The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  “Very funny. All of you. Seriously, I think you should do stand-up.” My phone vibrates. I take it out. Pete. Got a quad for you.

  I text back. Great. I get my Jeep back tomorrow. Will be in touch.

  Pete texts. No prob. It’ll keep for a few days.

  I walk through the halls with Brandon and Parker and Matt and try to get ready for my day while trying like mad not to think of what’s coming tomorrow night. Something tells me the universe thinks it’s going to be bad if it’s sending weed my way. But then I feel like I’m being an idiot and always trying to find the negative. Gotta work on that.

  Chapter 19

  Dad shows up at five with my Jeep, making me wonder how the hell he’ll get home, but then I dismiss that as not my problem.

  I meet him in the driveway, dressed in the new jeans Mom got me and a new striped button-down shirt. No reason not to make her happy tonight. Dad hands me the keys, a smirk on his face—the one he gives me when he’s proud of me—and that makes me feel pretty good. “You go ahead, and Mom and I will meet you there.”

  Livy comes out of the house and hugs Dad. “I want to go early with John.”

  “You’re coming with Mom and me.”

  Livy whines, but I yell to her as I get in the Jeep, “See you in a few!”

  I drive to the high school in two minutes flat. Mr. Bonham was all excited about our school hosting the county event, but I admit, it would have been cool to have this at the Windsor Center downtown. That’s where the kids who move to the next round go. It’s an amazingly cool building, all glass.

  The auditorium is crowded, and tons of families stroll through the exhibit, looking at different models and drawings. I try to find my drawing and, for one truly terrifying minute, think I may have imagined the whole being-included-in-this-event thing, because it’s nowhere to be found. But then Mr. Bonham finds me.

  “Hey, John, big night. We all have our fingers crossed for you.” He holds up crossed fingers as evidence of his last statement. “Where’s your family? Look forward to meeting them.”

  “They’re coming later.” My eyes comb the display and still don’t see it.

  “Oh, your project’s over here.” He walks briskly to a group of drawings, and when we get there, I see there’s a ribbon on my drawing. Third place. “Oh wow, I didn’t think the judges had decided yet. Third place?” He claps me on the shoulder. “That sends you to semis. Way to go.”

  I’m feeling a cross between bewilderment and excitement and, in the back of all of that, a tiny nagging voice saying that they should have been here to see the ribbon with me when it was first put there. Not that Mr. Bonham and I did either. But I tell myself that’s no big deal. They’ll be here soon enough.

  “I’m going to find Miss Quinlan. She’s going to be so excited.” He shakes my hand, pumping it up and down three times, hard. “Great job, John.”

  Now I realize the “we” he talked about was him and Miss Quinlan. I thread my way through the crowd, careful not to photobomb any of the other kids with their parents, taking pictures, smiling. There’s a table up front where moms are pouring soda into tiny plastic cups. I grab one with Coke in it and shoot the mom a grateful smile. She says, “Enjoy.” And for some stupid reason, I want to tell her about my ribbon, but when I look back at her, she’s handing another soda to another kid, and I realize I’m being a total idiot about this. It’s not like I won a medal at the Olympics or anything.

  There’s a small disturbance at the entrance to the gym. It’s my lacrosse team. They’re sweaty from practice, but all of them are heading my way. I meet them halfway across the room. “Hey, what’s up, guys?”

  “Coach let us out early so we could come see you get your award,” Brandon says.

  I can’t help but smile. I had been worried about asking Coach for the night off, but Mr. Bonham and Miss Quinlan had already told him, and he told me he wanted a full report the next day. I guess he didn’t feel like waiting, because before I know it, Coach Gibson strolls in. He stops to talk with Miss Quinlan, who points in the direction of my piece.

  Parker claps me on the back and shoots forward to meet up with the coach in front of my drawing.

  “Way to go, Strickland,” Coach Gibson says. “We may have an architect on our team.”

  I try not to smile, try to act all strong and above all this, but I can’t.

  “Let’s get a picture with you all together,” Miss Quinlan suggests.

  I take my phone out to give to her and see it’s going on six thirty. Where are my parents?

  “Squish together.” She motions with her hands.

  I smile, even though in the back of my mind, I’m wondering where the hell they are.

  “John.” Emily’s voice makes me turn.

  Livy is with her, both of them looking really upset but like they’re trying to hide it. Livy hugs me. I talk over her head. “I thought you were grounded.”

  “I snuck out,” Emily says. “I had to.”

  Livy unhooks from me and notices the ribbon. She points. “Awesome.”

  “Where are my parents?” I ask Emily.

  She puts her hand on my arm. “Ryan fell. They had to take him to the hospital.”

  My beast rages. “What?”

  “He pushed back in his chair. Fell backward. Dad wanted to come here, and Mom screamed at him. So I texted Emily. I wasn’t going to miss this,” Livy says.

  Maia Cetus roars. I feel his rage feeding my own. “You’ll get in trouble, Emily.”

  “I don’t care, John. You needed someone with you.”

  Like her cousin needs her, so do I. I’m a fucking charity case. Miss Quinlan comes over. “So is this your…”

  Emily speaks up, since I’m stunned silent. “Sister. Livy, this is Mr. Bonham. He’s the one who…”

  “Noticed your brother was extremely talented.” Mr. Bonham looks around. “So your parents…”

  “Couldn’t be here,” Emily says.

  Mr. Bonham looks disappointed. Miss Quinlan’s lips thin like she’s pissed as shit at Mom and Dad, but she says, “That’s such a shame.”

  “Our other brother was in an accident,” Livy says. “He had to go to the hospital.”

  “Oh no. Is he OK?”

  I want to answer that. I want to tell them he’s perfect. The perfect reason to never fucking show up for me. My hand itches to text Pete. I’ve got the money Emily handed me this morning, I’ve got my Jeep back, and Pete’s got a quad for me. Seems like exactly what I need.

  Coach Gibson is standing two exhibits away. I don’t want him to hear, but he turns toward us. Makes eye contact with Mr. Bonham. Like this is some sort of feel-sorry-for-John team effort. Like I’ve become the new GoFundMe project for our faculty. Not into it. But Coach says, “OK, lacrosse players plus Livy and Emily, pizza on me.”

  And all of a sudden, the lights, the cameras, the talking and laughing is too much. The sounds morph in my head and remind me of crashing glass. I push past the crowd, bump into a bunch of people as I make my way out the door. I’m dizzy, and noise is pushing me forward, so I don’t see the table with the woman serving the drinks. I bump into it, and little cups of sticky liquid spill everywhere. My hands go up like I’m surrendering, and I’m about to apologize, but the lady starts yelling at me. I feel like I’m in the ocean, being pulled under.

  Mr. Bonham tries to step in front of me, and my eyes go all blurry. He puts his hands out. “John, why don’t we…”

  The anger that rages inside me consumes me from the inside out. Who the fuck is he to touch me? Who is he to care? If he hadn’t made me do this stupid fucking contest to begin with…

  I push him. Harder than I mean to. He moves back, his hands reaching out like he’s in some high-wire act.

  “John!” Livy calls after me, but when I look back, all I see are people staring at me like I’
m some kind of wild animal.

  Emily’s face turns from scared to cold, and she grabs Livy by the shoulders and holds her back. “Let him go.”

  Maia Cetus roars, and we head out to my Jeep, then into the night, alone like we were meant to be.

  Chapter 20

  The sun comes up, and my teeth are chattering like mad while my bladder is screaming to be emptied. My head feels like it’s been stuffed full of that polyester crap they put in toys for kids. I lean forward and inadvertently beep the horn, which makes me jump. My hands shake as I open the car door and step out to a parking lot in back of a liquor store.

  Pieces of last night come back to me. Me leaving the school. Pushing Mr. Bonham. My coach there watching me act like an idiot. Livy’s face. Emily’s. Me not even caring, because ultimately, they’d be better off without me. I see myself paying for the handle of Jack I’ve almost finished. I go to the Dumpster and take a piss that lasts for fucking ever, and I realize once again how freaking cold I am.

  When I get back to my car, I find my phone in the cup holder. It’s lit up with texts and missed calls. I rub my hand down my face. I’m so not ready for this next part. The regret part.

  I blow out a big breath and start scrolling through the texts.

  Livy: Where are you? Are you OK?

  Emily: Everyone’s worried about you.

  Emily: Where are you?

  Emily: Call me, I’m srs.

  Mom: Don’t be stupid, John. We wanted to be there.

  Dad: Please come home.

  Emily: You’re killing me with this. You know that? You looked just like Dylan.

  Emily: I can’t do this. He’s sick. You’re not.

  The last one destroys me.

  I text Emily first. I’m sorry.

  Then Livy. I’m OK. Coming home.

  Then Dad. On way home.

  Dad’s reply beats everyone else’s. Are you OK?

  Yes.

  I’m sure he’s going to be angry, but instead, he texts, I’m glad. I’ll be waiting for you.

  And suddenly, it feels like there’s been a shift in the planets. I put my car in reverse, back it up, then head home.

  • • •

  When I pull into my driveway, I’m surprised to see another car there. It’s only nine, so I’ve got no idea who could be here, but for some reason, the shiny blue Focus puts me on edge.

  The front door opens, and Livy runs out, her face all red from crying. I let her wrap me up and then push me away, pounding me with her little fists. I’m always screwing up. All these years, I’m blaming Mom and Dad for forgetting about Livy, for upsetting her, for making her worry, and I’m home for two months, and I’ve done the same.

  “I can’t believe you. Selfish. Stupid.” She hits me with her little fists. “You said you’d never leave without telling me.”

  “Sh. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She lets go and points to the house. “Now he’s here, and there’s nothing you can do. They’re going to take you away. Mom said so.”

  I hold her away from me so I can see her face. “Nobody’s taking me away. Who’s here?”

  Before she answers, I realize whose car that must be. Just then, the front door opens again. Standing on the doorstep is none other than Mr. Mike Wexler.

  “Who called him?” I ask, annoyed.

  “So it’s true?” Livy asks.

  “Huh? What? Me going away? No, of course not.”

  Livy starts crying again. “You can’t leave. You promised.”

  I put my hands on Livy’s broken-hearted face, her tears making her hair stick to her hot cheeks. I brush her hair back behind her ears. “I promise. I’m staying the year.”

  “Mom said if you’ve done any”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“drugs, they can take you away.”

  I look her straight in the eye. “I haven’t. I’m good.” I feel like a total heel lying to her, but in my head, I’m counting the days. It’s Saturday, so he’s probably not going to take me in now and demand a sample. Right? Next Friday will be four weeks. I just have to talk my way into waiting until then. Which is going to probably take a miracle based on how pissed Mr. Wexler looks right now.

  I sling my arm around her as I make my way to the front door, wishing like mad for something to fix my hangover breath, knowing it won’t make a difference. I’m underage. Drinking is illegal. It doesn’t matter if I’ve smoked weed or not—this guy could tell the judge I’ve violated probation. If I violate, they could send me to jail.

  I’m almost to the door to shake hands with Mr. Wexler when Livy twists to look next door. I turn also. Emily is there. Her arms crossed in front of her. She’s pissed.

  It’s all about piling on here.

  “Mr. Wexler.” I put my hand out, trying to keep it from shaking.

  “Mr. Strickland.” Smart-ass and arrogant.

  Mom stands behind him. She backs away to allow all of us inside and motions to the living room, where we all take a seat.

  “Not you.” Dad puts out a hand to stop Livy in her tracks.

  Her face gets so desperate that I feel like an ass all over again. I call her over to me, bend down, whisper in her ear. “Text Emily.” I hand her my phone. “Tell her it’s you and that you need to stay with her.”

  Livy starts to protest but stops after another look at Dad.

  When she’s gone, I sit in the chair farthest from my parents. Mr. Wexler sits on the sofa in front of the window, and the light makes him look haloed, which under any other circumstances would make me laugh. I look at my hands. The knuckle I chew is red, and I want to gnaw away at it, but I can’t look guilty.

  “Well, John, you had half the town looking for you last night.”

  “Who called you?” I ask.

  “For God’s sake, John, of all the—”

  Mr. Wexler cuts Mom’s rant off with one solid palm facing her, something I’ve never seen before. “Miss Quinlan called to let me know you’d won an award, and I was on my way over to see for myself.”

  “Miss Quinlan do that a lot? Call you to tell you about her reject puppies who make good?”

  “Nope, buddy boy. You happen to be special.”

  “Oh yeah, why is that?”

  “Because you’re such a punk you remind me of someone I used to know. And because for some reason, the adults in this town and the last two places you’ve lived seem to believe you are worth saving.”

  Once again, I’m some sort of community charity project. A slow boil starts inside me.

  “Don’t believe me?” He shuffles through his papers in a file he’s got balanced on his knee, holds up pieces of paper. “These were written on your behalf by Coach Gibson, Miss Quinlan, and Mr. Bonham last night. All of them asking me not to violate your probation.”

  Mom starts sniffling. I sneak a peek at Dad, who is sitting next to her and pulls her head against his chest.

  “Mr. Bonham said that?” I see his face, surprised and scared as he fell backward last night after I pushed him.

  “Yes, he did. And these emails”—he shows me his phone—“from your uncle Dave and a”—he squints at the screen—“a Mr. Hicks, who was your…”

  “My guidance counselor from my last school, yeah.” I know I should be grateful, but all these people writing about me, even if it’s to help me, kind of pisses me off. My old friend, anger, knocks at the door, but I hold him back. I need to be reasonable here. I need to postpone the inevitable drug test for as long as I can. I rub my hands together like I’m cold. Almost blow on them.

  “Guess there’s some kind of guidance counselor hotline, huh?” Mr. Wexler laughs, but I can tell he’s not amused. He probably thinks these people are wasting their concern on the likes of me. Ungrateful. Rough. Stupid. Me. “So, I’m willing to listen to your side of the story. Where’d you go las
t night?”

  I stare at the floor. “I just drove.”

  “All night?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I pulled over by this field. Fell asleep there.”

  “So you weren’t doing anything illegal?”

  “No.”

  “No pot?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mr. Wexler stares a hole into me, but I don’t back down. Everyone stays silent. No one breathes. Finally, he says, in a voice that is completely neutral, “Well, let’s see about that.” He starts scrolling through a screen on his cell, flipping days of a calendar, I guess, until he lands on the spot he has open for me. “Twelve o’clock. Wednesday. My office.”

  I nod.

  “He has school,” Mom says, and it’s like she still doesn’t get the gravity of the situation. As usual.

  Mr. Wexler smooths out the muscles of his face, becomes less pit bull and more patient adult. “He’ll need to come in and give me a sample. We’ll fill out some paperwork and talk. After the drug test results come back, we’ll make decisions.”

  “What kind of decisions?”

  Mr. Wexler smiles a thin smile. “Let’s take this one step at a time. If John’s clean, we’ll set up a weekly schedule. All of it should take less than an hour, and he’ll be back on campus before lunch is over.”

  “Can we take him?” Dad asks.

  “I’m pretty sure he can find his way.” He hands me a card, winks at Dad. “That is, if you haven’t taken his Jeep away after last night’s little stunt.”

  “No. It was our fault. One of us should have gone to his award ceremony.” Mom looks at her skinny fingers.

  “Your decision. See you Wednesday, John. A clean test would sure make this group happy. See what you can do.”

  Mom and Dad walk him to the door. Shake his hand. Thank him.

  I’m already on my way up the stairs, doing mental math. How much weed can I dilute from my urine? How much can I sweat out of my system?

  I hear the door click shut as I let my jeans fall to the ground and grab my running shorts out of my drawer. I pull my sweats over my shorts, bend to lace up my running shoes. Mom and I used to run together. I don’t think about that much anymore, but I remember how great it felt when we did, the one thing we did together without fighting. Ryan came with us sometimes, but he never really liked it. Even jock Ryan couldn’t match my speed.