What It Takes

by Jude Sierra

  After a sleepover, when he’s tired from staying up late with Milo and Teddy telling ghost stories and playing the newest Zeus and Co. video game, Andrew finally cracks. He’s been holding on to it forever. It’s been two whole weeks; he’s too tired to ignore how exhausted Milo has seemed lately, and he just wants to help.

  “Mom,” he starts, sitting at the breakfast bar and rolling an apple back and forth from hand to hand, not looking at her. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Confessions?” She smiles. “Let me guess, you guys ate all the candy last night?”

  “No.” He looks up. Her blonde hair is extra light in the sun, and the knowing smile she gives him makes him feel safe. “I mean, yes, we ate the candy, but that’s not what I want to tell you.”

  She leans onto her elbows on the kitchen counter. “All right. What other trouble did you boys get into?”

  Andrew takes a deep breath and fiddles with the stem of his apple until it comes off. “Um, well. I—how do I help…?”

  “Help…?” She prompts when he doesn’t say anything. He swallows hard and tries not to think about how mad Milo is going to be.

  “Mom, I think Milo’s dad is um, well. Like, mean.”

  “Okay.” She comes around to sit next to him; her demeanor becomes more serious. She runs a hand through his hair. “Do you mean like he’s strict and yells?”

  Andrew shakes his head. “No like... hits him? Maybe?” For some reason Andrew thinks if he softens the truth Milo maybe won’t be that mad. His mom doesn’t say anything, just clears her throat and looks away.

  “Did he tell you that, honey?”

  Andrew nods, then rethinks it and shrugs. “Well, I saw something, once. Like on his back? But he made me promise not to tell. He said it’s only happened a few times.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She takes another breath, then pulls him into a hug. “You did the right thing, telling me.”

  “He said it will make his dad more mad if people know, and I don’t want to—”

  “I know, honey.” She turns and takes him into her arms. He lets her hug him for longer than usual, and when she runs a hand through his hair he doesn’t want to squirm away at all. And he’d never admit it, not when he’s almost eleven and too old for this, but he loves the way she smells and how soft she is and how it feels to be hugged like this. He’s not sure what she’s going to do, but it feels so much better not to be holding this inside and not knowing how to help his friend.

  °

  Whatever his mom does, Milo is right. It does make things worse. At least that’s the last thing Milo says to him—well, yells.

  “Why would you do that?” Milo’s voice carries, snatched by the wind. Andrew’s been out on the beach for an hour, staring morosely at the water. He’s been going all the way down to Graylock for days, hoping to run into Milo. Andrew knows Milo rarely comes here, despite it being just south of his house and so much closer than Chickopee and even Pine.

  “I didn’t know what to do!” Andrew feels miserable and small. Milo hasn’t talked to him in a few weeks, and until now he didn’t know what happened. All he knows is that after his mom promised to try to take care of it, Milo dropped off the face of the earth. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “It was so dumb. This dumbass lady showed up. She asked some questions and did stuff and then it was over. There’s nothing for them to do because it is nothing!”

  “How can you say that?” Andrew can feel his own voice getting louder. He cannot fathom a world where his parents would ever do something like that to him.

  “Well, it wasn’t anything,” Milo says acidly.

  “Has he done it again? We can tell for sure this time!”

  “No, of course not, asshole.” Milo has never, ever called Andrew a name. His face is all twisted up, and his eyes are scrunched up and angry. “Why would he do that after some fucking person comes to our house asking about abuse and neglect and—” Milo presses his hands to his eyes. But when he looks at Andrew again, he’s not crying. “He’s mad. He’s really mad, and that’s worse. And you won’t ever get that. And you won’t ever know more because I am never, ever trusting you again.”

  “Milo, no, please. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care.” Milo walks back toward the parking lot, and doesn’t turn around. Andrew wants to follow him, but it will only make things worse.

  ° ° °

  MILO DOESN’T speak to Andrew for months after that. And that sucks and Andrew wishes he maybe hadn’t told because it didn’t help Milo anyway. Milo never talked to him that much about anything else that happened with his father, so Andrew doesn’t know how bad things were, or what Milo meant when he said it was worse after he told. He has no way of knowing, now. Constant guilt and fear sit in his stomach, along with the ache of missing his best friend deeply. He still has friends, but no one gets him like Milo.

  It’s the first day of school after Christmas break when Milo finally talks to him again. They’re in the same social studies class and were paired up for a project, so it’s not as if Milo actually wants to. Andrew closed his eyes and groaned when Mrs. Kluzinsky read off their names, unsure if he was happy or mad or if he should get his hopes up. For a while after Milo stopped talking to him, Andrew tried to convince himself it was fine, that he didn’t need Milo and that he didn’t care. But that only lasted so long. Andrew isn’t stubborn enough to hold onto anger for long, and he’s never really been that great at being angry anyway.

  He has Milo come to his house, because there is no way he’ll go to Milo’s, and no way his mom and dad would let him. It’s a flat and uncomfortable conversation, with Milo looking anywhere but at him and shrugging it off as though this is the biggest burden ever. But he still agrees to meet Andrew after school.

  When he gets to Andrew’s house, Milo takes off his shoes and puts them where they go. He’s always been welcome here, but once that’s done he pauses in the entry instead of thundering up to Andrew’s room.

  “Um…” Andrew fiddles with his binder, shoving loose papers back in and crumpling them hopelessly. “We can work at the table. My mom is working there too. Or in my room.”

  Milo’s eyes are a little hard, and he looks angry, but he shrugs. “Your room is fine, whatever.”

  “Want something to drink, or a snack?”

  Milo sighs. “No, I want to get this over with already.”

  Andrew swallows hard and turns without a word to go up the stairs.

  They divide their work quickly, splitting the European countries they have to do their report on, then start shuffling through their books. After a while Andrew opens his laptop to search for information on the geography of Italy. The quiet is unnerving and makes him feel twitchy.

  “You shouldn’t have told,” Milo says suddenly. He doesn’t yell, but Andrew’s never heard someone so angry before.

  “I…” Andrew turns to look at him. “I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want him to hurt you anymore.”

  “Well, I’d tell you if he did, only you can’t keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  Andrews stomach drops. “Is he?”

  “Like I’d ever tell you.” Milo gets up on his knees and squeezes his pencil so hard it breaks. He looks down in surprise, then throws it. “You said you’d keep it a secret. You’re a liar and you suck.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” is all he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Andrew’s throat is tight and scratchy. He is sorry because he knows that telling had consequences Milo is paying for, but also selfishly because he misses Milo so much. Andrew would be mortified to play pretend with other friends the way they used to—it’s way uncool, but Milo never cared about that. None of his other friends try to draw with him or understand the things Andrew likes to do. No one else would think to memorize the constellations Andrew invents, or pretend along with him that they’re maps to navigate by. And he can see how alone Milo has been, because his friends were Andrew’s friends and Milo sto
pped talking to all of them when Andrew told.

  “Whatever, it’s not like anyone believed you anyway,” Milo says.

  “Because you lied!”

  “What was I supposed to do? My dad said I had to and that if I didn’t everything would fall apart and he’d leave us. He was going to leave us with nothing, and then my mom would be all alone. Where would we live?”

  “I…” Andrew swallows. “I didn’t—” He’d never thought of Milo’s mom. He barely knows her actually, only that she’s quiet and reserved and stays home all day, which is weird. His stomach turns when he thinks how he would feel if one of his parents decided to leave.

  “Yeah well, whatever.” Milo begins stuffing his books back into his bag. “I don’t care if we fail this, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

  “But your grade—” Andrew says. Milo’s parents are really strict about doing well in school. And now that he knows more, he has an idea that bad grades mean worse things than yelling in his house. Milo’s shoulders drop. “Milo…” Andrew kicks the carpet lightly. “What if I promise to keep your secrets?”

  “Are you kidding?” Milo’s eyebrows rise so high it’s almost comical, but there’s nothing funny about the disbelief and anger on his face.

  “It didn’t help, did it? I know that now,” Andrew points out. “And we could be friends. You could come here when you need to and not be alone. I know you have been alone. We could do stuff again and have fun.”

  Milo is quiet for a while. “And you’d really promise not to tell this time?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Milo looks down at where his hands still grip his book bag. He finishes putting his stuff away, more carefully this time. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  “Yeah?” Andrew tries not to smile too wide. It’s not a promise, but it gives him hope.

  Milo zips up his bag. “But I have to go. Can we do this tomorrow?”

  “Sure, yeah.” Andrew has his lame piano lessons before dinner, and he reminds Milo, who nods.

  “After school then. If we look at our parts tonight, maybe it’ll go faster.”

  “Okay,” Andrew says. He stands when Milo does, but Milo gestures with his hand.

  “It’s fine, I know my way out.” He leaves Andrew’s door open and clomps down the stairs. Andrew winces when he hears the front door slam. It’s not a good sound, but there’s a chance it means good things. It may have been months since they’ve been friends, but Andrew knows Milo’s face and he’s pretty sure the way Milo’s lips relaxed—not in a smile, but also far from the angry lines they had been in—means forgiveness is near.

  chapter two

  Milo kicks the door to Andrew’s room open without knocking, startling him. “I got the new Timewarp.” Andrew throws the magazine he’s been flipping through onto the floor and tries to catch the video game Milo tosses at him.

  “We have to play,” Milo says.

  “Milo, you know those aren’t really—”

  “Yeah, yeah, blood and guts, shut up; we’re playing.”

  “They make me nauseated.” It’s not just the gore, which Andrew admittedly isn’t a fan of, but also because the graphics make him feel carsick. He scans the cover. “Besides, this is rated M. How did you get this past your parents?”

  “First,” Milo says, counting off his fingers, “Ted got it for me. He has some lame family thing tonight, so you are my victim. Second, we’re thirteen, not three; who cares. Third…” Milo plops his bedside trash basket next to him. “Puke in here if you need to. Come on, man, I need something to do.”

  “All right.” Andrew pulls out the controls to his console and flips his TV to the right channel. There’s an edge to Milo’s voice and his shoulders are tense the way he gets when something is up at home. There’s not much Andrew wouldn’t do to give Milo what he needs when he gets like this.

  “Compromise,” Milo says, settling against the headboard of Andrew’s bed next to him. Andrew’s skin heats up and he tries his best to ignore it. “We’ll play for a while, then we can do something you want.”

  “Build pillow forts and paint our nails?” Andrew jokes. Milo smirks at him. It’s unspoken that Andrew wouldn’t really mind a good game of play pretend.

  “Shut up and try to keep up, son,” Andrew says, button-smashing the crap out of his controller, taking down zombies as if he’s actually got skills. It makes Milo crazy that Andrew manages to button-smash bullshit his way through games.

  It takes half an hour for Andrew to start feeling sick, which fortunately coincides with a short fuse on Milo’s part. After being soundly killed by zombie forces—again—he throws his controller to the foot of the bed and flops down, moaning.

  “Oh thank god.” Andrew puts his own controller down and rubs his eyes. Milo rolls off the bed gracelessly.

  “I’m hungry, wanna—” Milo picks up the magazine Andrew dropped earlier. “Is this—”

  “Oh shit!” Andrew snatches it back and covers his face, which is flaming red; he really thinks he might puke now. He scrambles off the bed and trips over the garbage can.

  “Oh, this totally explains that,” Milo says at the spill of tissues, winking at Andrew, then pretends to flip through the magazine. “Oh, Freddie, you are so dreamy.”

  “Stop.” Andrew feels as if he’s about to cry, which would be the absolute worst reaction right now. “Listen, just go, get out.”

  “Oh hey.” Milo’s face sobers. “No, come on, I’m kidding around.”

  Andrew looks away. “Go.”

  “No, no.” Milo climbs over the bed and tugs Andrew’s hands from his face. “Dude, it’s like, it’s not like I didn’t think—”

  “What—”

  “Well, you’re kind of obvious, sometimes.”

  “What?!”

  “I mean to me, because I know you.” Milo explains. “Hey, whoa, just like, breathe.”

  “I—” Andrew realizes he’s almost hyperventilating. “I wasn’t expecting—”

  Milo looks him in the eye steadily. “Okay, let’s calm down. Take a deep breath.”

  “Stop stealing my mojo,” Andrew jokes, because this is totally the thing he usually does: calm Milo down. But he does what Milo says and takes a deep breath and then another. He shifts away.

  “You better? You look like you might hurl.”

  Andrew nods, sits back and crosses his legs, and Milo does the same so they’re facing each other.

  After a long minute of averted eye contact and smothering silence, Andrew says, “You’re going to stop being my friend now, aren’t you?”

  “What? Shut up, no.” Milo’s voice is certain and strong. Andrew closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath and wonders.

  “Why not? Isn’t this—don’t you think I’m some sort of freak or gross or something?” Andrew’s not stupid and neither is Milo. They both know the slurs that get tossed around when they’re playing ball with their friends or on teams where any sign of weakness or ineptitude will get you called a fag or a pussy or homo. Now that they’ve outgrown the gray area of hugs, if affection is given it has to be followed by the saving grace of a “no homo” moment.

  “Drew, really, it’s not surprising,” Milo says. “And…”

  “And?”

  “You’re my best friend. You’ve been my best friend forever. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

  Andrew bites his lip because he really thinks he might cry now, and it’s not from fear like before, but because for a small, blinding moment he loves Milo so much. It feels strange, though—different—more than gratitude and care and understanding and the safety of knowing another person so well. He wants to hug him and cry, which, despite Milo apparently being okay with things, might actually get him a “no homo.”

  “Okay,” Andrew says, barely managing to keep his voice from catching.

  “Oh, come here, you asshole.” Milo tugs him forward in a hug that Andrew sinks into, relieved beyond bearing. “Let’s get some ice cream and set
off on some really stupid adventure.”

  “Keep wording it like you’re doing it for my sake, and maybe one day you’ll believe you’re not the total dweeb here.”

  Milo snorts and gets up, then opens the door for Andrew. Ice cream beckons.

  °

  “So, do your parents know?” Milo is tossing Cheezits into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. He only seems to be achieving a fifty percent success rate, which means there are crumbs and Cheezits everywhere. The lack of ice cream in his house—shocking really—was quickly remedied with a box of crackers Andrew found stashed in the cereal cupboard. It’s a poor substitute, but Andrew is working with what he has.

  “No. Well, I don’t know.” Andrew shrugs and, like a civilized person, eats some Cheezits by putting them directly into his mouth. “Do you think I need to?”

  “I don’t know?” Milo shrugs. “I don’t know the rules for this. Only if you want to.” He bumps his shoulder against Andrew’s. “Do what you want when you think it’s the right time? Your parents are cool; I’m pretty sure it’ll be okay.”

  “Damn what have you been reading? Grown-up shrink books?”

  “Yes,” Milo deadpans. A Cheezit takes a bad bounce and hits Andrew on the cheek. “Better than gazing adoringly at Freddie McKay.”

  “Shut up.” Andrew smiles though and feels it all the way in his bones. He tells himself he’s smart enough to know that’s not a crush sort of feeling.

  ° ° °

  UNFORTUNATELY FOR Andrew, that love thing stays, despite his best intentions. Part of it is the realization that, as they get older, Milo is definitely going to be hot. He’s sort of hot right now and he’s only started to grow. In the last year he’s magically shot up, surpassing Andrew’s height by at least three inches. His hair admittedly needs a little work, with the way he wears it flopping around and too long, thick and with the slightest curl, but that’s totally acceptable considering the color, which is a deep auburn Andrew is obsessed with. But not as obsessed as he is with Milo’s eyes. Andrew tries not to be totally obvious about how often he tries to sneak looks at Milo, because he doesn’t want to be a creeper or scare Milo away, but still, most of the time his eyes are really deep blue, like the water when it’s overcast but not too dark. You really have to look to see the blue. Andrew loves that.