Miranda laughs, then dusts her hands back and forth against each other, sending chalk motes floating into the air. “So,” she says, “did you track down the Scarlett Letter?”
I nod. “She wasn’t in the mood to talk.”
“Big surprise there.” Miranda crosses her arms. “So, you like that chick?”
“She’s okay.”
“You planning to hook up with her?”
“What? Don’t be retarded.” Even as I say it, I wonder whether Miranda is right. There’s no denying Scarlett is an attractive girl, and no denying I feel attracted to her. Guiltily, I glance at Ms. Twohey, who’s helping Arden Barry improve his shading.
“Dov.” Miranda smiles patiently. “You’re never going to get Ms. Twohey.”
I go back to working on Alice’s hair. “You never know.”
“No, I think we both … ” Miranda trails off. I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t.
“Dov,” she says faintly instead, and her tone makes me look up quickly. With a lift of her chin, Miranda indicates something happening behind me, across the room. I turn, and see Mr. Kerr standing in the door of the art room. His face is serious and he’s looking at me; when he lifts a hand and beckons, I know everything has changed.
Out in the hall, Kerr starts to apologize for pulling me out of class, but I cut him off. “Just tell me,” I demand. “It’s Brian, isn’t it? Something happened to my brother.”
Kerr nods. “I don’t really know any details. Your mom called and she was pretty upset. I thought it was best for you to go home as quickly as possible. Are you … would you like me to drive you?”
Something weird seems to be happening to the sights and sounds around me. Kerr’s voice is muffled and hard to hear, but when my head swivels toward the parking lot where the Gator waits, I actually hear the sound of my neck creak. None of the colors in the hallway seem right; I feel like Alice at her tea party where nothing is as it should be.
An odd buzzing has sprung up in my head, making it hard to think. Mr. Kerr nods, and his lips are moving but the only words that break the surface are “an incident.” An incident; I can only imagine what those words have done to Mom …
“I’ve got to go home,” I say.
“Yes, of course,” Kerr agrees. He takes a half step toward me as if he’s about to pull me into a hug, but I spin around him, out of reach. If Mr. Kerr, or anyone else, hugs me I’ll lose it, and that’s not something I can risk right now.
The next thing I know I’m outside, running through the cold air toward the Gator. My chest is burning and the rest of my body is numb, but in my mind, only one thought echoes.
Brian.
Ten
We all gather in the living room to stare at the television and each other while waiting for the next call. Dad stews grimly in the recliner while Mom and Victoria huddle together on the sofa, murmuring words of comfort to each other. They’ve worked their way through a full box of Kleenex each. I sit on the floor, my back against the wall. Survivor is on, but none of us are following the action.
Shortly after seven p.m., when the phone finally rings in the kitchen, everyone in the room stiffens. Mom covers her mouth with one hand and with the other reaches out to grasp Victoria’s. I watch as new tears fill her eyes.
Dad takes a deep breath. “I’ll answer it,” he says, getting up and hurrying into the kitchen. Back in the living room, I draw my knees up so I can rest my chin on them, my arms wrapping themselves around my legs. It feels better to listen this way, my body folded up in defense against whatever I’m about to hear.
“This is Michael Howard,” I hear Dad say grimly, then silence. I feel my own heart pounding in my chest; whatever is being said to Dad is going to affect every one of us for the rest of our lives.
“I see,” Dad says, his voice breaking. “Yes, I understand. We’re just so relieved to hear that he’s alive.”
Victoria lets out a whoop. “He’s alive!” she cries. “He’s okay!”
Mom breaks into fresh, happy sobs as she and Victoria hug and laugh and cry. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and rake my hands through my hair, unable to hold back the silly grin that’s taken over my face. Brian is alive. Brian is alive. It doesn’t matter whether he’s jacked up or not, as long as I know I’ll get to see my brother again.
In the kitchen, Dad’s still on the phone. “Uh-huh, … yep … ” he’s saying. “Hold on a minute, let me get a pen.” I can hear him walking in circles, searching. Because he’s gone so much, sometimes Dad forgets where we keep things.
I get to my feet and go into the kitchen where Dad is still circling aimlessly. Retrieving a pen and notepad from the drawer next to the refrigerator, I hand them over.
“Yessir, I’m ready,” he says into the phone. Silence, then Dad jotting a few things down. “So, do you think we’ll hear something more soon?” He listens, as the person on the other end commits to whatever he can. “Okay,” Dad says. “Well, that’s wonderful … wonderful news. Thank you, sir. Thank you for calling.” I can honestly say I’ve never heard Dad call anyone “sir” before; his terminology is usually more colorful and less respectful.
Dad hangs up the phone, then stands motionless for a moment, his hand still on the receiver. “Jesus Christ, thank God,” I hear him mutter.
“Mick?” Mom’s in the kitchen doorway, her tearstained face hopeful. Victoria peers from behind her with wide eyes. “What did you find out?”
“He’s hurt, but he’s alive, Laura. We can be thankful for that. They’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened.”
Fractures … the officer had told Dad … facial trauma … a concussion. There’d been some kind of explosion while Brian’s unit was out on patrol. Despite being seriously injured, Brian had survived, but four other soldiers in his unit were killed.
“Their poor families!” Mom cries, horrified. “I feel terrible that we’ve gotten this good news while they’re all hearing that … that … ” She turns away and walks back into the living room, slowly, like she’s suddenly become a hundred years old.
I thought she’d go after Mom, but Victoria comes further into the kitchen. “Where is he?” she demands. “Where’s Brian at now?”
“Germany,” Dad says. “They flew him there to stabilize him. Once he’s well enough to make the trip, he’ll be coming home.”
“Coming home?!” Victoria cries. She turns and grabs me by the shoulders, then throws her arms around my neck. “He’s coming home! Brian’s coming home!”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s awesome. Obviously.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Dad says. He heads into the living room where Mom is standing by the window, staring blankly out into the darkness. I watch as Dad draws her to him, wrapping her in his arms until Mom relaxes and leans back into him. I can’t remember the last time I witnessed such a display of affection between my parents; if, in fact, I ever have.
“Brian’s coming ho-ome! Brian’s coming ho-ome!” Victoria’s dancing around the kitchen, singing the words.
I can’t help but smile. Brian’s coming home! It’s all I can do not to sing the words right along with her.
Eleven
(Reuters)—A suicide bombing that took
place near the German embassy in Kabul
killed no U.S. troops, although there were
several civilian casualties reported …
This morning, I’m thinking about Brian even before I’ve opened my eyes. When I try to picture what might have happened to him, I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach so I push the whole thing out of my mind and sit up. The truth is, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in his military-issue combat boots, to watch people being killed—and maybe killing people himself—all the while fearing for his own life. I wonder whether Brian will be different when he returns, or if he’s still the person who flashed me a peace sign from the steps of the plane before he left. Then again, how can anyone who’s experienced mi
litary conflict not be permanently changed?
I stretch my arms up over my head; being that it’s Saturday, there’s nowhere I have to be. Under my pillow, my cell phone vibrates.
“Hello?” I answer, stifling a still-waking-up yawn.
“Hi … Dov?”
I don’t answer. If my ears aren’t deceiving me, on the other end of the line is the last person I expect to hear from.
“It’s Scarlett.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“If you’re wondering, I got your number from Koby. He told me about your brother over in Afghanistan, and that something awful had happened. I’m really sorry, Dov.”
“We got a call last night,” I tell her. “He’s hurt pretty bad, but he’s probably going to be okay.”
Through the phone, Scarlett breathes a sigh. “That’s awesome,” she says, and the relief in her voice sounds genuine. “I really mean it.”
“Yeah. Thanks. We were pretty relieved too.”
“Listen, Dov, I was wondering … do you want to maybe hang out for a little while today? I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Scarlett sounds nervous, but I can’t resist. “About how my pathetic little problems aren’t important compared to yours?”
The other end of the line is quiet for so long I start to wonder whether she’s hung up on me. I try not to care, but I feel a little bad. “Look,” she says finally. “Just give me a chance to explain. I promise I won’t bite your head off like that again.”
I consider. “All right. Meet me at the Red Pepper. Two o’clock.”
“Okay,” she says immediately.
I hang up without asking if she knows how to get there, or even saying goodbye.
Leo is tough to track down in his aquarium; I finally locate him lying under the foliage beside his cave. It isn’t his usual spot to hang out. “Tired this morning?” I ask, fishing around with one hand in the cricket motel.
Tired of this program.
“You and me both,” I agree. I captured a fat cricket and dangle it temptingly by one leg in front of Leo’s nose. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” I prompt.
To my surprise, Leo turns his pointy nose away, letting his eyes drift closed. “Huh,” I say. Usually Leo is more than ready to chase down his breakfast. “All right then.” I shrug and drop the cricket onto the aquarium floor. It scrambles for cover and disappears. “Save it for brunch.”
Thinking that a little music might stimulate Leo’s appetite, I slide the Violent Femmes album out of its sleeve and place it carefully on the record-playing platform. The needle lands gently in the first groove, and a moment later the pure, urgent strains of “Blister in the Sun” are floating through the air. I’m in a weekend mood, so I sing along, straining to match Gordon Gano’s falsetto.
“Jesus Christ, Dov.” Dad is at my door, his face unshaven and his expression irritated. “Do you have to play that crap right now? Your mother’s asleep; she had a helluva day yesterday, and I think she could use the rest.”
“Oh,” I say, startled. “Sorry.” Quickly I reach across to turn the volume down. When Dad continues to glare at me, I change my mind and press the power button to turn the player off entirely.
Dad turns to leave, then changes his mind and turns back. “Clean up this pigsty before you go anywhere. And don’t even get me started about that hair. Your brother will be here soon and he’s coming home with a Purple Heart. The least that you can do is to show some respect around here.”
I concentrate on fitting the album back into its sleeve; when I look up again, Dad is gone.
Across the room, Leo has decided to wake up after all and is watching me from his aquarium, an inscrutable expression on his pointy face. “Life’s a bitch and then you die,” I inform him.
Unless you’re Brian Howard, in which case you’re only seriously wounded, Leo reminds me.
With a sigh, I toss the Femmes album on top of the others, then think better of it and gather them all into an untidy stack. I kick dirty clothes into my closet and pull the bedspread up over tangled blankets. It’s unlikely that Dad will check back, but there’s no point taking chances. He doesn’t need any more reason to resent me beyond the fact that it’s Brian, not me, who’s had to narrowly escape a terrible and untimely death.
Things Not to Get Dad for Christmas
DVD of Sophie’s Choice
Framed copy of my birth certificate or report card
Frommer’s Top Ten U.S. Boarding Schools
Twelve
The Red Pepper is always busy on Saturdays, but when I don’t spot Scarlett at any of the crowded tables I start to wonder if she’s stood me up. If she has, well … I’m used to a certain amount of disrespect, but this is ridiculous.
“Hey, Howard!” The brain-piercing screech of Ray Sellers’ voice cuts through the noise of the sandwich shop. Sure enough, there he is, sitting with a few of his cronies at a table near the side door. “What’re you doing here?” he calls. “I didn’t think kids like you ate!”
I spot Scarlett in a booth farther toward the back of the place. “Twice in one week,” I observe as I pass. “How did I get so lucky?”
Ray grins. “Better run home and write a sad poem about it,” he calls after me, causing his table to break into laughter.
Scarlett has changed her hair color; it’s darker, and instead of the red fringes, a streak of purple runs through her bangs. Though I’m still pissed at her, I can’t help but notice how pretty she is. So, do you want to hook up with her? Miranda asked. Remembering it almost makes me angrier.
“Hi, Dov,” she says humbly as I approach.
“Hey,” I say, shrugging as I slide into the booth. “How’s it going?”
“All right, I guess.” Up close, her eyes are red-rimmed; I can’t tell if it’s makeup or if she’s been crying. If Ray sees her, he’ll probably bring out his entire library of “crying emo kids” jokes. However I feel about Scarlett these days, it’s pretty clear that whatever is going on in her life is no laughing matter.
I pick up a menu and pretend to read it, even though I always have the same thing at the Pepper: three Schneiders and a cheese tostada. “Did you order?” I ask Scarlett.
“No,” she replies. “I thought I’d see what you were having. And just so you know, since I asked you here, I’m paying.”
“Fine with me.”
A minute later the waitress comes over. She takes in our hair and clothes, but to her credit doesn’t make the kind of expression adults usually make when they’re faced with us. “What can I get you two?” she asks.
I give her our order and the waitress departs. I watch Scarlett’s hands twist together on the table between us and stubbornly let the silence go on. I don’t feel like I owe Scarlett anything at this point.
“So,” she says finally. “I guess I owe you another apology. It’s getting pretty old, huh?”
I don’t respond.
“Look, Dov,” Scarlett sighs. “First of all, I’m sorry I made it sound like your problems weren’t anything. I felt so bad after Koby filled me in on the situation with your brother. Koby made him sound like some kind of super-human.”
I nodded. “I’m not half as good at even one thing as Brian is at pretty much everything.” That pretty much sums it up, I figure.
“Some people are like that,” Scarlett agrees. “Everything they do always works out, like, perfectly. It must be amazing.”
“Yeah. This is like the first bad thing that’s ever happened to him.”
“Almost getting killed?”
“I mean being deployed. Sent to Afghanistan,” I say. “And then to actually be coming back like … however he’s going to come back.” The “however” part remains to be seen.
“Anyway,” I add, “just the fact that he’s coming home at all will make things at my house a thousand times better. Up until now, my mom’s been pretty much freaking out 24/7.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, and I watch Scarlett strip the p
aper off her straw, her lips pressed together into a tight line. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to be back too,” she says grimly. “It really sucks being away from the people you care about.”
The tension between us lessens and we make small talk for a while, mostly about school. I want to ask Scarlett about her family problems, but something tells me that if I do, she’ll go skittering away like a frightened deer. If she wants to tell me her situation, it will have to be on her terms.
“Here you go,” the waitress says when she finally sets paper plates heaping with food down in front of us. Eating at the Red Pepper is a no-frills experience, but the food is cheap and delicious.
“Those are Schneiders,” I tell Scarlett, indicating the pile of tacos in front of her. “A Pepper specialty.”
Scarlett takes a bite. “Whoa,” she says through her first mouthful.
“Spicy, I know … it’s the secret sauce. But good, right?”
She nods and takes a long pull on her Coke. “Really good,” she agrees.
We chow down, and it isn’t long before there’s nothing in front of us but empty paper plates dotted with stray bits of lettuce and random smears of sauce. I see Scarlett stifle a belch, so I let a mighty one rumble out. “Incoming,” I apologize.
To her credit, Scarlett laughs, and I do too. When we get over it, Scarlett looks at me thoughtfully. “Listen,” she says, “if I tell you some stuff, can it just be, you know, between us?”
I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
Scarlett leans forward, her face serious. “No, I really mean it, Dov. I know I don’t know you a whole lot yet, but I just feel like I have to talk to someone besides … ”
“Mr. Kerr?”
She smiles. “I mean, nothing against the guy … he’s nice and all, but … ”
“No, I get it,” I tell her. “Don’t worry. Whatever you have to say, it’s in the vault.”
Scarlett takes a sip of her Coke. “The thing is,” she says, “I kind of got sent here to Longview. It’s not like … I mean, I didn’t want to come.”
“Did you get in some kind of trouble or something?”
She laughs in a way that’s pretty much the opposite of laughing. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Look, you have to promise that you won’t judge me.”
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