“Wow,” I said. “So yesterday, Dad said no selling?”
She clasped her hands in front of her.
I asked, “Did he say you couldn’t, like, see her anymore?”
A glimmer of something overcame my mother’s face. Regret? Her eyebrows twitched just a bit.
“Just weren’t worth the trouble,” she said.
And as we sat there, sipping cocoa, saying nothing, I wondered: If I had hypothermia, what did my mom have after all these years? Did my mom ever say what she really thought to my dad, or was she always playing the role of the perfect wife? And then that thought felt a little close to home, so I stopped thinking about it.
Before I left to go back to school on Sunday, I went and talked to my dad in the barn again. He was cleaning and re-filling the water buckets.
“You got enough money for things you need? Books?” he asked, not looking my way.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Hey, there is one thing. The baseball team. They’re going to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. We’re going. Spring break. The school is actually paying my way.”
Dad frowned. “We don’t need their help.”
I shrugged but didn’t say anything, because actually we did. No way did we have a thousand dollars or whatever it would cost. And there was nowhere good this conversation could go if it became about my dad and his ability to provide for me.
“I know,” I said. “But. Can I go?” I knew I’d need to get his permission.
The water got close to the top of the bucket, and he turned off the flow. “Your grades better now?”
I nodded.
“We’ll see, then. Keep ’em up and we’ll figure it out.”
I stood there, a tightness in my throat, my head buzzing a bit. There was so much more to say. About Mom. About us. Everything. And I knew I would never say it.
The Wednesday after my visit home, Coach Donnelly turned over infield practice to me while he went to the other side of the gym to work with the outfielders. It was the first time I’d run any part of practice by myself, and my whole body felt jittery. The seven other guys milled around, waiting for me to get things started. I jumped in before my brain could tell me stuff about how I had no business acting as coach.
“Okay, gloves down,” I said, my voice sounding deeper than normal, and I glanced over at Mendenhall, half expecting him to roll his eyes. He didn’t. He just dropped his glove like everyone else.
“Pair up, and everyone grab a ball.” All the guys partnered up, leaving me with Clement, the freshman. I got everyone to do the drill Coach taught us, where we roll a ball to our partner, who ranges over, his glove hand on the floor, to field it before rolling it back. The right way to field is to stay low and move with the hop, in case the ball decides not to come up to you, so the drill got us comfortable remaining in fielding position.
“Do it like you mean it!” I yelled not to anyone in particular, trying to sound captain-like. I rolled a ball toward Clement. He seemed jarred by my yelling, and he fumbled the hop.
I jogged over. His back was arched, but his legs were straight.
“Legs,” I said. “Watch me.” I showed him the correct fielding position, and he imitated it.
“There ya go,” I said. “You’ll find it easier now.”
Clement said a quiet, “Thanks,” and I jogged back to my spot. He did better on the next few rolls, and then I started to challenge him by rolling to his right and left, and he was up to the challenge and seemed to be really energized every time I said, “Attaboy.”
After about twenty minutes of various drills, I clapped my hands loudly and called everyone over. I’d seen previous captains do psych-up speeches, and they seemed to mean a lot to the other guys. They always left me cold.
The guys circled up around me, and I jumped in.
“What’s the goal this year?” I said.
No one said much of anything, so I barked it again. “What’s the goal?”
“Win,” Mendenhall said, nodding.
“That’s it! Let me hear you say it, guys. C’mon.”
“Win!” the guys said, looking around at one another like they were surprised this was coming from me.
“Again!”
“Win!”
“Again!”
“Win!” I glanced over again, and Mendenhall was shouting just as loud as the rest of the guys.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I said, sounding like another person entirely. “We’re here to kick some ass, and I want you to put that kind of energy into everything we do, because it matters. Preparation is everything. Attitude is everything. Are we winners, or are we losers?”
“Winners!” they shouted.
I couldn’t help but smile. We were winners. “Now let’s get back out there and do those drills again, the same, in order, but, like, twice as serious. Got me?”
“Yeah!”
And I felt it in my head, this buzzing, wild sensation that came from being up to the challenge. That came from being the guy the team needed me to be.
Rafe and I were studying in my room on Thursday night. I had a psych test the next day as well as enough calculus concerns to keep my nose buried in a book for the next decade. Well, I was studying and Rafe was kneeling at the foot of the second bed in the room, going through a pile of my books. There was something totally annoying about how Rafe took frequent breaks while I couldn’t afford to do that, and also something totally Rafe about it. In a good way. He didn’t get all intense about things like I did.
I guess he didn’t really need to. His family had plenty of money, so he’d be able to pay for college wherever he got in. Privilege.
“What the hell is the Museum of World War II?” he asked, picking up a pamphlet that had gotten stuck in among my books.
“Are you struggling with context clues?” I asked.
He laughed. “I mean, like, where is it, and all that?”
“It’s in Natick. Before I had a car down here, like back in ninth and tenth grades, I used to take the bus around to places. The Natick Historical Society, or the World War II museum. I was a member there, actually. Honorary. Came back a couple times, and they gave me a free member card.”
He sat down on the other bed, the one that used to be his. It was still a little weird to see him on it. “Which gave you one free Luftwaffe for every ten you bought?”
I laughed. “There’s actually a fair amount of history in Natick. Harriet Beecher Stowe lived here for a while. Henry Wilson was from here. He was vice president under Ulysses S. Grant.”
He threw the pamphlet down onto the floor. “You know so many facts! I think one of the differences between us is you are interested in things and I’m interested in people.”
“Most historians agree that Ulysses S. Grant was, in fact, a person.”
“I mean, like, a person now. Someone we could meet and get to know.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. I’m not, in general, a huge fan of people.”
“Present company excluded, I’m sure you mean.”
I shrugged in an exaggerated way and he blew a raspberry at me.
“So anyway, Wilson,” I said. “He was a radical Republican and a staunch abolitionist.”
“I guess Republican meant something else back then?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“I guess I knew that. I wonder how a political party could change so much. It was like Democrats and Republicans switched teams.”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Are your folks Republicans?” he asked.
I shook my head. “We’re staunch Democrats.”
“I didn’t know that. I figured they were superconservative.”
“They are, Rafe. They’re old-school Democrats, like the southern Democrats who got Jimmy Carter elected. Socially conservative. At least, my dad is.”
“Oh,” Rafe said, and I knew he didn’t know what I was talking about.
“Yeah. My dad basically banished my uncle when he came out as
bi. Wouldn’t accept him. My uncle went to China to teach English because he needed to get away from our family. He came back and pushed his way back in, but my dad never accepted him. My dad thinks my mother is hippie-dippy because she wants to sell herbal remedies at our farm store.”
Rafe whistled. “That’s … Wow.”
“Yeah. And I love my dad. But. That’s where I’m from.”
“How is that possible? You’re so smart and inquisitive and open-minded.”
I shrugged. “I’m not my dad, I guess.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant—”
“No, I get it. I wonder that sometimes too.”
Rafe sprawled out on his stomach and opened his history book. He was studying the Russian Revolution, which I would have been happy to talk to him about if he wanted to, but he seemed utterly disinterested in doing anything beyond memorizing dates.
His head snapped toward me. “Oh! Did I even tell you? I walked into my closet last night just before lights out and Toby was standing in there. I was like, um—”
“He did that to me!” I said, putting my calc book down. “My first night back. Tried to subliminalize me.”
“That’s what he was saying to me. Said he was going to help me with history using subliminal suggestions.”
“He has so many issues,” I said, and Rafe laughed.
We studied and neither of us spoke for maybe thirty minutes, at which time Rafe dramatically shut his book and sat up.
“We need to get Toby,” he said.
“Must we?”
“I mean revenge, not fetch.”
“As I said: Must we?”
“I think we need to subliminalize him.”
“Huh,” I said. I closed my calculus book and looked at him.
“You don’t love the idea.”
“Well, I guess I just think, what will that do? If we’re successful in not waking him up, we’ll, what, spend all night in his closet talking softly?”
He chuckled a little. “I may not be the greatest prankster of all time.”
“We’ll think on it,” I said. “Maybe we can make it better.”
Rafe nodded, and a few minutes later, he stood up and went to the bathroom.
While he was gone, I went into my closet, where I kept my mini refrigerator, and grabbed two orange Gatorades. No vodka this time. Ever since I got sick the last time I drank, I’d been off the stuff.
He came back and sat down on the other bed. I threw him a Gatorade.
“Holy bright lights, Batman!” he said, catching it.
“Huh?”
He pointed at my closet, where I’d left the light on.
“Oh, that,” I said. “I couldn’t see my clothes, so I went and got a seventy-five-watt LED bulb at Home Depot.” I admit it took me a while to get used to the glow, but there was something nice about it, especially in the winter, when the natural light wasn’t as plentiful.
“It’s so bright white! Is that where we go when we die? I think I see my dead relatives in there.”
“Har har.”
“NASA just called, Ben. They say the only things they can see from space are Las Vegas and your closet.”
“You get one more.”
“I think some douchebag just opened a Hard Rock Café by your button-down shirts.”
“Weak.”
He kept chuckling to himself as he re-opened his English textbook. I admit the jokes bothered me a little—I’d spent birthday money on the bulb—but they also kind of settled him back in to the space a bit. And I was glad for that.
We studied and talked and gabbed and worked until it was one thirty in the morning, and then Rafe said, “So are you ready?”
“Um, what?”
“Are you ready? To get Toby? Back, I mean. For the subliminalizing.”
“Do I have a choice?”
He shook his head no, and I shrugged. He explained that we were going to wait until Toby was asleep, sneak into his room, make a little noise to wake him up, and then jump out of his closet and scare the shit out of him.
Normally I would not do such a thing, especially because I didn’t want to get into trouble. As the Pappas Award winner, I had to be careful. But it sounded tame enough, and if I did get into trouble, it would be with Coach Donnelly, who thought I walked on water. Anyway, I was dead tired of being the good kid. The killer of fun. I simply said yes.
Rafe suggested we both bring our cell phones so we could text each other while we waited, but I had to remind him—my phone plan didn’t include texting.
“Nineteen ninety-seven wants its phone back,” he said, and I thought about explaining that whereas his birthday present was an iPhone, mine was a lightbulb I bought myself. Instead, we brought a pad and a pen so we could write back and forth as humans once did, and Rafe brought his phone for the flashlight app.
We cracked my door open and looked both ways. No light, no sound. I led us down the corridor all the way to the end, to Toby’s single room.
He was sound asleep and snoring when we crept in. His window overlooked the other side of the dorm from mine—the street rather than the quad—and the streetlights illuminated his skinny face and now-pink hair. We tiptoed to his closet, opened it in slow motion so as to not make a sound, and crept in and closed the door at the same speed. Toby’s breathing never changed; he was still asleep and had no idea that he was about to find out what happens when you try to subliminalize the wrong people.
We had not prepared, of course, for just how weird it would be in Toby’s closet. Here is a partial inventory of what we found strewn about on the floor when Rafe turned on the flashlight app:
• Angel’s wings
• A half-eaten Hershey’s white chocolate bar
• A pair of roller skates, the right foot seemingly larger than the left by a good two sizes
• A turquoise kimono with a floral pattern
• Condoms organized in four neat piles of exactly the same height
• A bow and arrow, the quill of which was painted lavender
• A pair of women’s Spanx
• A flyer for two-for-one pregnant yoga at the Natick community center.
We looked at each other. Rafe opened his mouth to say something, but I thrust my finger in front of my lips and handed him the pad. He took it and scribbled.
Do you think he’s killed?
Oh yes, definitely.
Do you think he’ll kill again?
I grabbed the angel’s wings and pantomimed devil’s horns, and for some reason that made Rafe almost laugh out loud.
We settled in, me sitting up with my knees against my chest and him leaning up against the far wall. His feet were inches from my butt, and I could feel the warmth of his skin radiating off his toes.
There was a huge farting sound from the other side of the door, and then snores, loud. I put my fist over my mouth to stop myself from laughing, but Rafe wasn’t quite as lucky. Giggles exploded past his lips, and I had to give him another look. He gathered himself, closed his eyes, and made sure he was composed. We waited. No sound. Constant snoring.
Well, he’s asleep, Rafe wrote.
Sounds that way.
How long do we wait?
I shrugged. I had no idea. I shifted my seat, rubbing up against a black overcoat. I hoped the noise couldn’t be heard outside the closet.
“You’re too literal, Albie,” we heard Toby say in a conversational voice that sounded as if it was part of his dream, followed by some words I couldn’t make out.
He’s out cold. Let’s do this, I wrote.
Okay.
We stood up, careful not to make any noise.
“I AM THE MUFFIN MAN!” Toby’s voice was like a monster’s now, and Rafe and I, startled, grabbed each other. My heart was pulsing as I wished I’d brought a baseball bat or something. I’d heard about sleeping people who get woken up and do crazy things. What if Toby—and then I realized: I was staring into Rafe’s eyes, my hands around his shoulders.
Rafe pulled away from me and scribbled on the pad.
On a scale of one to “I may never sleep again,” how scared are you?
I motioned with my hand to show that I was closer to the extreme side of that scale.
“I DID NOT KILL THAT MAN. HE DESERVED TO DIE. DIE, SCUM, DIE!”
There was a thump outside the door. I pulled Rafe close to protect him.
The closet door opened.
“Really?” Toby said, hands on his hips. “Really? Truly?”
“Shit,” I exhaled, and then I realized I was still holding Rafe.
“Well, this part makes it all worth it,” Toby said. “Thank fucking God.”
I let go of Rafe, and then, realizing how Rafe might take that, I patted him on the back. He seemed entirely neutral to all this, and I didn’t know what to make of that.
“You mess with the king, you better kill him,” Toby said, shaking his head.
“Don’t you mean queen?” I said, and both Rafe and Toby looked shocked.
“Oh no he didn’t,” Toby said to Rafe.
“He did, though. He did,” Rafe said back.
“So all of that? All the talking in your sleep, including the thing about Albie?”
“All a ruse. I heard you guys way before that.”
“The farting thing too?” I asked.
Toby’s face turned a shade darker than his hair. “Uh, yeah,” he said, eyes averted. “Yes. Total ruse.”
We were nestled in my bed. I was pressed against her, spooning her soft, maple syrup skin, the heat of our bodies combining into something a little like heaven.
I ran my fingers against the nape of a long, feminine, swan-like neck. I looked down at the smooth back, milky white.
Rafe rotated his neck so I could see his profile. Not Hannah. Rafe.
No, I said, but the words wouldn’t sound as I said them. Please no.
“Yes,” he said back, smiling. “Yes.”
“Yes,” I repeated, and warmth encapsulated my entire body. I whispered, “You’re home” in his ear, and he giggled, and he said, “More like second base,” and I laughed too, and I held him close, my chest pressing into his back, and I smiled. He smelled ever-so-lightly of vanilla.
Honestly Ben Page 11