My guilt chases me all the way to my locker and right into Spencer who, as usual, is waiting for me, looking well-rested and relaxed. That changes when he sees me rumpled like I just rolled out of bed.
“What happened to you?” he asks.
My head feels like it’s filled with cotton candy. I shake it before I mumble, “Lizzie.”
“Crap. Is she okay? What was it this time?” Spencer is in total mother-hen mode now. More than I can handle at ten-to-eight a.m. He runs a hand through his dark curly hair and clenches his jaw, which makes his blue eyes look even more piercing than normal. It’s a look he saves for crises involving me and Lizzie.
“She’s fine.” I don’t say that I’m pretty sure she’s in better shape than I am. “She’s … ” I’m lost for a word that works. “Lizzie.”
Spencer scowls. He isn’t going to let the issue go that easily and I’m too tired to put up a fight.
“Come on, Yeats.” I sigh and smack his shoulder. “Let’s go check on her and then you can relax.”
I feel like I’m walking through fog as we make our way to her locker. Next to me, Spencer races down the hall like he’s trying to put out a fire and despite my almost religious adherence to Coach’s off-season training schedule, I’m hopeless at keeping up.
When we round the corner, Lizzie is already standing at her locker with a small container of paint in her hand. The end of a paint brush is stuck in her mouth as if she’s puzzling over something.
Lizzie started painting the inside of her locker door the first week of freshman year. She did it when she was meant to be in class. She painted after school when Spencer and I were there for play rehearsal or baseball practice and snuck her in. And sometimes, like now, she does it before home room. I’m not really sure how she’s managed never to get caught. Maybe the janitors are afraid of her or something.
From a distance, her locker door looks like a stained glass painting. The bottom shows the core of the earth and then the painting goes higher through ocean scenes, land and mountains, and finally into sky and space. I spent hours teaching her about constellations and planets so she’d get the top of it right and she nailed it. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, and the three of us have been talking about how we’re going to take the door when we graduate next year.
Spencer is already standing behind her, admiring her work. I’m hoping he’ll keep her distracted as I try to sneak up on her before she touches the brush to the inside of her locker.
But just as I’m getting close, she says, “Cal Ryan, if you mess this up, it’s going to be the last thing you ever do.”
I know she means it. No one screws with her art. So I drop my hands and try to pretend I hadn’t been planning on scaring her.
“What are you adding now?”
She points to a tiny swing set in the corner of the painting with just a shadow of the monastery looming over it.
“You’re a genius, you know,” I say.
She smiles at us and dabs on more paint. “Of course. I’ve been telling you that for years.”
Just then someone bumps into me hard, pushing me into Lizzie. Circles of black paint go flying all over her white skirt.
“Oops. Sorry,” Justin Dillard says to a paint-stained Lizzie. He’s our back-up varsity shortstop who doesn’t get a ton of field time because that’s my position and I’m rarely out of the game. “Guess you’ll have to tell one of your boyfriends to clean that up. I bet it makes them hard when you order them around.”
I can’t keep my fists from clenching although I should be used to this shit by now. Ever since middle school there have been rumors about the three of us. Everyone would see me walking through the halls with my arm around Lizzie and then see her draped around Spencer at lunch. And Spencer and I were always hanging out. So of course in their minds there had to be more going on than us just being really close friends. The older we got, the more graphic and crazy the rumors became. They said that the three of us were hooking up. That we’d both gotten Lizzie pregnant. That Spencer and I were having some sort of wild S&M relationship. All of it was bullshit. We were just friends. Best friends.
Until now. Now that Spencer and Lizzie …
I need to talk to him about it, but at the moment all I can do is pull Lizzie behind me to try to keep her from doing something to make the situation worse. I don’t even succeed at that. She flicks her brush. A wad of paint ends up on Dillard’s cheek as she says, “Too bad you wouldn’t know what being hard feels like, Your Impotence.”
I pull myself up to my full height and expect Dillard to fight back, but he just gives me the finger and stalks off, wiping the paint from his face as he goes. Someday I’ll figure out why there are never any teachers around when you need them.
Spencer is uncharacteristically quiet and on edge beside me, his arms wrapped tight against his chest. I can feel him breathing hard, but he’s too smart to get into the fight he’s itching for.
“If there’s any such thing as karma, someone’s going to hit a line drive straight into his balls,” Lizzie says as she tries to clean the paint off her skirt with a cloth. Instead, though, all that’s happening is that the paint is getting worked into the white fabric like crop circles.
“I’ve been working on my hit placement,” I say, more serious than not. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do you want me to run you home at lunch to change clothes?” Spencer offers, ignoring our dreams of revenge. “I can ask to skip rehearsal.”
“No, thanks. That’s fine. I’ll just … I don’t know.” Lizzie dips the cloth into the remaining paint and makes more circles around her skirt. When she’s done it looks like the material might have come that way and she gives us a little smile.
I pull her into a quick hug, trying to avoid any paint that might still be wet. “That’s one way to do it,” I say as the first bell rings. “Hey, weren’t you going to paint my locker at some point?”
“Yeah, I am. I just wanted to finish mine off first.”
“You’ve been working on yours for almost three years, Liz,” Spencer chimes in. “We’re going to graduate before you get to Cal’s.”
“Well, then I’ll have to make it something worth waiting for.” Lizzie looks at her watch. “Shit. Gotta run,” she says and bolts down the hall. She has art first period. It’s the only class she cares about making it to on time.
The color slowly returns to Spencer’s face as we watch her go.
“See, she’s fine,” I say. “Just like always.”
“Yeah. Fine,” he manages, unconvinced.
I just shake my head. Spencer doesn’t get worked up by much, but he’s always been overly protective of me and Lizzie. It makes me wonder what he was thinking when he decided to sleep with her. Did he feel guilty? Sorry for her? Was he even thinking that it might cause problems with the three of us by proving all of those stupid rumors true if anyone ever found out?
There isn’t enough time before class to talk to him about it and I can’t meet his eyes. “Later, Yeats.”
The first bell rings and I’m almost relieved to rush off to English and slide into my seat.
Ben Evans, our catcher, sits next to me. He sticks his hand out for me to slap.
“Ready for the inaugural hour of lunch and laps?” he asks.
Crap. I knew I’d forgotten something. “Yeah, can’t wait,” I groan.
Coach Byrne’s optional pre-season lunch-time practice isn’t really optional and it doesn’t involve lunch. It’s all conditioning and strategy. I love the strategy parts. But I’d rather be out on the field throwing a ball around than running laps around a track.
“It’ll all be worth it when we make it to the playoffs this year. And it’s all on you, bro.” Ben’s optimism is catching. We came really close to taking it all last year. If I can keep my batting average up, he’s probably
right that we’re on target to win it this year.
“No, no, there’s no ‘I’ in team,” I laugh, quoting one of the old posters that hang in the locker room. I’m not sure I agree with it, though. I mean, sure, it’s all about sacrificing for the team, but you have to really want it for yourself too or you’ll just sleepwalk through the games.
“Yeah,” Ben replies. “But you’re our secret weapon.”
I try not to smile, but do anyhow. Baseball is one area of my life where I don’t mind the pressure. It’s almost like I become someone else once I step on the field, someone confident and brave.
I know I should say something self-deprecating, but I’m saved by the loudspeaker announcing that the lunchroom will be serving burgers today and there will be an assembly for juniors on how to study for the SATs during third period tomorrow.
As the voice drones on, I pull out a piece of paper.
I have this list. On the left side of the page sits all of the reasons why I should try to attract the attention of a pro scout. On the right side are all of the reasons why I should go to college. I’ve been working on the list, or ones just like it, on and off for almost three years now. I’m no closer to an answer and it’s gotten to the point where the constant back and forth is just frustrating.
Everyone thinks I should do something different. Coach says to try to go pro, that I can always go to school later. My mom demands I go to college and insists that sports are a hobby not a career. Spencer says to do what makes me happy. Lizzie … I don’t know what Lizzie would say. It isn’t the kind of thing I’d talk to her about.
I feel like, at sixteen, I should know what I really want out of life. It’s just that none of what I want seems to be stuff I can get just by deciding to have it. I mean, I want to play ball. I want to be someplace with Spencer and Lizzie. And I want to get to know Ally.
Speaking of which …
I flip the paper over and there’s another list.
This one is filled with buzzwords. Just in case anyone finds it, I don’t want them to know what it is.
It’s filled with stupid stuff. Stuff I know about Ally.
I know she can juggle. I know she has one of those big, drooling, Saint Bernard dogs that’s almost bigger than she is. And I know, from sitting behind her at assembly last year, that her hair smells like vanilla cookies. That smell doesn’t make me hungry, though; it makes me feel a lot of other things that make it difficult for me to eat cookies in public.
The whole thing probably sounds kind of stalkery. But it isn’t like that. I mean, I don’t follow her or sit in the tree outside her house or anything. I’m not a pervert, just a chickenshit.
I should have talked to her right after she transferred to Maple Grove, but I didn’t. After that it was too late to do it without some sort of explanation. Now, over a year later, I’m too embarrassed to even attempt to explain all the times she’s caught me staring at her. So the only conversations I have with her are in my head.
Maybe this will be the year I change that. Who knows? Maybe I can use the same visualization techniques Coach has us use for baseball. In those, I picture myself in the field, scooping up the ball and making perfect throws every time. And usually, on the field, that’s just what I do.
So now I try to picture myself going up and talking to Ally. I say something witty and memorable, and she smiles at me. I ask her to go out with me and she says there’s nothing she’d like better.
“Mr. Ryan?”
Mr. Brooks is standing over me with his arms crossed, looking down at the list I’m trying to bury under my copy of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.” There’s a wave of laughter behind me. I get the feeling he’s called my name a few times.
“Sorry,” I say and duck my head down. It’s a good bet my face is at least seven shades of red. I’m glad it’s Brooks, though, because I know at least one teacher who would have made me read the list out loud to the class.
“Don’t be,” Mr. Brooks chuckles. “You just volunteered to be our first reader today. Page twenty-two please.”
Three
Maple Grove is split into two towns. The creatively named Main Street divides the kids on the West, who have cars and nice clothes and end up as school president, from those on the East, who bike for miles, shop at Goodwill, and take care of their younger siblings while their parents work second jobs.
The coolest thing on the East side is the monastery, while the West side is dominated by the equally creatively named Maple Grove High School, home of the Mighty Mustangs. The school was the recipient of an influx of money when it was built in the 1950s, complete with bomb shelter, Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a theater to rival any in downtown Detroit. The ’60s brought in a planetarium and the ’70s a radio station. Then everyone moved out of town and it pretty much went to hell.
Okay, not totally. Enrollment might be a third of what the school can hold, but elementary school kids are still brought to the planetarium on field trips, the radio station has been converted for cable broadcasting, and we still have a kick-ass drama department. And for the three years Spencer, Lizzie, and I have been at Maple Grove, the shining star of that department has been Spencer Yeats.
Tonight we’re celebrating not only Spencer’s opening night of a showcase called “Songs in the Grove,” but also Lizzie’s birthday. I’m not sure who first came up with the idea, but somewhere along the line we agreed that the only way to celebrate both events is by breaking and entering, or, in this case, by staying in the school overnight.
But first, Spencer has to get through his show. And Lizzie and I have a surprise for him.
We sit in the center of the front row of the school auditorium and wait, and wait, and wait until the song begins. It’s the one Spencer performs alone on a dark stage with just a spotlight shining down on him.
Even though Spencer can be one of the funniest people I know, the solo he’s been given is serious, sad, and introspective. And because there’s no one else onstage when he’s singing, it seems to be the perfect opportunity for us to … assist him. Lizzie made a bunch of decorated cue cards with new lyrics on them. I tried to keep her from making them too pornographic, but only succeeded to a point. Honestly, I think they’re freaking hilarious.
The stage clears and Spencer walks out dressed in black pants and jacket over a white shirt. If I dressed like that I’d look like a waiter, but somehow Spencer makes it looks pretty cool.
The music kicks in and we let him get through the first verse. For a second I hesitate. He’s so good I don’t really want to risk throwing him off. Honestly, Spencer Yeats is the best singer I’ve ever heard that I didn’t have to pay to see and probably better than most of the ones I have paid to see.
But nothing makes Lizzie falter. She holds up the first card and it takes a minute for him to see it. The corners of his mouth lift. Then he goes on singing about regret and lost love, choices and consequences.
She holds up the next card, which suggests that the guy Spencer is singing about and his mother are having a very un-mother/son relationship. Spencer wanders to the other side of the stage, but when he turns to come back, I can tell he’s fighting with himself to keep from cracking up. He’s been doing the performance thing for a long time, though, and knows all the tricks. When he closes his eyes, he’s back in character.
Finally the song ends and Lizzie runs out of cards. Spencer gives me a smile and a relieved wink and the stage fills again with the rest of the ensemble. My shoulders relax when I realize we didn’t get caught, and that Lizzie doesn’t seem to have anything else planned, and I can sit back to enjoy the rest of the show.
After the curtain call, Lizzie and I head backstage. “It’s your fan club,” Laura, one of the other singers, calls out. Everyone else is rushing around, changing clothes, scraping off stage makeup.
I always hate coming backstage. It’s like seeing how a magician does
his tricks. But there’s no way we’re going to pull off our whole plan to spend the night in the school unless we’re back here, so I have no choice except to play along.
Spencer is still in costume when he lifts Lizzie off the floor and spins her around. Her skirt swirls around both of them like a cloud of dust. I watch, looking for something I’m not sure I’d recognize. Some sign that things have changed, I guess. Some sign that their one night stand, or whatever you want to call it, has irrevocably altered our years of friendship. It doesn’t matter how hard I look, though; I can’t see anything apart from the close connection they’ve always had. That we’ve always had.
“You’re such a little delinquent,” Spencer says with a huge smile on his face. “I thought I was going to lose it.” Lizzie laughs in that way only he can make her when he puts her down and slings an arm around my neck.
“Nice, Cal.” He ruffles my hair in the same annoying way my mom does and I lean around him to look in the mirror and make sure it isn’t sticking up all over.
Then he whispers in an ominous voice, “By the way, when is opening day again?”
My stomach clenches. “Sometime in 2050.” I wince. I might have had fun tonight, but at some point he’s going to get me back and my teammates aren’t known for having the same sense of humor as Spencer’s drama friends. I just hope whatever he dreams up—a plan that no doubt Lizzie will be more than happy to participate in—doesn’t take place during a game.
Spencer laughs as he changes into jeans and a T-shirt that says I Can’t. I Have Rehearsal. As usual, modesty isn’t a theatrical trait because kids, boys and girls both, in various states of undress seem to be rushing around everywhere. I try to keep my eyes forward to avoid looking at Laura’s bare back or at Ally as she slowly corrals her long sun-streaked hair into a ponytail.
I don’t really succeed at minding my own business and I’m not sure I want to. Standing here, so close to Ally, makes me feel like someone has sucked all of the air out of the room. I’m sure I’d be standing in a puddle of Cal-drool if it weren’t for Lizzie urging me, under her breath, to go talk to Ally, to ask her out, to do things whose mere suggestion is making me blush.
What Remains Page 2