What About Will

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What About Will Page 12

by Ellen Hopkins


  Her to call me back tonight.

  But she does.

  Was it my last question?

  Hello, Trace. I’m so sorry

  it’s been radio silence.

  Hearing her voice

  makes me happy

  makes me sad

  makes me mad

  makes me lonely.

  It’s just, between gigs

  and travel, I’ve been—

  “Super busy. I know.”

  Yeah. I think about you

  and Will all the time, though.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  Seriously. How’s everyone?

  “Dad has a girlfriend.”

  Whoa. Slipped right on out.

  Oh. That’s wonderful.

  I mean, you like her, right?

  “Sure. Lily’s cool. It’s just . . .”

  What?

  “She’s not you. I miss you.”

  Oh, Trace. I miss you, too.

  But I think it’s good your dad

  has found someone special.

  Nobody wants to be alone. I—

  “He’s not alone! He has me.”

  It’s not the same thing.

  You’ll understand one day.

  She asks about school.

  I tell her about robots.

  She asks about Little League.

  I tell her about Cat and her dad.

  She asks about summer plans,

  if we have any that might

  interfere with a Colorado visit.

  “I don’t think so. Why?

  Does this mean one might

  happen?” I shake off a flutter

  of excitement. Even if she says

  yes, it won’t be a promise.

  I do hope so. The band’s finalizing

  the summer tour schedule now,

  so I’ll try to fit it in once we’re set.

  Not even a yes.

  Finally, she asks, Okay, so

  what about Will? What now?

  I tell her about my glove.

  She says it was a mistake.

  I tell her about my money.

  She says he’ll pay me back.

  I tell her Will thinks he’ll die young.

  She says all kids think that.

  I tell her I wish she’d come see

  for herself what’s going on.

  Oh, Trace. I’m just—

  “Are you still in Colorado?”

  No. We’re at Tahoe now. It’s nice.

  The club where we’re playing

  is right on the beach. Off-season,

  so it’s not too crowded.

  Lake Tahoe

  Is maybe five hundred miles

  from here. Far, but not nearly

  as far as clear across the country.

  “You’re so close! When your

  gig is up, can you come?”

  Maybe. We’re here for eight

  weeks. And there’s stuff coming

  up after. But I will if I can.

  “School will be out by then.

  It will be hot, but we could go

  mountain biking in the actual

  mountains. Or go to the lake, or—”

  Easy now. Your dad might

  have other plans. But I promise

  we’ll talk about it, okay?

  Talk about it sounds like

  not gonna happen. But the idea

  of seeing her twice in one

  summer makes me so happy!

  “Please, Mom. We need you.”

  That quiets her for a minute.

  I’ll do my best. I’ve got to run.

  “Okay, Mom. Good

  night . . . Wait!”

  Wait

  There’s one more

  thing I have to say.

  Why haven’t I

  said it already?

  “I love you.”

  One more thing

  I need to hear.

  Why hasn’t she

  said it already?

  Love you, too.

  Always and forever.

  I really hope

  she means it.

  Give my love to Will.

  “Okay.”

  By the time

  the second syllable

  clears my lips,

  she’s deserted me.

  Again.

  Suddenly, I Need to Play

  The keyboard is in the living room.

  Luckily, Will isn’t watching TV.

  I sit.

  Power up.

  My hands settle

  on the keys.

  Usually I’d play

  something with a driving

  beat, but tonight a beautiful

  classical piece calls to me.

  I open my music book,

  turn to Debussy’s

  “Clair de lune.”

  Most kids would probably

  only know this song

  because it was in Ocean’s Eleven.

  But it’s also one of Mom’s

  favorites. That’s not the only

  reason it reminds me of her.

  The name means “Moonlight,”

  and the soft chords and gentle

  melody are like waves

  of light beneath my hands.

  It’s beautiful.

  Like my mom.

  And I barely have

  to look at the music.

  It’s like my fingers

  understand exactly

  how it should sound

  by remembering her face.

  Surfing moonlight.

  Halfway

  Through the piece,

  Will wanders in from

  the kitchen.

  Why are you playing that?

  I don’t stop.

  “Because I like it.

  It makes me feel good.”

  It’s slow. Why do you like it?

  I have no reason

  not to say, “Because

  it reminds me of Mom.”

  Mom! Who’s that?

  His voice is kind of slurred.

  Still, “You know who she is.”

  I forgot. Remind me?

  Not like she ever does.

  “I just talked to her,

  Will. She said to tell

  you she loves you.”

  You talked to her? Guessing

  you must’ve called her.

  Okay, So He’s Right

  And he knows it.

  I don’t have to admit it.

  But I do feel the need

  to defend our mom.

  “She’s doing the best

  she can. She’s just

  really, really busy.”

  Heard it before, thanks.

  Dozens of times.

  “Well, I’m not giving

  up on her yet.”

  Why would you?

  She didn’t leave because of you.

  She left because of me.

  I’ve thought the same

  thing myself. And yet,

  I say, “No she didn’t.

  She left because of her music.”

  Okay, Trace. Whatever.

  You keep playing boring

  songs and dreaming

  about Mom coming home.

  I’m going to take a shower.

  Boom. See ya.

  My Head

  Feels like someone’s playing

  Ping-Pong inside it, thoughts

  bouncing this way and that,r />
  side to side, against my skull.

  I start to play another song

  Mom taught me a long time

  ago. It’s called “The Sound

  of Silence.” When I jump in,

  it’s the original, kind of soft

  version by this group

  named Simon & Garfunkel.

  But I start to pick up speed,

  and play with more volume

  and power, more like Will’s

  favorite version of this song

  by a band called Disturbed.

  And it’s still the same song—

  Mom’s version, and Will’s—

  and that seems so right,

  it quiets the ping-ponging

  in my brain, sharpens the focus.

  I drop back down from forte

  (loud) to piano (soft).

  I love music.

  Mom gave it to me.

  I hate music.

  It took her away.

  I’m Mostly Amused

  By it in C Day music class

  this morning. We’re playing

  recorders, and not everyone

  is exactly talented at it.

  Just doing a simple scale

  is too much for a couple.

  Bram happens to be one.

  “Dude. What was that?”

  He laughs. The key of X-Y-Z?

  “Even if they went past G,

  each key is only one letter.”

  Tell that to my recorder.

  Okay, class. Let’s try that

  again, says Mrs. Marone.

  Once you’ve conquered it,

  we’ll move on to Mozart.

  She’s joking. By the time

  class ends, we’ve managed

  a bad “Three Blind Mice.”

  Some music is more like poison.

  On My Way to Lunch

  I notice Cat talking

  to a knot of girls.

  Woo-boy.

  I’m glad she’s trying

  to make friends, but

  Leah and Sara and Star

  are, like, the most “popular”

  girls in our class.

  That equals the most

  stuck-up, and the “in crowd”

  doesn’t accept new

  members easily.

  Still, Leah caws a laugh,

  so loud it’s obvious

  she wants people to hear.

  The others smile, but

  it’s the fake kind of smile

  that means they’re just

  going along with Leah.

  Now Cat says something

  else, and if evil glares

  could drop someone

  in their tracks, she’d be

  flat on the ground.

  But it’s her turn to laugh.

  Cat Sees Me

  And waves, then follows

  me outside.

  Bram’s already

  staked out a place,

  so we sit with him.

  “You joining the Mean

  Girls Club?” I ask Cat.

  Nah. Just messing with them.

  Like, how? asks Bram.

  I asked if they like sports.

  Leah said sure, as long

  as the players are cute.

  Star and Sara were all like,

  yeah. If the players are cute.

  So then I asked if they thought

  I was cute. I guess they didn’t

  think that was very funny.

  No way! But Bram

  sounds impressed.

  That is so Cat.

  And now she does something

  unexpected, and yet still so Cat.

  She Digs

  Through her backpack,

  and I figure she’s looking

  for her lunch.

  But that’s not what comes

  out of there.

  What does is a well-worn

  baseball glove. She offers

  it to me, and I see it’s signed.

  Yes, by Victor Sánchez.

  I talked it over with Dad.

  He and I both want you

  to have this. It was Mateo’s.

  But he doesn’t need it now.

  “No. I can’t. I mean—”

  Yes, you can. It’s been sitting

  in a box for four years.

  Even if he does come home,

  he won’t need it.

  “Why are you so nice?”

  I’m not. Just ask

  the Mean Girls Club.

  But She Is Nice

  And she makes me laugh.

  Oh, yeah, and she can play

  killer baseball, too.

  I never knew girls

  could be all those things

  at the same time.

  I study the glove,

  which is oiled and soft,

  but also scarred,

  like it’s seen a lot of use.

  “Hey, Cat. Thanks.

  I promise to take good

  care of it.”

  Better hide it from

  your brother, says Bram.

  “No kidding.”

  It’s sad when you can’t

  trust someone you love,

  adds Cat. Believe me. I know.

  “Obviously, Mateo played

  baseball, and from the looks

  of the glove, he played a lot.

  So, why did he quit?”

  I’m not sure, but I think it was

  because of the pressure.

  When your father’s a major leaguer,

  people expect you to be as good.

  And he wasn’t? asks Bram.

  He might have been if he hadn’t

  given up on it. But honestly,

  he didn’t want to work that hard.

  Not on the field. Not in school.

  Mateo was always a little lazy.

  “Well, what about you?”

  Hey, I’m not lazy!

  “No, I was talking about

  the pressure. It doesn’t seem

  to bother you very much.”

  Because I’m a girl. No one

  expects me to play as well

  as my dad, or any boy, really.

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  No, but I’m used to it. Anyway,

  I like to surprise them. It’s fun

  to earn a little respect.

  She’s definitely earned mine.

  We’re Finishing Lunch

  When I happen to look up

  and see Will headed toward

  the parking lot. Midday?

  Is something wrong?

  “Be right back. Watch

  my stuff, okay?”

  I sprint as fast as I can,

  catch him just as he reaches

  his car. “Where are you going?”

  Home, I guess. I just got

  a three-day suspension.

  “For what?”

  He shrugs. There was

  a little problem in the hall.

  “Like . . . ?”

  This dude called me a crip.

  I was getting ready to pop

  him one when Mr. Gabriel

  happened to come walking by.

  “But . . . but you didn’t

  hit the guy, right?”

  Nope.

  “So, then . . . ?”

  Well, Mr. Gabriel called me

  into the office and asked what

  was g
oing on. And then he started

  to lecture me about better ways

  of dealing with anger.

  But it was too late. I was really

  upset and I told Mr. Gabriel

  to leave me the bleep alone.

  He didn’t much care for that.

  Mr. Gabriel is the dean

  of boys, and he’s pretty cool.

  So I’m guessing Will used

  a different word besides “bleep.”

  “So, you’re out until Monday?

  Does Dad know?”

  Yes, and yes. According to

  Mr. Gabriel, per school

  district regulations,

  a parent has to be notified.

  “Was he mad?”

  What do you think?

  I Think I’m Glad

  Someone other than me

  is letting Dad know Will

  has a problem.

  Or ten.

  I’m also happy I don’t have

  to cover up for him again.

  I hate keeping secrets.

  Especially from Dad.

  Pretty sure this is the first

  time Will’s been in trouble

  at this school.

  Maybe Dad will wake up.

  But what about Will?

  The look in his eyes tells

  me he doesn’t care at all.

  I’d be embarrassed.

  I bet Will thinks

  it’s a three-day vacation.

  Five, including the weekend.

  “You picking me up after school?”

  Guess I’d better, huh?

  He Does

  But he’s an hour late.

  Even in the shade

  it’s probably ninety degrees.

  Hard to work on homework

  when you sweat all over it.

  I’m just about to call Dad

  when Will swerves off

  the main drag and weaves

  across the lot to where

  I’m sitting, all alone.

  Come on.

  Get in.

  Let’s go.

  His voice is staccato,

  his hair is plastered,

  wet, around his face,

  and B.O. stink drifts

  out his open window.

  I get in, but leave the door

  open. “Dude, have you ever

  heard of deodorant?”

  Hurry up

  and shut the door.

  I do, and he punches it.

  Will Either Drives

  Like he can’t find the gas

  pedal or like a maniac.

  Today, he’s going way

 

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