by MC Lee
There was no point reminding him that several months ago Jamie had stopped running around looking like anything at all. That the last time he was home he’d been lying in the second-cheapest coffin from Pine and Sons the undertaker, in a closed casket because there wasn’t enough left of him for decency.
I muttered something conciliatory and held my breath, silently relieved when he gave a curt nod.
“Roses. Did you get that?”
“Roses. Got it. Why don’t you go in and watch some TV. I’ll finish up here.”
He held my gaze for a few seconds longer, and then he looked at the pen in his hand, his face suddenly flushed.
“You think Jamie will make it home in time for the funeral?”
The lie came with practiced ease. “Definitely.”
I watched him shuffle toward the door and knew by the time he sat down in front of the TV he’d have forgotten it all. I tore up the piece of paper and threw it into the garbage. It no longer twisted my gut to work through this routine with him, though at the beginning it had badly freaked me out. Somehow he’d mixed up Jamie’s death and Mom leaving, and sometimes I came home to find him planning Mom’s funeral. Which was ironic, because he’d never lifted a finger when it came to planning Jamie’s. He’d left all of that up to me and Mom and had simply sat in his armchair, almost catatonic, staring emptily into space. If he’d cried over Jamie’s death, I never saw it, just as I never saw him display any emotion but silent fury when Mom walked out.
Anyway, she’d hated roses. Just one more thing he never knew about her.
By the time we sat down to eat the lasagna Mrs. Sweeney had left us, he had drifted off again, all thoughts of funerals far behind him. I was glad he could forget and happy I no longer had a meltdown whenever this particularly strange delusion took hold.
Later, I sat beside him while he watched an old war film and tried not to imagine what it would be like to sit this close to Noah Davis.
Chapter Seven
MY DAD never really liked me. Even before our world came crashing down, we’d had a hard time connecting. I think, somewhere deep inside, he sensed I was different in a way he couldn’t handle.
As far as I knew, I’d never done anything to show him who I really was, so it must have been his subconscious that developed a hate on for me. Or else I didn’t do as good a job as I’d thought at hiding my true self. Whatever it was—and at this stage, who really cared—he’d always treated me with a kind of detached contempt.
To make up for his total lack of caring, my mom overdid it, always going out of her way to make sure I knew she loved me. Right up until the day she walked out and left me alone with him.
Not that any of that mattered now.
Today Dad was as docile as a lamb, and it was an easy job to get him organized for the day. I left some of the cold lasagna on a plate in the kitchen and put an opened can of Coke on the table beside it. It would be warm and flat by the time he came to drink it, but sometimes he forgot to go to the fridge and get himself a drink, and when that happened, he ended up thirsty and cranky and probably dehydrated.
I avoided Noah in the parking lot, hanging back until he left, worried that he’d offer to give me a ride to school again—more worried that he wouldn’t. He walked into first period followed by his usual groupies, but he ditched them all and plunked himself down in the empty seat beside me.
Despite being secretly thrilled, I scowled at him, but he ignored the look and just smiled.
Halfway through the math class, Mr. Adams quieted things down and held up a handful of papers. I knew what was coming next and felt my stomach roll over.
“Your tests, people. I don’t think I need to tell you I’m not impressed.”
I groaned inwardly. I was failing math, and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do to stem the slow slide into mediocrity. Sure enough, when Mr. Adams stopped by my desk he was frowning. I winced when I saw the F circled in red on the top of the sheet.
“I know you’re better than this, Emmett,” he said sternly. “You’re barely scraping a pass in your other subjects. You can’t afford to fail this class.”
I could feel my face burn with humiliation. I’d been okay at math, once upon a time. Not great, but okay. I’d had to work damned hard to keep my head above water, though somehow I’d managed. But in the past few months, there had been so much dragging at me, I just didn’t have the time to devote to a subject that required real concentration and effort.
“Why don’t you stay behind after school a couple of days a week?” Mr. Adams offered. “We could catch you up in no time—”
“No!” I swallowed thickly and tried to ignore his surprised expression. “I can’t stay behind,” I mumbled. “Home stuff.”
“Well, what are we going to do?” His voice was a shade sharper than before. I could tell he was pissed off and trying not to show it.
I ducked my head to avoid his irritated look. Beside me, Noah cleared his throat.
“I could help,” he said softly. “I’m pretty good at math. I could tutor Emmett at lunchtime.”
I turned to fix him with a stare. He met my look steadily and shrugged.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Mr. Adams said brightly. “That’s very kind of you, Noah.”
“We could start today if you want,” Noah offered. “Lunchroom at noon?”
“Yeah, whatever,” I muttered and winced at my own grudging tone.
He looked momentarily startled by my surliness, which he quickly masked with a strained smile. But better he thought I was a rude jerk than know I was fighting a losing battle with my growing crush.
WHEN LUNCHTIME finally rolled around, after what felt like hours, Noah was waiting for me at a table way in back of the cafeteria. I joined him, feeling self-conscious when some of the kids turned their heads to watch us. I was too embarrassed to pull out my lunch bag. I’d left the last of the lasagna for Dad, and all we’d had in the fridge was a shriveled apple and a piece of cheese I’d had to slice the mold off. Going hungry wasn’t exactly unknown territory, so I left the whole mess in my backpack, afraid of being judged.
Noah had a heaping tray of food in front of him, and after a minute of watching me make no move to produce my own lunch, he pushed it across the table and said, “Eat up, dude.”
My spine stiffened, and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I don’t need a fucking handout,” I said coldly.
Noah raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t back down, and he didn’t get apologetic.
“Don’t be an idiot, Emmett,” he said mildly. “I have a shitload of food. You don’t. It’s that simple. Don’t make a thing of it.”
While I sat with my mouth hanging open like the idiot he’d accused me of being, Noah grabbed a sandwich and started to eat. His eyes never left my face, so he probably saw the moment that pragmatism and an empty stomach won out over pride, and I decided to take what he was offering.
As my hand closed around the other half of the sandwich, Noah inclined his head.
“Since you ask, what I heard is that you’re an amazing football player, a really good friend, a fucking dick, and an all-around weirdo. What I heard is that you lost your brother and then got lost yourself.” He paused for a second, weighing me up with a look, and then added, “What I heard is that I’d be wasting my time hanging out with you.”
I had to take a deep breath to stop myself launching across the table and grabbing him by the throat. I knew exactly who had said each of the things he’d heard, good and bad, because they’d said them to my face more than once. And though I couldn’t argue with a single one of them, they still hurt. All of them.
I chewed the sandwich mechanically, even though it suddenly tasted like sawdust. “So why are you wasting your time?” I snarled.
Noah continued eating, all the time watching me closely. He swallowed and shrugged. “Because I think you’re worth taking a chance on.” His face was suddenly transformed by a sly
smile. “Even though you are a total fucktard.”
I choked on a mouthful of food and watched as a grin spread across his face.
“You okay?” he asked sweetly.
“Shut up and eat,” I grumbled.
I cleared off half the food on the tray, determined to enjoy every bite. When he’d finished eating, Noah reached across the table for my math homework, the bright red F making me squirm all over again. He read through the work and then made a weird clicking sound with his tongue.
“I think I’ve found the problem.” I looked down as he pointed to a row of numbers. “See what you did?”
His pencil tapped against the page, and I turned the sheet of paper around to see what he was talking about. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I’d transposed two numbers in the first equation.
“It throws the rest of your calculation off,” Noah said. “You’ve pretty much made the same error with all the questions. You want to fix it up?”
I took the pencil out of his hand and bent my head. When I scanned the rest of the homework, I saw how I’d repeated the same mistake over and again, the result of rushing through the work mindlessly. I began to make changes, erasing and replacing numbers, and seeing immediately the lazy pattern I’d fallen into.
“I owe you man,” I muttered, amazed at how quickly everything fell into place now that Noah had identified the underlying problem.
“So, you’ll come to the movies with me next time I ask?”
I raised my head, heat flooding my face at the totally artless look he was giving me. I decided it was time to come clean. It would save him from embarrassing himself. I figured I owed him that much, at least.
“I’m gay.”
I forced myself to hold his gaze and braced for the moment of confusion, chased by a fleeting look of horror quickly masked, and then the inevitable backpedaling and hasty retreat. What I got instead was a single word.
“Duh!”
It was startling for about half a second—until I figured it out. Of course he knew. Some dipshit on the football team had probably already warned him. Or maybe Cal had mentioned it. Or he’d read it on the bathroom wall.
“So you probably just remembered you’ve got “a thing” and you have to run,” I said sarcastically.
A frown creased his forehead and then suddenly cleared. “You’re a lot dumber than you look,” he said. “I’m asking you on a date. That wasn’t clear?”
“You’re gay?” I sputtered.
“Duh,” he repeated.
I glanced around the cafeteria in confusion. “Does anybody else know?”
As far as I could see, Noah was still Mr. Popularity. I couldn’t believe it would stay that way if people knew.
“I didn’t take out a billboard or put it in the school newspaper, if that’s what you’re asking,” Noah said dryly. “But, I don’t give a crap who knows.”
“The football team? That asshole, Foster?”
Noah shrugged. “They haven’t said anything.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “They gave me endless shit over it.”
Noah inclined his head. “You sure it’s because you’re gay? I got the impression it’s because they think you’re a screwed-up whack job who’s done everything he can to push people away. You make them uncomfortable, Emmett. They don’t know how to behave around you.”
I gaped at him, my mouth opening and closing without forming any words. I wondered if he was right. Apart from not wanting to get too close in the locker room and keeping the smutty talk about their girlfriends to a minimum when I was around, they hadn’t really given me grief. There was every chance I’d labeled their rejection as homophobia so I didn’t have to own up to how weird and hostile I’d become.
“So, about that date?” Noah said.
“Why me?” I asked, unable to shake my suspicions.
“Because you’re the only other gay kid my age at Whitmore High,” Noah said. He grinned when I scowled at him. “You don’t have a mirror at your house?” he said softly. “Don’t tell me you don’t know you’re hot. And you’re a good guy too. I can always tell.”
He ignored my snort of disbelief. I hadn’t considered myself a good guy for a long time. I wanted this so badly, I could practically taste it. But I was still surprised to hear myself say, “How about tomorrow night?”
His grin stretched even wider. “It’s a date. You want me to pick you up at your place?”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said quickly. “Why don’t you choose a movie and tell me what time?”
“Let’s swap numbers.” He pulled out his phone and his fingers flew over the screen before he handed it to me. It was the latest model, of course. I tried not to blush when I pulled out my old flip phone, but Noah just smiled.
“The retro vibe. Cool.”
I didn’t know whether he actually believed it or whether he was just being kind. Either way, I was grateful. We entered our details into each other’s phones, and for the first time in months, I felt a spark of genuine joy.
THE HAPPINESS lasted all of half a day before reality bit me in the ass.
When I got home, Dad was having a good day for him. Which meant a crappy day for the rest of the world.
The minute I walked into the house, he started. “Where have you been?”
“At school, Dad.”
“You’re supposed to come straight back home. I’ve told you before about hanging out with all those pansy friends of yours.”
I felt the blood rush to my face and my gut spasm in fear. There was no point arguing with him. There had never been any point, although there had been a time when I’d given it a go, even though it meant a fresh bruise or Jamie having to literally come between us.
“What do you want for dinner, Dad?” I tried.
His expression turned thunderous.
“Where’s your mother? She’s the one should be putting dinner on the table.” His lip curled in disdain. “I swear you act more like a faggot every day.”
I stilled, sucking in a harsh breath. My stomach suddenly felt as though it was lined with lead. In all his ranting and ravings, I’d never heard this before. I thought back to everything I’d read about dementia, frantically trying to remember if the books had warned me about this. They had advised that he would start to exhibit a lack of empathy, but since he’d never shown that in the first place, I hadn’t noticed any difference. Had they also taken me by the hand and gently led me to this place, warning that one day he was going to say some deeply hateful and hurtful things? I had some vague recollection of something like that. But were they supposed to be horrible thoughts created by a disturbed mind and spirit, or were they the deep-seated truths he’d kept buried, freed now that the disease had lowered his ability to hide?
“Mom’s not here. She… stepped out.”
“Well, get the hell out there and find her,” he roared. He pounded his fist against the kitchen table, making the saltcellar jump up and tip over, spilling its contents all over the chipped Formica surface. I watched as the fine white crystals drifted off the edge to pool on the greasy linoleum floor. I couldn’t remember what to do to ward off bad luck, but I guess it was too late for that anyway.
“Clean up this mess,” Dad growled. He reached down absently and threw a pinch of salt over his left shoulder. “Things are gonna change around here. Mark my words.”
I’d never known what that meant—not when he was supposedly sane, not now he was mostly irrational. He’d said it a dozen times on a dozen different occasions. Things are gonna change around here. But things never did. His job at the meatpacking plant never came back after it disappeared along with every decent blue-collar job in Whitmore; his son never walked back through the door to the triumphant sound of “Stars and Stripes Forever”; his wife never forgave him for being… him. And I never stopped being the faggot son he couldn’t look in the eye.
Although at least until now I’d been able to pretend he didn’t see me for what I really was
.
Chapter Eight
AS IF to reward me for the pain of having my eyes forcibly ripped wide-open, the universe did me a favor the next day.
Dad was serene in the morning, yesterday’s outburst just so much foul-tempered water under the bridge. He behaved when I got him ready for the day, he was dry and happy when I got home from school, and he was downright pleasant to Mrs. Sweeney when she came over to sit with him after dinner. I wasn’t necessarily fooled, but I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“I’ve written my cell phone number on the whiteboard in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Sweeney arched a single eloquent eyebrow and restrained herself from pointing out that she knew how to take care of Dad almost as well as I did.
“Thanks, Mrs. S. You’re an angel.”
“Go have a good time,” she said. “Here!” She took my hand and pried open my fingers, pressing a folded ten-dollar bill into my palm.
I snatched back my hand as though I’d been scorched. “Mrs. Sweeney! I can’t take your money.”
She grabbed hold of me again and closed my fingers around the note. “Go on with you,” she muttered, her Irish brogue always more noticeable when she was agitated. “Take it. Enjoy yourself for once.” She reached up and patted my cheek. “You deserve it.”
I didn’t know about that—but I pocketed her money, grateful beyond words. I’d been so head-over-heels happy about the prospect of going out with Noah, I hadn’t stopped to work out how I was going to pay my way. The battered biscuit tin in the shape of the Eiffel Tower that I kept all our money in was almost empty. The three crumpled dollar bills that made up my emergency fund was all we had until Mom’s next envelope arrived. Even though Noah had decided to go to the Roxy, where tickets only cost five bucks, without Mrs. Sweeney, I wouldn’t even have been able to afford that.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” I said fervently.
Mrs. Sweeney drew herself up to her full five feet four inches. “I’ll have no more talk of paying back,” she sniffed. “I’m not a loan shark.”