I nod. “Yeah, I play. I mean, I’m not very good or anything.” This could be a lie. I might be really great, but I have no way of knowing because no one else I know plays an instrument, and I taught myself with YouTube videos and chord progressions I printed off the Internet. I thought about joining the school band once or twice, but the people I hang out with—people like Jason and Emma—they just aren’t the type to join the band. Or join anything. And anyway, I have my job at the farm to keep me busy.
“You’re probably better on guitar than I am on drums,” Ethan says.
I shrug, and before I realize what I’m saying, I answer, “Well, there would be only one way for us to find out, I guess.” As soon as the words come out, I understand what it means. But the idea is ridiculous. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know we couldn’t play together … I mean, like, you can’t have people over, right?”
Ethan frowns. “What do you mean I can’t have people over?”
My cheeks warm up. Are there any other people on planet Earth right now having a stranger conversation? “I just…,” I stammer. “I didn’t think your mom would like it. Maybe your dad wouldn’t either, I don’t know. He wasn’t here last time, but your mom … when I was here talking about The White Stripes, I mean … I don’t know.”
“I can have people over,” Ethan says, and the way he says it reminds me of a little kid. His voice is soft, but the tone is the same one we all used on the playground when we were younger: You’re not the boss of me.
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” Jesus. Does he not remember telling me ten minutes ago that he wasn’t allowed to leave his yard? How the hell am I supposed to know if he can have people over?
“It’s okay,” Ethan answers, his tone shifting. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s … it’s fine.”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t have anyone else to play music with?” I ask, desperate to drag us over this weird patch so we can end this conversation and I can leave.
Ethan shakes his head no. “Do you play with anyone?” he asks.
“No,” I say. Which, to be honest, kind of sucks. The whole point of playing electric guitar is to be playing in a band or something. It’s definitely not to play along with YouTube videos.
Ethan kicks at some invisible gravel on the blacktop. His Sperrys are new and spotless. The shoes of a guy who never leaves his house. And then I hear his voice. Directed at his shoes but at me, too.
“Maybe we could play sometime,” he says. “I mean, if you wanted to or whatever.”
I nod, only he can’t see it since he’s looking at the ground. So I say, “Is there a place for me to plug in my practice amp?”
“Yeah,” Ethan says. “The garage has an outlet.”
“That’s cool,” I say.
“Cool,” Ethan says. Pause. “You could just come by some afternoon after you get done with school or whatever. Even if I didn’t know you were coming … I wouldn’t be, like, surprised or anything.”
I can’t tell if he’s making a joke about my two unexpected visits, so I just say, “Okay. Sounds good.”
There’s another long silence, and finally I say, “I guess I should be going.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Well, take care,” I say, climbing on my bike.
“Maybe see you later,” he tells me, and as I turn around on my bike and start gliding down the street, my lungs finally taking in a deep breath, I replay Ethan’s last sentence to me over and over in my head. Maybe see you later. The way he said it—the way it sounded hopeful but mostly sad—it was enough for me to forgive him entirely for not being able to tell me anything new about Dylan.
ETHAN—163 DAYS AFTERWARD
There’s no reason for me to tell Dr. Greenberg about Caroline. She was gone by the time my mom came home from Dr. Sugar’s.
But here I am, sitting next to Groovy and telling Dr. Greenberg about Caroline Anderson biking up to my house two days ago and turning around and leaving and then me calling her back. Explaining to him that we might play music together. Maybe. If she comes back at all.
I didn’t think I would tell him about her, but I can’t stop thinking about Caroline. About how she showed up out of nowhere and about all the things she said. About how her visit was scary in some ways, but in other ways it was something new. Something different. Something that wasn’t therapy or nightmares or tutoring sessions or awkward situations with my parents.
And because I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I guess I couldn’t fight the urge to talk about it. And Dr. Greenberg is my only option.
“You think you’d like to play music with her?” Dr. Greenberg asks. He tilts his head a little, like that might help him hear my answer a little better or something.
I shrug. “Maybe,” I finally manage. “I mean, playing the drums alone or along to music I listen to on my headphones is okay, but it’s not like playing it with someone else.” And I’m lonely and tired of living my life surrounded by people over the age of forty. But I don’t say that to Dr. Greenberg.
“So what did it feel like to ask her to come back?” Dr. Greenberg asks. “After she turned around and biked off?”
I shrug again. Groovy nuzzles up under my hand, and I give him a few pets.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Dr. Greenberg nods and waits. I stare out the window at the pecan tree. There’s a smudge on the window. I wonder if Dr. Greenberg made it with his nose, staring out at the same tree. Dr. Greenberg coughs, but he doesn’t say anything. I think he’s waiting me out. It makes me want to talk to cut the awkward silence. Which is weird because the awkward silences never used to bug me before.
“I guess I just didn’t like how she kept showing up like that, and I wanted to tell her to stop doing it because it kind of pissed me off,” I answer. There. I said it.
Dr. Greenberg cracks a smile—you can barely see it through his gray, Santa Claus beard—and he says, “I think that’s great. We’ve been talking about healthy boundaries in here, and it seems like you made an attempt at drawing some.”
Drawing healthy boundaries. Whenever Dr. Greenberg mentions that phrase it makes me think of taking a bunch of fruits and vegetables and surrounding myself with them—like a big circle of apples and eggplants and skinny green beans all laid out around me. Healthy boundaries.
“Anyway, she probably won’t ever come back,” I say. “She could just have been trying to be polite.”
“Possibly,” Dr. Greenberg says. He waits a beat. Two beats. “Do you want to talk about why she showed up this time? Before she turned around and biked away and then you spoke about playing music together?”
I blink. My brain feels foggy like it always does when Caroline’s brother comes to mind, but there’s something dark and scary there, too. Something that makes me try to keep him outside of my head as much as I can. If I let myself think of him for a second or two, all I can see are his blue eyes. All I can smell is the stench of his dirty pants when I washed them out in the sink. All I can hear is him crying, sitting next to me on the couch, while I tried to show him the video games I was playing.
“Ethan? You hanging in there with me?”
I place my hand on Groovy’s belly. It feels soft and warm. I take a breath.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m hanging in there.” I pause and look down at Groovy’s sleepy dog face. The way his dog mouth is turned up it looks like he’s smiling. Maybe he is. I hear my voice saying, “She showed up because she wanted to know about her little brother, but I told her I couldn’t remember anything.” I immediately want to take the words back. It’s too much to say. I switch the subject fast. “But we barely talked about that. We mostly talked about music.”
Dr. Greenberg leans over and makes a few notes on his legal pad. I imagine what he’s written about me.
This kid is the weirdest kid I’ve ever worked with.
Pretty sure there’s no hope for this one to ever be normal.
Maybe I should tell his parents they’re
just wasting their money.
“Okay,” he says, setting his pad down again. “So maybe she’ll come back. You two like the same bands?”
He skips over Dylan so easily I wonder if he’s going to come back to him later. I hope he doesn’t.
“I don’t know if we like the same bands,” I say. “I mean, she likes this one band called The White Stripes. I listened to them, and they were okay.”
“So it could be fun,” he says.
I don’t respond. I guess it could be fun. It could also be really awkward. And anyway, she may not even come back, so why am I even worrying about it?
I think about playing that Ludwig all by myself. I think about listening to Green Day songs in my headphones, closing my eyes and going through them and then opening my eyes and realizing I’m all by myself except for my mom checking on me by staring out the kitchen window every five seconds.
“Maybe,” I finally anwer. “Maybe it could be fun.” I stare out the window again. I’ve already said more than I thought I would, and I really don’t want to keep talking.
I guess Dr. Greenberg senses as much because he says we can wrap it up. As he walks me out all I feel is exhausted, like I’ve just run for miles instead of sat on a couch.
* * *
Because my life couldn’t be any stranger, when my mom and I arrive home after my session with Dr. Greenberg, Caroline is waiting for me in the driveway, sitting cross-legged next to her practice amp, her red Fender resting in her arms. Her ten speed is laying on its side in the grass. How did she make it over here on her bike with all that gear?
“Oh my,” my mother says as we pull in, and she presses her dark pink lips together like she does when she’s nervous or angry or mad. She taps her manicured nails on the steering wheel. “Oh, my,” she says again. Then she takes a deep, careful breath.
“Mom,” I start, my pulse racing, “I didn’t mention it, but Caroline came by the other day when you were gone, and we talked about playing music together, and I want to play with her, and we’ll only play here not at her house. If that’s okay?” I sound like I’m five years old, begging for a Christmas present that’s way too expensive.
My mom’s eyes open up a little bit at my speech, and her eyebrows pop up and down a few times like twin jack-in-the-boxes. I’m waiting for her to tell me that she needs to talk to my dad and Dr. Greenberg and Dr. Sugar and maybe the president of the United States before she lets me play with Caroline. But she just takes a breath and peers out at Caroline. Then she finally says, “You’re sure you’re okay to play with her?”
I nod. “I just want to see what it would be like. To play with another person.”
Her eyes well up a little with tears when I tell her that.
I look at Caroline. She’s eyeing the Volvo, scrambling to get up, still holding her guitar by the neck.
“Okay, you can play music, but just for a little bit,” she says, blinking back tears. “Your dad will be home soon, and we’re having dinner together.”
When I was little and Jesse would come over, my mom would always invite him to stay for dinner. She won’t with Caroline, of course. Not that I think I would want her to.
We get out of the Volvo, and my mom smooths out her khaki skirt and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Hello, Caroline,” she says, her voice neutral. “It’s nice to have you over to play music with Ethan.” Like she knew all along this was the plan for today. Like it was already on one of her To Do lists. Find Ethan someone to play music with.
“Thanks for having me,” Caroline says. She glances at me and gives me a little half smile. “Hey,” is all she says.
“Hey,” I say back.
My mom mentions something about being out in a little while with a snack and something to drink, of course, and we both say thanks. She heads for the house, and I realize my heart is still hammering. Maybe this was a stupid idea.
“So,” Caroline says, “where do I plug in?”
I like that she wants to get right to playing because that means maybe there won’t be too much talking. I point to the outlet and watch as she gets set up. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a Violent Femmes T-shirt that hangs off her like a curtain. Her dark jeans are worn out and tight. I’m not sure if she’s cute or not. I think she is, but when I try to decide what’s cute about her, my body goes numb. I don’t know what the hell that means other than I’m definitely, totally not normal in the way every other teenage guy is, and that scares the shit out of me.
I grab my drumsticks.
“You want to count off?” she asks as I sit down at the Ludwig and center myself on my stool.
“Yeah,” I answer, nodding as she straps on her guitar. She pulls a bright yellow pick out of her back jeans pocket. “I can just, like, try a couple of chord progressions or whatever? See what sounds good?”
“Okay,” I say. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” she says, and she glances at me and for a second we catch each other’s eyes, and then I count off one-two-three and I start to drum and Caroline starts to play.
She’s good. Like, really good. Like good enough that I’m trying to keep up and watch her play at the same time just to see how she does it. It sounds so much better to hear electric guitar live five feet away from you than in your headphones.
We fool around for a little while and then we come to a natural end, like we’re each reading the other, knowing when to stop. After my last wallop on the drums and her last chord, we’re still and quiet. She stands there, her Fender hanging low around her waist.
“You’re good,” I say at last. “Where’d you take lessons?”
Caroline shakes her head. “I didn’t. Lessons are expensive. I saved up for the guitar, and I taught myself from watching videos online and everything.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Seriously,” she says. She shrugs her shoulders like it’s no big deal. “You’re good, too,” she says. I’m pretty sure she’s just being nice, but I tell her thanks. She peers across the back lawn. “How long before your mom is out here with some snacks so she can spy on us?”
“I’m surprised she’s not out here already,” I say.
“Well let’s see if we can squeeze in a little more playing before she shows up with apple slices and, like, Sunny D or whatever,” she says.
“We don’t have Sunny D,” I tell her. “Only these organic juice boxes.”
Caroline grins, and I realize I’m smiling back. Just a little bit.
“Okay, until the juice boxes then,” she says. “Go ahead and count off.”
And I do.
CAROLINE—183 DAYS AFTERWARD
Dylan has fallen asleep on my parents’ bed, his head nestled on my shoulder. His episode of Jeopardy! is still on, but I’m scared to turn it off in case moving wakes him up.
I listen past Alex Trebek’s know-it-all voice. Coming from down the hallway in the kitchen are the hard movements of my mother cleaning up after Thanksgiving dinner. The clatter of plates as they hit the sink. The gush of water coming out of the faucet at full force. The rattle of knives and forks as they’re jammed into the dishwasher.
My dad isn’t here. He’s gone to his favorite place—Out. As in I’m going Out. I’ve got to get Out. I need to head Out.
Dad is the only person in this house who gets to do whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants to do it.
My phone resting on my stomach buzzes. Trying not to move, I tilt it up so I can read. It’s Emma.
Hey
I debate whether I should answer. It’s like I’m too exhausted to bother. But I manage a hey back. A few seconds later Emma texts me again.
So how was turkey day?
I wish I hadn’t answered in the first place, but now I feel like I have to.
Kinda sucked
Why?
My parents got into this big fight cuz my brother wouldn’t come out to sit at the table and my dad’s mom and stepdad were assholes a
bout it too like it was my mom’s fault for not controlling him better
Dylan shifts a little in his sleep and slips off my shoulder. He’s still wearing his favorite Superman T-shirt, but not even the promise of his favorite T-shirt and dinner with his usual plate and cup and bowl would get him to sit down with us. My grandmother insisted that Dylan would join us if only my mother didn’t “baby him” so much.
I scowl at the thought and lean in to give Dylan a kiss on the cheek. When he’s asleep is the only time I can kiss him, and it reminds me of when he was a baby and we didn’t know there was anything wrong with him yet, and I could sit on the couch with him cuddled in my arms and I could sing to him while he slept. This was back when people thought we would be the kind of brother and sister who fought over the television or staged elaborate pranks on our parents. Normal stuff.
He’s got crust lining his eyes from where mom couldn’t wash his face enough and clusters of little freckles on either side of his nose and the lightest eyebrows. He has my mom’s coloring, and I have my dad’s, so I’m not sure we even look related. But he’s my baby brother, and when I think about those days he was gone, those days he had to have been so scared and not knowing what the hell was going on, it makes me want to cover him with a blanket and protect him from everything always.
When I think he’s in a deep enough sleep, I manage to turn off Jeopardy! Just then, Emma texts back.
Sorry your turkey day sucked … mine was okay but my mom bought ham instead of turkey and I was like wtf?
I sigh. When we were little, my problems and Emma’s problems matched better. We knew what to say to make each other feel okay about bad grades on spelling quizzes and dumb unrequited crushes on members of boy bands. But it’s like as my problems have gotten bigger, Emma hasn’t been able to keep up. Like she sometimes has no clue what’s the right thing to say.
The banging around in the kitchen has stopped, finally, and I cover Dylan with my parents’ bedspread. My mom will probably let him sleep here in the bed with her tonight, and my dad will end up on the couch. The thought of my dad sleeping there doesn’t bug me even though the couch, which we bought on clearance, doesn’t have a comfortable spot that lasts more than ten minutes.
Afterward Page 8