girl in the flannel shirt was sitting on the counter, shirtfront open to the waist, bra pulled down. Two other boys, both Warriors first string, sat at the kitchen table, watching as Brandon flicked his thumb and forefinger against the nipple of one of the girl’s uptilting breasts. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips swollen, her gaze widening as Liam moved across the room toward her.
It was only then that he realized who the girl reminded him of. By the time he slammed his right fist into Brandon’s side, she’d become Phoebe in Liam’s mind. An adrenaline-fueled burst of energy surged through him as Brandon spun around. Liam tackled the older, stronger boy and, staggering under his weight, collapsed with him onto the floor. When the back of Liam’s head hit the worn tiles, he could feel the impact radiate through his skull and down his spine.
“What the fuck?” Brandon said, rolling on top of Liam and pinning him down. “What’s the matter with you?” Liam had a hard time focusing as he gazed up at the flushed face above him.
“Leave her alone,” he tried to say, but the sentence didn’t come out right.
“Are you telling me what to do?” Brandon said.
“Leave her—” Liam tried again, but once again his mouth was unable to form the words he needed.
“You really think that you can take me on? Just keep this up—and I’ll make your life hell. And you can forget about the Warriors. That’s over.”
24
Brook was asleep, her back curled against Michael’s body, her head resting on his upper arm, hair fanned out on the pillow. He listened to the steady rise and fall of her breathing. They’d had a long talk the night before when she and Tilly got back from New York. She’d told him that he was right. If they settled the suit, they might be getting Liam off the hook—but they’d also be letting him down.
“I told my dad something that I realized afterward I really should have told you. There were times I caught Liam drinking and smoking dope over the last couple of years and didn’t let you know.”
“What?” Michael had asked. “Why?”
“Because you’d get so angry when you heard Liam had done something wrong!”
“But I had a right to know what was going on with him, Brook. He’s my son, too!”
“I know. I see that now. But I don’t think you have any idea just how badly you’d lose it with him. I thought it only made things worse. I decided it would be better if I just tried to help him on my own. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Though still upset, he’d told her that he was sorry, too. Michael hated to think where that anger at Liam came from. He could all too easily imagine whom he sounded like when he “really lost it” with his son. Michael and Brook had made love for the first time in weeks and had slept in each other’s arms. He knew it had been hard for her to change her mind. Challenging Troy was going to put her in the public eye in a way she dreaded. And her family was going to be furious. He was proud of her for taking this stand. Now it was time for him to face some difficult things, as well. He owed it to her. And to them.
He waited until the first light of dawn filtered through the bedroom blinds before he gently slipped his arm free and got out of bed. He was usually the first one up in the morning. Brook would probably continue sleeping for another hour or two, long after he’d gone. He left her a note in the kitchen, saying he had an appointment and would try to get back for lunch. He started the pickup and sat in the cab for a few minutes waiting for the engine to warm. From this vantage point on the turnaround, he was able to watch the sun rise above the mountains, a fierce ball of fire that briefly transformed the snow-covered countryside into a dreamscape of pinks and oranges. But by the time he made it to the bottom of the drive, the washed-out March palette had reasserted itself.
He didn’t turn right as he usually did when he reached the county highway that led into town, but left along a stretch of slowly rising switchbacks. The road followed the contour of the mountain range that constituted the western border of the county. After nearly ten miles, he made an abrupt right onto an unmarked dirt road, the truck bumping along the uneven surface rutted with frozen-over tire marks and potholes. The surrounding woods were composed of second-growth, mostly deciduous trees, leafless in March. Troy’s grandfather had picked up more than a hundred acres of this mountainside for a song at a bankruptcy auction during the Depression, and the Lansing men had been using the area as their personal hunting and fishing ground for three generations.
It was here that Troy and Michael spent a lot of time when they were boys, hanging out in the makeshift cabin that Michael caught sight of ahead through the trees. This was where Troy lived now when he wasn’t sponging off his ex-wife or relatives in town. Smoke curled from the aluminum stovepipe, and Michael saw Troy’s pickup parked next to a tarpaulin-covered woodpile. A dog rose from his post on the front steps and started to bark. Though nearly twenty-five years had passed since he’d been here last, though the boy he’d been then was a stranger to him now, it seemed to Michael that nothing about the place itself had really changed.
• • •
They both had a certain rough edge to them that caused the other boys to be wary—and the girls intrigued. They were both good-looking, too, though in different ways. Michael—dark, quiet, a little brooding. Troy—redheaded, loquacious, with an in-your-face kind of swagger. What drew them to each other was perhaps more of a mystery, because families in Barnsbury had a way of hiding their problems. But, in fact, what they shared was the carefully concealed pain of unhappy home lives. In Troy’s case, a mother who’d walked out on her husband, five sons, and baby girl when Troy was still a toddler. For Michael, the problem was a father whose drinking was escalating out of control.
The boys didn’t talk to each other about any of this. They didn’t need to. They spent a lot of time in each other’s households, and they couldn’t help but overhear things, including the seemingly endless arguments between Michael and his dad.
“No, I’m not driving you,” Troy might hear Michael tell his dad, who, having lost his license after a DUI, ordered his son to take him up to a bar in Harringdale.
“Yes, you will, you little prick. You think you’re so holy and pure? Let me tell you something—I know who you really are. I know what you’re really made of. You’re going to find out soon enough what life has in store for you.”
Michael never responded to any of his father’s diatribes. In fact, he tried to pretend that he didn’t hear them—that the words simply could not penetrate the thick skin he’d grown to protect himself. But they did penetrate, of course. Slowly, inevitably, the ugliness seeped in and found its way to his heart.
Maybe things would have turned out differently if Troy’s older brothers hadn’t given him a quart of Canadian Club for his sixteenth birthday. By then, Troy and Michael were driving regularly up to the cabin to smoke and hang out. Often, they were forced to bring Troy’s sister, Sylvia, with them. Just a year younger than Troy and without a mother to care for her, Sylvia had increasingly become Troy’s responsibility as the two of them grew up. Michael didn’t mind her tagging along, and he sensed Troy appreciated this. Not everybody felt that way about Sylvia.
“Try this,” Troy said, handing the bottle to Michael. It was early summer, school just out. They were sitting on the steps in front of the cabin. Sylvia, who’d come along, was inside reading. Troy, leaning back against the top step, seemed relaxed and happy. But Michael was dreading the long, unstructured weeks to come.
The whiskey burned in his throat. He started to cough, but swallowed hard inst
ead. It was the first time he’d ever tasted alcohol. His dad’s problems had made him wary. But it was the weight of those very problems that prompted him to reach for the bottle now. What had his self-restraint gotten him but more abuse? He took another swig and felt his face start to flush. He passed the whiskey back to Troy, who sat with it resting on his knee as he shared with Michael his plans to pitch a tent up by the large, spring-fed lake on the Lansings’ land near the top of the mountain.
“I want to really rough it for a couple days. We can hike up there from here with all the supplies and get the hell away from everything for a while. What do you say?”
“Sounds good,” Michael replied, but his mind was on the whiskey. He felt warm and loose and wonderful. He wanted more. He reached over and took the bottle from his friend. As he was tipping his head back to take another swallow, he heard Sylvia’s voice behind them on the porch.
“Can I have some, too?”
“No, you cannot!” Troy said, turning around to face his sister. “This is for me and Michael. You go back into the cabin and get yourself a Coke or something—and stay there until we’re ready to go home.”
Michael managed to kill off the rest of the bottle before the afternoon was out. He didn’t remember exactly how it happened. He woke up around five o’clock, sprawled on the steps, the hot June sun full on his face, his throat parched and his head throbbing. Sylvia sat beside him on the step, her leg pressing heavily against his. Though only fourteen, she was already obese.
“You were snoring,” she said. “I like to watch you sleep.”
“Oh, Syl,” Michael said, closing his eyes again with a sigh. He often caught her staring at him these days. He sensed she had some kind of a thing for him. He never gave it much thought, or let on to her or Troy that he knew. It was just funny and kind of sad. Nothing to be taken very seriously.
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