The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  “He should. Someone should teach him.”

  “Not that way.”

  I swallow hard, look her straight in the eye so she’ll know I mean it. “I won’t. I promise.”

  “OK.”

  “Hug it out?”

  She throws her little body against mine, and I try to choke back the tears. I never want to hurt this little girl again. “I’m sorry, Liv. I’ll be better.”

  “Seven minutes, John,” Mom bellows up the stairs.

  “I gotta go fix things with Mom. You should get ready for school.”

  “Not going. Mom said I could stay home since it’s Friday.”

  Rage fills me, but I damp it down. No way Mom lets her stay home for her sake. Everything is to protect him, my dragon tells me as if I couldn’t figure it out myself. “You don’t care about missing?”

  “Nah. We’re just having a Reading Counts party anyway.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “OK, I’ve gotta go.” I make it almost all the way to the stairs when she calls me.

  “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  She points to her room. “I remember when you went away last time.”

  My heart falls into my stomach. She was only three, and there’s no way I can explain how I was trying to protect her then too.

  “You won’t leave like that again, right?”

  “No. I won’t leave like that again.”

  “You’ll always tell me before you go?”

  “Always.”

  “OK.” I can’t help but notice how saggy her shoulders are. “I’m going to binge-watch Switched at Birth.”

  “Good plan.”

  I go down the stairs, not wanting to face this next part. Mom’s not on her stool. She’s at the sink. She points to the coffeemaker. My to-go cup waiting. I pour the coffee and put the top on.

  “Lunch is in the fridge.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  I open the fridge, thinking she means I need to pack something for myself but am shocked to find that she’s packed for me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying like a baby. I turn to face her. “I’m really sorry about last night, Mom.”

  She doesn’t face me. “I know, but he doesn’t understand how strong he is. He doesn’t mean…”

  “He can’t keep hitting people.”

  She turns holding a protein shake, maybe deciding if I deserve it. This milk shake is more than an olive branch she’s extending. It’s the core of how she loves. And her willingness to withhold it pisses me off more than anything in this wide world.

  “I know he can’t, John. But you can’t…”

  I don’t even listen. I summon sounds of waves crashing inside my head. If I heard what she is saying, really heard, I’d go completely mental. I’d be ten-year-old me and smash every single thing in this house and leave for good this time. But that’s not going to help Livy. Then she says something that snaps me out of my fade-out.

  “He’s not going to be here forever, you know that?” Her eyes fill, and tears run down her face. She swats at them, but my heart is all jacked up.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shakes her head. Wipes her face. “You remember what the doctors said.”

  More like I couldn’t forget what one insurance adjuster actually had the balls to say in front of my parents right after Ryan’s accident, before they settled the claim. All of a sudden, I feel like the worst person in the world.

  “It’s OK, Mom. He’s going to outlive all of us.” That’s what my dad used to say to her when she got like this.

  She nods. “I know. I just…I worry about you kids.”

  “I’m sorry about last night, but we have to help him learn boundaries.”

  “You’re right. I’m bringing in a behavioral therapist. I’ve already called one.” Mom moves closer to me now so I can see how bloodshot her eyes are. I try not to give her attitude, because bringing in a therapist is shit. Ryan needs discipline and drugs. Ha! My prescription for everything, I guess. But the memory of that man, the one who said Ryan would die sooner than most people, is too fresh to reason with her now.

  “Good.”

  Beep. Emily’s here. Mom and I stare at each other for a second, and then she hands me the shake. “Good luck with your new classes.”

  “What?”

  “Your guidance counselor called. You’re so smart, John. I want you to start acting that way.”

  I glom down the shake, leave the cup on the counter.

  “I’m getting you a computer with that program you need for your drafting class. It’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”

  I’m so completely floored by her comment that I almost run into the wall on my way out. “Thanks,” I call back, and I don’t even care that she’s trying to buy my love with her expensive presents, because this one is about me doing something important and that I like. This one is because she noticed.

  • • •

  Emily smiles at me when I get in the car. “Hey,” she says.

  I’m so grateful she’s not shaming me or taking the temperature of the stupid mistake I made last night. “Hey,” I say back.

  “How’d it go?” She motions with her head toward my house before looking in her rearview and backing out of the driveway.

  “Livy’s mad, but we made up. Mom’s OK surprisingly.”

  Emily laughs. “Never can predict the parents, can you?”

  “No. What about you? I’m sorry you had to come get me last night.”

  “I should actually thank you. Got me out of the house at a very opportune time. You saved me from getting into it with my mom.”

  “Happy to be of service. What could your mom take issue with you over? I mean, aren’t you the quintessential good girl?”

  Emily’s face scrunches up. “They definitely don’t see me that way.”

  “Well, if you can’t convince your parents, there’s no hope for me.”

  “Let’s just say that you are not the only one planning for next year, when we can get away from all this crap.”

  It makes me feel sad that someone as great as Emily feels like she has to escape.

  “College is going to be the best,” she says, almost as if she’s talking herself into it.

  “That’s what they say.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “But until then, we can just have some fun.” Her voice sounds confident, but it hitches a little.

  “Fun?”

  She giggles a little too forcibly. Recovers. “Fun. You ever heard of it?”

  “I think you know I know what fun is…” For a moment, I’m reminded of Leah, how she never wanted people to know about us. How I was her secret go-to guy. I don’t want to be that person again, not for anyone. And I’m not even sure I know how to have fun anymore. But it’s not like I’m going to admit that.

  Emily plays with the dial on the radio. Switches off the idiots and onto a rock station I like. “You know what’s going to be fun? Watching you play today. You ready for your big scrimmage?”

  “Not even close.”

  “I’ll be watching. No pressure.” Then she punches me in the arm and laughs.

  And I laugh too. “Thanks for the support.”

  “Radar Love” comes on the radio, and she turns it up and belts it out while I kill it on the imaginary drums. She bounces her head as she sings. And all I can think is this girl could be dangerous for me if I let her. Which I won’t.

  • • •

  The fog I feel in my head travels to my body, and I make stupid mistakes the entire day. Seventh period finally comes, and I’m in my favorite class with Mr. Bonham.

  “You had a conversation with my mother?” I ask as I sit at the computer and pull up a project I was working on. It’s a photograph of a bunch of different ar
ches.

  He shrugs. “She called and asked what she could do to support you in this class.”

  “So you told her to buy me a laptop and a CAD program?”

  He laughs. “Hardly. I just told her what we used in class. The rest was her idea. That program’s not cheap. I told her to wait to see what you did with it, if you were even still interested by the end of the term.”

  I can just imagine that conversation. “Turns out she went completely the other way.”

  He chuckles. “Moms. What are you gonna do? Anyway, she said you were a child prodigy. Always building amazing structures with LEGOs or blocks or sticks and rocks in the backyard. She even mentioned a particular Cheerio creation.”

  I hold up my hand. “I get the picture. Wow.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets, then puts up a finger like he just remembered the secret to the universe or some shit. “Wait.” That finger points emphatically. “She actually sent me pictures of some of them.”

  Heat fills me—and not my dragon’s heat.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nice. Plus, she’s right. You had an eye for design even back then. I have no idea what kept you away from architecture, but I’m glad you’re back.” He hands me printed copies of the pictures Mom emailed to him.

  Looking at the photos, I see six-year-old me next to the structures I’d built. Stupid fucking smile on my face. But there they were. My bridges. Tunnels. Buildings. All made from whatever I had around me. I haven’t thought about any of these pictures in the longest time. I flip to the last one. It’s the igloo Ryan and I made, and a sickening feeling spreads through me. I screwed that up too.

  If I close my eyes, I can hear Mom laughing. “My little architects.”

  Other kids start filing into the room. I don’t listen to them talking to each other or the chairs squeaking as they are dragged across the room. I’m focused on the pictures Mom sent to Mr. Bonham. I can hardly believe that part of me ever lived. I file the pictures into my backpack and stare at my computer.

  Mr. Bonham addresses the class. “Today, you are going to analyze the arches in the picture and then recreate them on the next page. Once you’ve done that, I’ll come around and check your work for you.”

  I stare at the photograph I’ve chosen to work from, its beautiful form. I start to think about the numbers that make each one up. My clumsy fingers and foggy head make a mess of my drawing.

  “Some of the data points are incorrect,” Mr. Bonham says as he points to my screen. “Check them again.”

  I stare at my mistakes and think about corrupt data in my drawing and myself. I page back to the original drawing, allow myself a moment to enjoy the correct angles. I page back. Page forward. Page back. The wrong plot points don’t show themselves to me, and I feel completely stupid. This class was a horrible idea.

  Mr. Bonham’s shadow falls on me. “This is motor memory for you. You were used to building with your hands. Not with a computer. Maybe you should go back to doing 3-D until you figure it out.”

  My thoughts slip. I’m not sure if it’s the weed hangover making me dumb or the memories that are clawing their way into my mind.

  I clench my teeth. The pictures Mom sent are just an embarrassing stunt and nothing more. But that igloo started everything, the destruction snowballing into our family’s personal avalanche.

  I force my attention back to the CAD screen. Try to see what’s wrong, but I don’t. And now I can’t remember any of the commands that make the computer draw what I want to see. I can hardly remember how to do any of this. With or without a computer. I am still the stupid little kid who can’t do anything right. Everything’s a mess. And this is exactly what comes from trying to challenge myself. Better to stick to my plan. Don’t get close to anyone. Finish my high school sentence and then go to California, where my skill for rolling a righteous blunt will be appreciated for what it is: my only talent.

  Just then, my phone gets a text. I pull it out, hoping against all hope that Pete’s dealer is finally going to do business with me. At first, I don’t recognize the number, but I definitely know the name. It’s Allie. Leah’s little sister.

  Hey. Hope it’s OK I texted you. Just wanted to check in with you.

  I text back. It’s fine. I’m here if you need me. Always.

  I know you are. It’s just hard starting senior year without her, you know?

  Yes it is.

  I want to be happy about painting and applying to college but it feels wrong too.

  You have to.

  I guess.

  You do. She’d want you to. Besides, you are supposed to make art.

  OK. I will if you do too.

  If I do what?

  Make whatever art you are supposed to. Weld. Build things.

  My body flushes. How could she know I’m looking into that now?

  Or whatever makes your heart pump faster.

  OK. Build was a placeholder for whatever she thinks I want to do. Something about being almost found out for wanting to be good at architecture shakes me to the core.

  So will you?

  Will I what?

  Will you keep going? So I can too?

  Yes.

  Promise?

  I said yes.

  OK. So I promise too. And that means dating for you. I mean that.

  OK. But even as I text that, I know I don’t really mean it. Emily may be cute, but it’s not like it was with Leah. It can’t be. You can only be that stupid once in your life. Allie needs to go on. Leah would want that. Even though moving on without Leah is hard for both of us.

  • • •

  I’m grabbing a drink from the water fountain, coasting through the end of seventh period, trying to damp down the feelings that Allie’s texts have lit inside of me, when a guy in a suit pushes past me into student services. Something about his crew cut and straight-backed walk makes me nervous.

  Miss Quinlan exits the office, Mr. Perfect in tow, when she notices me dawdling. I figure she’s going to lecture me about not being in class, but instead, she beckons to me. “John, just the person we were looking for. Do you have a sec?”

  I want to answer her all smart-ass, but the feeling of cement filling my stomach stops me. This must be my probation officer, and I smoked weed, like, last night. Not only not smart, I may be in for it this time. I frantically try to think of the length of time people get in prison for a probation violation in Connecticut. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. The judge told me I could choose to live clean with my mother or go to juvie. All of a sudden, that feels very real.

  “I’m Mr. Wexler.” His hand shoots out, straight and firm.

  I shake his hand, meet his eyes, hoping like mad I’m passing all the obligatory tests. He doesn’t have a briefcase or any kind of bag with him, so unless that suit is less tailored than it looks and he’s got a pee cup in his pocket, I might be OK.

  Miss Quinlan’s hand to my arm. “Let’s talk in the conference room.”

  The twenty steps it takes for us to land in this room, the one with the big fancy table and windows and plants and pictures, gives me enough time to hate myself completely. Why can’t I ever do the right thing? Why do I always fuck up? Why can’t I follow the rules? Simple fucking rules.

  Mr. Wexler reaches into his jacket’s inside pocket. I almost can’t stand to look, but when he pulls out papers instead of a specimen cup, my heart stops racing and slows to a slightly elevated drumming. He slides the papers in front of me.

  “We are supposed to meet once a week. Give or take. Some of the meetings, Miss Quinlan and I can do over the phone as long as everything continues to go well for you.”

  I nod. Try not to lick my lips.

  “We do need to figure out when you’ll come in for your first drug test.” He flips through the papers again. “We are r
equired to do nine of those, roughly once a month.” He looks up at me. “They are pretty serious. Most of them will be random, but let’s plan on doing our first one three weeks from Friday. Cool?”

  “Extremely.”

  Mr. Wexler smiles at me, a thin smile. He’s not Steve. And he’s not Miss Quinlan. He knows he’s just given me a break. It’s up to me not to fuck with that. The question remains, can I follow these rules?

  “All right then. I hear you play lacrosse?”

  “Sort of.”

  He claps me on the arm. “I played myself. Starting goalie for Townsend four straight years.”

  He’s letting me know about him. Telling me I can’t put anything past him. Gotcha.

  “Cool.”

  Mr. Wexler stands, removes his wallet, extracts a business card, and holds it out to me as he says, “I’ll stop by to see about you next week. Keep straight, and this will all be painless.”

  “Count on it.”

  He smiles and lets go of the card, releasing it and me with one fell swoop.

  Chapter 11

  I don’t expect to be nervous before the lacrosse game, but I am. At least I’m not the only one. Matt is jumping up and down in place, Brandon is unexpectedly silent, and even Parker is pacing. The good thing is I’m no longer tired or spacey. Even a weed hangover can’t hold up to the adrenaline rush of pregame nerves.

  Coach has us gathered on the sideline in a huddle.

  “Here’s what we need to focus on. Stay in your positions. Play smart. Win the ground balls. It’s simple. We focus on mechanics, we win.”

  The smell of the grass makes my stomach cramp, and the breeze makes my skin feel super alive. A feeling comes over me like I’m less me and more my team.

  “And don’t let the term scrimmage fool you. Parkland has come to play. They are the biggest stuck-up, entitled, arrogant assholes who ever walked the face of the earth.” He holds up one finger. “But they trained for this scrimmage. They want this scrimmage. They want to own us.” His eyes go around the huddle, then stop on our goalie. “Luke, hold your position in the net. Play the angles. Don’t give them any easy scores.”