by Eric Bell
“Penny,” Zack squeaks. “What a surprise! Hey, you can have a seat, there’s a seat right next to me—”
“You’re not as cool as I thought,” Penny says.
I huddle into my shoulders. “What do you mean?” Zack asks.
She ignores him. “I thought you were really funny after the debate. And I like your hair. But you humiliated me.” She scowls. “You didn’t have to scream so loud, like I was some ugly freak. All I wanted was a kiss.”
That Nathan-esque voice pipes up again, She’s only a few steps away from crying. Seal the deal, Al! I squeeze my eyes closed and tap my temples until the voice shuts up.
“Now, hang on,” Madison says. “If you want my honest opinion, I hardly think the cafeteria is the place for this sort of juvenile romantic talk—”
“Cram it, tubby,” Penny spits.
Madison turns pale and puffs out his cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything. Zack pipes up, “Penny! I don’t know what happened, but let me help—”
“Admit it,” Penny says to me. “You’re a loser like your brother. A big loser.”
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the comparison to Nathan. Maybe it’s tubby. Maybe it’s how she practically assaulted me and then blamed me for not doing anything back. Maybe it’s all three. Whatever it is, it fires me up. My heart rages. My blood boils. My temper flares. I look Penny Schmidt square in the eyes and open my mouth to say the coolest, cleverest comeback I can muster.
“Takes one to know one.”
Plop.
That’s the sound of my coolness level hitting rock bottom and splattering all over the place like a wet dog turd.
Penny giggles. “Wow, cool guy. I guess you really showed me. I’ll see you around, loser.”
Zack stands up. “Penny, wait! You don’t have to be mean! I know you’re good on the inside. You must be having a bad day—I—I wanted to tell you something—”
“Probably not the best time,” I whisper.
But Zack keeps going on. “I—I’ve always—thought you and me could—well, that we—”
Now Penny laughs a full-blown, snorty laugh, one that echoes across the cafeteria. Around us, everyone quiets. “You’re kidding, right? You? I can’t be seen with you. Everyone’ll think I’m even more of a—” She pauses, then says, “You’re the biggest loser in school. You’re such a loser you make other losers seem cool. The only way you’d ever find a girl willing to go out with you would be if she were blind and deaf, so she’d never actually be able to see for herself how much of a loser you are. Nobody wants to be around you, and no one ever will. You should crawl into a hole and die, then at least we wouldn’t have to look at you.”
Zack sits back down.
Penny looks around, as if only now realizing how loud she was. She huddles into her scarf and shuffles off to the other end of the cafeteria. She looks back three times, but I can’t tell who she’s looking at.
“Er,” Madison says. “Zack?”
Zack stares down at his lunch tray, unmoving.
“You’re not a loser,” I say. “She’s wrong.”
“Yes, of course,” Madison says. “You’re really very cool. Everyone knows it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
I take a deep breath, get really close to his ear, and make a weird squawking noise. “Teach that to your turtle.”
A little smile appears on Zack’s face. He blinks a few times.
I give him a thumbs-up. I don’t need to say anything else.
“I guess it wouldn’t have really worked out, huh?” he says.
“That girl was horrible,” Madison says. “You can do better.”
“But I told her, and that’s what matters,” Zack says, looking right at me. “And she’s right: I am a loser.”
“Don’t say that,” Madison says, shaking his head. “You’re not—”
“I am,” Zack says; his voice wavers a little. “And you know something? It doesn’t matter. Who cares if you’re cool or not? Who cares if you win or lose? I know who I am. And I’m a big, fat loser!” Zack yells this last bit, spinning around his chair. People look over, and a teacher mutters something to another teacher, but I know Zack doesn’t care. He’s still spinning, hands raised, yelling, “Wheeeee!” as he turns around and around. When he finally stops, he wipes his eyes and asks, “But . . . you guys still want to be my friends, even though I’m a loser, right?”
I nod. “Losers have to stick together.”
Zack looks at Madison, who fidgets. “Er,” he stammers. “I only have space on my calendar for one friend.”
“Madison, come on,” I say.
He sighs. “Fine.”
Zack reaches across the table and grabs Madison’s shoulder. “That’s an across-the-table hug,” Zack says. “When lunch ends, I’ll give you a real one.”
“I can hardly wait,” Madison says, but I see the small smile he tries to hide.
Zack puts his hand in the center of the table, thumb raised. I do the same, touching fists, and Madison is the last in. “Losers, now and forever,” Zack says.
“Losers together,” I say.
“Losers and their slightly less-of-a-loser friend,” Madison says.
As we leave the cafeteria, I watch Zack. His bouncy step, his straight back, the way his hand clutches something rock-shaped in his pocket. His eyes are wide, and full, and hopeful. He comes over and whispers to me, “I’m wearing him.”
“Huh?”
“Officer Orville. I wore him for the first time today. That’s why I wanted to tell Penny.”
“I guess luck wasn’t on your side then.”
Zack gives me a big grin. “No. It was.”
SIXTEEN
At Helen’s Crest, I can barely support myself against the wall, that’s how tired my arms are. But Madison isn’t having any excuses. “Let’s run through the test. One length freestyle, half-length backstroke, half-length breaststroke.”
“I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Hmph.” Madison shakes his head, bobbing with the rhythm of the water. “That’s because you’re not breathing properly. I keep telling you, don’t hold your breath so often. Inhale with your mouth when your head’s above water, and exhale with your nose when it’s under. If you get lost, think about breathing regularly. Inhale, exhale. In, out. Go on, practice the test.”
I know better than to argue with my coach. Steeling myself, I kick off from the wall and launch into a freestyle kick.
When I first started coming here, I could barely support myself on a kickboard. Now, over a few days of really intense practice, I can make it to the other end of the pool. But can I come back with the breaststroke? Madison keeps saying the breaststroke is easy, but I can’t get the form down, and even though you’re supposed to keep your head above water most of the time in the breaststroke, I keep looking down and inhaling a world of chlorine.
I make it to the far end of the pool, then flop onto my back and splash clumsily over. I must look like a drunk penguin when I do this.
“Now breaststroke,” Madison calls.
I shift back onto my stomach, then spread my arms and start kicking. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . in—
I choke from all the water I inhale.
Madison swims over, tutting. “No good. Remember: in, out, in, out.”
“I was doing that,” I sputter.
“Well, come on. Try again.”
“I can’t. I have to bike home. Tonight’s my parent-teacher conference. Plus I need enough time to shower here so my dad can’t tell I’ve been swimming.”
Madison nods. “We’ll have tomorrow, at least. But tomorrow’s Wednesday, and there’s really only Thursday morning to take the test.”
“Yeah,” I say. Technically the deadline is Friday morning, but Nathan meant Friday morning as in “at breakfast,” so there wouldn’t be any time to take the test then. And I’ve still got so many other things to get done too: the vending machine, the kiss, mak
ing someone cry, Dad. . . .
“You’ve made plenty of progress,” Madison says as we climb out of the pool. “After tomorrow, you’ll be ready.”
I look out at the pool, picturing myself trying my hardest in class, in front of people like Ron and Marcellus, and what if I—
If the odds are better than zero, that means there’s hope. That means you shouldn’t give up on it, no matter what.
I shake the dampness out of my hair. “Yeah. I’ll be ready.”
Nathan’s nowhere to be found when I walk into the house. He’s either at Marcellus’s or, more likely, he’s holed up in his room after his hospital visit. I’m not eager to listen to him gloat about CvC. I’m not eager to listen to him period, really. Mom’s not around either. She’s got her church thing all night, her one refuge from “her story,” the world she thinks is hopeless, the husband she tries to excuse, the kids she can’t protect.
I throw some Pop-Tarts in the toaster oven, and right when I finish the last frosted raspberry pastry—those are the best ones, for those keeping score—Dad shows up in the kitchen, ready to go. My cretpoj subject is currently open (no sense giving up after a, uh, false start), and Mom’s right about Dad: he really does look like an older version of me, a version of me who’s weathered a few storms—
“Something you want to say?”
I lower my head. “No.”
The drive to Evergreen is stiffer than a corpse. Dad drives hunched over the steering wheel, eyes constantly scanning for any threats. He doesn’t mention Nathan, which means he probably doesn’t know. Thank God for small favors. When we make it to school, he parks and leans over to me. “Don’t disappoint me.”
I gulp.
It’s weird being at Evergreen when it’s almost dark out. Barely anybody’s around. Dad starts walking down the completely wrong hallway. “Dad,” I say. “This way.”
Dad grumbles. A few seconds later, he makes another wrong turn. “Dad,” I call out.
“Bah!” Dad spins on his heel and thunders down the right hall.
When we finally arrive at Miss Richter’s room, Dad pulls me aside, right in front of the empty vending machine with Nathan’s dirty “For Al” note inside. If he looks to the left a little, would he recognize his son’s handwriting? “If I hear one word about any issues . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish that sentence.
“You’re in the smarter classes. You should use that brain of yours to figure out how to stop making mistakes, goldfish. You’ve already caused too many problems. Don’t do anything else wrong. Understand?”
I nod.
Behind us, Miss Richter clears her throat. Dad inhales like he’s been caught shoplifting.
“Hello, Mr. Cole,” Miss Richter says. “Hello, Alan. Please come in.” She scans my face before she walks into her classroom, Dad and I following behind.
We each take a seat at a desk, forming a little triangle. “I’m happy to be here, Miss Richter,” Dad says in the higher-pitched voice he uses when he’s not busy being Dad. “It was a delight to meet you two years ago. My oldest son says hi.”
“I hope Nathan is well,” Miss Richter says. “But let’s talk about Alan. I’d like to use the time I have with both of you to talk about Alan’s strengths, and how we can both help him along his way.”
“Alan has many strengths,” Dad says. “Right, Alan?”
“Right,” I say without looking up.
Miss Richter points her pencil at Dad. “Can you name one?”
Dad pauses. “What do you mean?”
“I can name many strengths of Alan’s, Mr. Cole. Can you name one?”
If I could crumble into the earth, I’d do it right now. Dad looks over at me like this is somehow my fault. We go for forty-three seconds before Dad finally says, “He’s . . . a hard worker.”
I let out a deep breath. Hard worker? He really thinks that?
“I agree,” Miss Richter continues. “He’s also creative, conscientious, and good-hearted. Over the past month I’ve learned that Alan responds best to positive feedback. When he’s encouraged, even a little, his confidence skyrockets. I’d like for you to keep that in mind, when you leave here today.”
Dad scowls, but doesn’t say anything.
Miss Richter pulls a paper from a large pile. “Here’s a copy of Alan’s recent test scores. . . .”
I practically have to jog to keep up with Dad as he storms out of Miss Richter’s room, down the wrong hall. This time I don’t correct him, at least not until we’ve been circling the Sprout science corridor for five minutes. “Dad.”
He pivots around to face me, his face like mine, except twisted up in brambles. “What?” he spits.
“I know the way out of here.”
“You—” he starts. Then he takes a deep breath. In . . . out . . . in . . . out. “Fine. Go.”
With me in front, we navigate the perilous labyrinth that is Evergreen Middle School. Once we finally reach the entrance, Dad exhales.
“Hey, Alan,” someone calls. I look up and there’s Rudy Brighton, walking with his mom. I wave.
“Man, I heard about your brother,” Rudy says. “Looks like he really made a splash, huh?”
All my muscles lock up. “That’s great, but we’ve got to go—”
“He’s practically drowning in the attention, huh?” Rudy says, grinning.
“Come on, Rudy,” Mrs. Brighton says. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Wait,” Dad says. I feel the heat sweeping off him, singeing the grass. “What happened to my son?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Rudy asks, completely oblivious. “He was practicing with the swim team, and he tried to dive into the deep end of the pool and wound up almost drowning. The coach had to give him mouth-to-mouth. Boy, I’d hate to be that guy right now. Well, see you later, Alan.”
Rudy and his mom walk into the school. Dad isn’t moving. “Uh,” I say, my voice coming out cracked. “It’s almost dark. We should—”
Dad practically sprints to the car.
The car ride is a repeat of our return home from the company dinner, but worse. Dad drives like it’s a video game, careening in and out of traffic and screeching around corners and honking when cars completely stop at stop signs. When we get home I’m shaking, but it’s not just because of the ride.
Dad slams the door open and yells, “Nathan!” He yells my brother’s name three more times, so loud that Mom stands up from the couch, hands clutched to her mouth.
Slowly, Nathan walks downstairs. He shuffles his feet over to me and Dad. “What?” he pouts.
When he sees my brother, Dad’s face is completely white. He runs over to Nathan. I brace myself for an explosion, but no—Dad hugs him. He hugs his eldest son, grips him tight, and holds him close.
“Dad!” Nathan gasps. “What the—”
Then Dad lets go. The whiteness flees from a surging tidal wave of red. “What were you thinking?” Dad screams, spit flying everywhere. “You idiot! How could you be so stupid?”
“I—what—”
“Diving into the deep end of the pool,” Dad yells, furiously pacing back and forth. “You don’t know how to swim. And you joined the swim team? I had no idea your brain was that tiny. How could you possibly be so—so stupid?”
Nathan’s mouth falls open. “I—I was—”
“You were what? Trying to act cool? Trying to impress your brother? You impressed nobody! I could—I could—”
Ripping himself from his pacing, Dad grabs a nearby lamp and hurls it against the wall, smashing it to pieces.
I duck. Nathan freezes. Mom screams.
Facing away from us, Dad’s shoulders heave up and down; his breathing is ragged. Finally, he speaks. “Listen to me and be good. That’s all I ask. But you don’t. And you almost get yourself . . .” He takes a deep breath. “You should have never been born. All you’ve ever done, your whole life, is disappoint me. That’s all you’re good at. Everything you know how to do, you do wrong, ex
cept disappoint me. You’re a genius at that.
“If I ever—ever—catch you near water again—” He turns to Nathan, balls his hands into fists, and storms into the garage.
The heat in the living room is so suffocating I can hardly breathe. I look at my brother, who’s white as a sheet, eyes full of raw, rampant fear. Then something cracks, and his face scrunches up, and he runs upstairs before anyone can see his pain.
I look at Mom. Mom looks at me. She disappears into the kitchen, then comes back with a dustpan and broom, sweeping up what’s left of the lamp. Her hands shake as she collects the pieces; she keeps glancing at me as she works. Next to the table is a colossal hole in the wall, so big I could stick my hand through.
Once Mom cleans up, she walks upstairs, probably to Nathan’s room. I grab the trash bag and take it outside. It’s dark out now, and my stomach is growling. I drop the garbage in the bin. As the wind picks up, I stand out there for a while, looking up at the starless, cloudy sky, wondering why I ever thought there was hope at all.
A sudden thud makes me turn around. The window on the top floor overlooking the driveway shuts. That’s Nathan’s window. On the asphalt—yeah, there’s something small there. Slowly I creep over to it.
It’s a picture frame. The glass in the frame is cracked, probably from the fall. Inside is a picture of a family: a husband, a wife, and two little boys. The husband has his hand on the wife’s knee. The oldest boy is giving a goofy, gap-toothed grin to the camera, while the youngest, no older than four, is laughing on the wife’s other knee.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen the man in the photo smile like this. A smile of happiness.
Before my grandparents died, this was what we were like.
Suddenly I realize what this is, what this was, what it always will be: Nathan’s most prized possession.
And he gave it up, tossed it onto the driveway like trash.
I run my finger along the cracked glass, tuck the picture under my arm, and head back inside.
That night I have dreams of rushing water and scorching fire, of a parade of kids with big losers printed on their foreheads, of that horrible sound the lamp made when it crashed against the wall, of Mom’s scream. Then I start dreaming of Nathan hovering over my bed, and it isn’t until I feel a little chilly that I realize it’s not a dream. He’s standing over my bed, tearing the covers off.