by Karole Cozzo
His right palm lands on the space above his heart. He taps it, twice. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Seriously, Jordyn.”
He looks at me, I look at him.
I taste desire.
I only ever allow myself to see my friend Alex anymore, but in this moment, he’s gone. I stare at the boy who stole my heart last summer and he’s looking right back at me. My heart seizes up, because I’ve really, really missed him.
I thought he was gone forever, but maybe . . .
I hear his sharp intake of breath. I remember it instantly, remember how I heard it in the darkness right before he kissed me. He quickly licks his lips.
But this time he does not close the distance between us. Instead, he steps back, creating distance all over again. He clenches his fists at his sides as I watch a frustrated sadness consume his expression. Alex looks past me, gazing through the small window. The sun is setting and the light in the small room is fading fast. I’m left feeling particularly chilled.
Alex takes off his hat, runs his hand back and forth over his matted hair, and coughs. “It’s getting dark,” he mumbles. “They don’t have the lights up and running yet, so I should really go pack up the truck.”
I nod, bending over to begin picking up the materials I’ve left strewn about, finding it impossible to look at him. It will hurt, because I know the person I just saw a glimpse of has disappeared anew.
Exhausted, I slowly gather decal backings, rinse brushes, and stash the rollers and empty cans into large orange buckets. I drag them outside, stumbling through the darkness toward Alex, who is packing tools and supplies into the back of his uncle’s pickup truck.
Outside, I can breathe again. I plaster a smile on my face and slip back into my role: Jordyn Michaelson, Supportive Friend. Nothing More.
“You must be beat,” I say brightly. “Gonna go home and crash?”
But he doesn’t look at me and his voice is still constricted. “For a while. Then I have to go out with Leighton.”
Have to?
It’s an interesting choice of words, so I wait for him to continue.
He exhales a sigh of frustration through his nose and slams the panel on the back of the truck bed. He turns and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest, and glowers into the darkness.
“Summer was fun, when we had some space and it was just this new thing, but being back at school . . .” He shakes his head and lets a thin wisp of air escape between his lips. “Sometimes it’s like I’m just here for decoration,” he muses gloomily. He glances at me, just for a second, before looking into the distance again. “She somehow managed to make today about her, didn’t she? Or at least . . . she managed to make today the way she thought it should go. It’s always like everything is hers.”
I would love to agree with him because what he’s said is so very true. But it wouldn’t be very Supportive Friend of me to do so.
I shake my head mildly. “Well. I’m sure she didn’t have bad intentions, at any rate.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He puffs up his cheeks and exhales mightily. “But I don’t know. . . .”
He fumbles for his keys in his pocket and starts to turn away, like he’s getting ready to leave. But before he even takes a single step, he turns back, face resolute, eyes determined. “No. I do know, actually.” He pauses for only a second before spitting it out. “I’m not in love with her. I do know that.”
I am stunned into silence, because it’s an admission I’ve never expected to hear. I look back at him, at a loss, trying to remind myself that nothing he’s just said really has anything to do with me, anyway.
Then Alex obliterates my ability to separate myself from it.
“I’m not in love with her . . . ,” he repeats, pulling a tissue from his jeans pocket and running it over my left cheek. When he pulls it away, I see a streak of orange paint. He crumbles the tissue in his fist with unnecessary force. “. . . and sometimes being reminded of that really freakin’ sucks.”
My breath catches in my throat at the harshness in his words, the repressed emotion underlying them. My heart picks up, pounding loud and insistent against my chest. I look up at him, thankful for the cloak of darkness that gives me half a chance of standing this ground.
Alex stares right back at me. “Listen, Jordyn . . . ,” he begins.
He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else.
Dan, Mitch, and Jason appear over the crest of the small hill to our left. They are sweaty and laughing, and Mitch has a basketball cradled in the crook of his right arm. They must’ve squeezed in a quick game on the courts after calling it quits on the playground.
Alex had been reaching toward me. His hand still hovers awkwardly near mine.
They must all notice. Jason, who is dating Dana, Leighton’s best friend, surely must notice.
I step away from Alex and turn toward them. I force myself to wave heartily and adopt my cheeriest voice. “Have a good night, guys!” I call loudly. I turn back toward Alex, voice still loud and artificial. “You, too, Alex!”
I jog toward my car, not bothering to wait for a response from him, trying to erase from my memory the disappointed look I’ve left on his face in my wake.
Chapter Nine
There are twenty-four days left after today in my countdown to when everything starts to unravel. I guess I’m thankful I’m not there when the pivotal thread is first tugged.
I leave school early for a dentist’s appointment. The chaotic office is running on time for once, and I get back home a half hour earlier than I’d expected to when I told Coach Marks I’d be missing practice.
The lazy thing to do, the thing I want to do, is stay at home and relish an unexpected afternoon off. Not for the sake of being productive and getting my homework done or anything. I have visions of sour cream and onion Pringles and watching Awkward reruns on MTV2 before Phillip shows up and reclaims the television.
I open the front door and sigh as I stare at my gym bag hanging in the mudroom. Forget the chips and bad TV. The right thing to do is get changed as quickly as possible and head back to school in time for practice. If I hurry, I’ll only miss opening stretches. We do have a game tomorrow.
But before I can dash upstairs, my attention is drawn into the kitchen. I walk toward the back of the house, hovering behind the doorframe, eavesdropping on my mom’s phone conversation.
Her back is to me and her shoulders are hunched, but I can tell she’s tiredly rubbing her forehead. It’s obvious she’s upset, but her voice is defeated, unsurprised. “Right, right . . . mmm-hmm . . . I understand.”
She shoves carelessly at the tendrils that have escaped her low ponytail. “And no other ideas as to what led to this? It was just the iPad situation that stood out today?”
Hidden in the doorway, I stiffen. It isn’t hard to guess what, or who, had caused her insta-migraine.
My mom listens for another minute, her hand still on her forehead. She clears her throat. “As always, I’m so terribly sorry. I’m sorry this isn’t easier for all of you there.”
My fingers tighten around the doorframe and I roll my eyes. We hadn’t decided to send Phillip back to school—what is she apologizing for?
“And as I’m sure Mrs. Akers and Anne saw in his daily log today, his medication was tweaked last week, but we started the dosage adjustment over the weekend so that we could keep an eye on him. We didn’t notice anything different on Saturday or Sunday, so I’m not sure if that could’ve had something to do with his heightened agitation or not.” She braces herself on the island and shakes her head back and forth. “Anyway. Where is he now?”
Another moment passes and then she is nodding her head again. “No, certainly, I understand. That’s okay. I can come pick him up.” She grabs the car keys off the hook near the phone receiver. “I’m walking out the door as we speak.”
My mom hangs up the phone without bothering to say goodbye. I don’t anticipate how quickly she moves, grabbing her down vest and purse and spinni
ng in my direction within seconds. She is distracted and nearly crashes into me. A muffled gasp escapes her, and her hand flies to her chest. “Jordyn. Lord. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
She forces a smile, but her eyes are all over the place and I can tell she’s not going to listen to my response before she even asks the question. “You’re home early, so I assume no cavities?”
I ignore the question, and ask one of her instead. “What now?”
I’m sure I don’t want to know, but all things considered, I’d rather hear the story from her than the kids at school.
She struggles to meet my eye, twirling her keys with a shaking hand. I see her throat bobbing as she considers what to share, or how to share it. She comes up with six silly words. “His iPad ran out of power.”
There is a sardonic edge to her explanation, which I’m not used to. But even she gets frustrated sometimes.
“His iPad ran out of power, right in the middle of reward time, when he’d just reached a new level in his game. He went ballistic.” She shakes her head and sighs. “You just never know with the med adjustments if the increases are actually going to help, like they’re supposed to, or end up making things worse.”
I steel myself. “Define ballistic.”
“He threw the iPad, and then he eloped.”
Eloped.
I’ve always hated this clinical term, one of the silliest of the bunch, which conjures surprise getaways to Vegas and weddings with Elvis. What it actually means, the way my mom uses it, is that Phillip tried to run away.
“He went out the side of the building, right by Route Thirty.”
Her eyes look stricken and her throat tightens again as she relays this information. A main route into Philadelphia, Route 30 is a busy two-lane highway with perpetual volume.
“Three staff members took off right after him and got him under control, but you know how fast your brother can run when he’s trying to escape.”
She covers her eyes with both hands, imagining the worst, the unthinkable. When Phillip’s running, Phillip’s not paying attention to anything other than getting away. If he’d made it all the way to the road . . .
A moment later she brushes the hair out of her face and raises her chin. She takes a deep breath. Then another. “No sense in thinking about what could have happened, right? He’s safe now. That’s what’s important.”
I don’t want to think about what could have happened, either. It’s awful and I shut it out of my mind as quickly as possible after a quick, silent prayer of thanks for his safety.
“You’re going to pick him up?” I ask instead.
She nods. “They felt he was still too agitated to safely ride the bus. This all happened only about twenty minutes ago.” She purses her lips and looks at me. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d want to ride along with me? Keep me company?”
I stare at the floor and shake my head no, shoving aside my feelings of guilt. Just minutes ago, I’d had the best intentions about going to practice. Now? After my mom’s report? No way in hell I’m stepping foot back on campus today.
More gossip. I can count on it.
I close my eyes and say a second silent prayer in thanks that I missed the latest Phillip debacle at Valley Forge High School.
My mom doesn’t press the issue. She shifts her purse strap on her shoulder, and wearily steps forward. “Alright. We’ll be back soon.”
She stops by the door, hand on the knob, calling over her shoulder to me. “I’ve gotten all of his applications submitted, and put in all the requests to have his records sent. We have two intake appointments at different schools set up next week, so he won’t be in school next Tuesday.”
“Do you think one of them will take him?” I ask.
My mom looks back at me, her eyes still haunted. As hard as she’s trying not to, I can tell she’s picturing the busy road again. “I hope so.”
Practice forgotten, I’m into the sour cream and onion Pringles before her wheels have even left the driveway.
I hope the timing of Phillip’s elopement left ample opportunity for kids to stand around at their lockers and make “OMG” comments about what they might have witnessed. I hope there was plenty of time in the locker rooms for the football players to rehash the latest bout of “crazy,” and for my teammates to do the same before practice.
The next morning, I’m trying not to worry about Phillip, or more truthfully, trying not to worry about conversations about Phillip. We have an away game against Lower Merion, and per our usual routine the team is meeting for breakfast at the diner down the road to “fuel up”—Leighton’s term—for the day.
It means getting up forty-five minutes earlier than usual, but I typically really like team breakfasts. Erin and I always drive to the diner together, and by the time we leave to head toward school, we’re hopped up on team enthusiasm, coffee with lots of sugar and milk, and the lollipops we buy at the counter when we pay our bills. We crank the radio way up as we drive, and I’m always in a great mood by homeroom.
I don’t want to think about anyone’s stupid comments ruining the tradition.
Erin and I enter the diner as mirror images, both already in uniform, wearing plaid kilts, our matching hoodies, and colored ribbons in our ponytails. It’s an added bonus of game day, not having to plan an outfit the night before, knowing we’ll be wearing the right thing without even trying.
Leighton has secured the long table in the middle of the main dining room. She is seated at the middle of it, drinking orange juice instead of coffee, with Dana seated to her left. She greets Erin brightly and compliments her new sneakers, but offers me little more than a half smile. I swear she stares at me a second too long as I find a seat down the table.
Instantly, I’m on edge, fearing the worst, that her lukewarm greeting is very purposeful and has something to do with what the guys reported from the playground. I mean, if Jason said anything to Dana, she inevitably reported it back to Leighton.
Then I tell myself to relax. If Leighton heard anything, if Leighton suspected anything, I’m sure I’d get worse than a weak smile.
I sit down, scoot closer to the table, and order coffee from the waitress. But the playground incident is back in the forefront of my mind, even though I’ve shoved it out of there countless times already.
I sigh and stare darkly into the oily surface of my coffee when it is set before me. The idea of Alex not loving Leighton doesn’t make me feel particularly satisfied. It doesn’t mean anything for me, and it doesn’t change anything about our situation. Maybe he was just confiding in me as the friend he believes me to be. Maybe he just needed someone trustworthy to unload on.
I draw in a breath as I remember the way he looked at me in the bathroom, and I feel my cheeks flush.
Alex wasn’t just unloading. I know it in my gut. I’ve been ignoring the realization all weekend because I have no idea what to do with it, but I know it all the same.
Through my distracted haze, I order my usual—sesame bagel with cream cheese and a side order of sausage, for protein. Our order arrives within minutes, but I’m still trying to process my feelings about the Alex situation, chewing thoughtfully on my bagel as I stare into space, quiet and checked out.
The chatter around me is loud and vibrant, but even with these factors at play, I hear the words loud and clear through the racket. I don’t catch who says them, but I pick up on them right away.
“So I heard the cray-cray kid was at it again yesterday. Does anyone even know his name?”
Before the subject of Phillip is introduced, there are six different conversations taking place. All of a sudden, there is only one topic on the table.
Not that anyone is able to answer the question about Phillip’s name, which is sad in and of itself. He doesn’t even get a name, just an awful nickname, “the cray-cray kid.”
Leighton polishes off her orange juice and slams the glass down on the table. “Yeah, it’s getting totally ridiculous,” she says
. “I’m a senior. I’m sending in my college applications soon. Grades count now. I’m sitting there, trying to finish my calculus test yesterday, look out the window, and see this nonsense. Straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, that god-awful old movie we had to watch for psych/soc. People chasing this kid, whoever he is, back and forth across the side green, and he’s laughing and grinning like it’s some kind of game, before he drops to the floor with his legs in the air, like a bug.” She pauses for shock value. “And that was all before he took off his shoes and pants.”
My cheeks blaze and I wish I could disappear.
My mom hadn’t mentioned the disrobing, another stupid clinical term. My instinct told me that Leighton wasn’t lying, and that my mother had chosen to spare me some of the gorier details of Phillip’s display.
I cringe, picturing his SpongeBob boxers from the laundry basket. What are the chances he wasn’t wearing something totally mortifying yesterday? What are the chances I can find any way to perceive this situation as less than totally mortifying?
“These kids just really don’t belong here,” Dana speaks up. “I mean, this is supposed to be the best school district in the state, right? We’re on the cover of Philadelphia magazine every year. But these are the stories that never get talked about. Like how they’re allowing the school to be turned into a loony bin.”
Leighton nods her head in agreement. “Well, I told my parents about it, for one. And I told Alex to make sure his dad knows exactly what’s been happening, too. He’s on the school board—he has to be able to do something.”
Again, I swear I feel her gaze shift in my direction.
For just one second, I wish I had the balls to look up and meet her head-on.
You don’t need to do anything, I want to tell her. He’ll be out of here before you even know. Just let it go.
There’s something else I’d really like to tell her, too.