Why Can't I Be You

by Melissa Walker

  After a little time, I wipe my face on my sleeve and pull myself together enough to get embarrassed. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say.

  “Because you’re a good friend,” says Dad. He moves back into his own seat, and we bob on the water for a couple of minutes before heading back to the dock.

  Chapter 18

  When we get back to Twin Pines Park, the sun is in that low place where everything looks golden, like in a dream. I texted Brianna when we got off the water—nothing fancy, just this: I’m sorry. With my dad tonight. Talk tomorrow? She wrote back: K. And then: I liked your present. That made me smile, and now I have my window rolled down to get the breeze. I feel calmer than I have in a while.

  But as we pull in, I hear Ronan’s voice. Loud and clear and angry.

  When we round the turn in front of my trailer, I see Ronan holding his screen door open and screaming into his living room. He’s shouting a stream of words we are not allowed to say, and I know he’s directing them at his dad.

  “—don’t even move off the damn couch! We were fine without you! No, not even that, we were better! Everything was better without you! I wish you never came back at all!”

  I stick my head out the window because . . . I don’t know, it seems like someone has to do something. “Ronan! Stop!” I shout. But I might as well be whispering because Ronan doesn’t even look my way, and I doubt he can hear anything besides his own anger. Suddenly, Ronan slams the door, turns on his heels, and runs toward the road. He doesn’t even seem to see us parked here.

  Dad pulls up the brake in Charlie as I start to open the door to go after Ronan. But Dad says, “Stay in the car, Claire.” The way he says it means I have to. His voice is like a lock keeping me in my seat.

  I turn to look out the back window and see Ronan’s figure disappear. He’s headed away from the brook. It’s getting dark. I don’t know where he’s going.

  Dad gets out of the car and I watch him walk up to Mr. Michaels, who’s standing in the doorway now in his boxer shorts. He’s stepping outside, and then my dad is next to him, touching his arm. Steadying him, holding him in place.

  I see my dad talking to him; his lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He’s using his quiet voice, the one that means absolute business. After a minute, Mr. Michaels smiles slightly, even pats my dad on the back. Then he goes inside and Dad comes back to the car.

  “I should see where Ronan went,” I say.

  Dad shakes his head. “No. You’re coming inside with me till your mom gets home.”

  “But—”

  “Claire, Ronan will be okay,” Dad says. “Let him cool off.”

  I’m about to object again, but something in Dad’s eyes makes me go quiet. I’m going inside with him until Mom gets home.

  In the trailer, Dad asks what I want to eat. He starts opening up cabinets to see where things are in the kitchen.

  “I can make something,” I tell him, squeezing past to the refrigerator where I take out the leftover rice mom cooked last night and a few vegetables we have that are gonna go bad soon. I start slicing peppers on the cutting board while Dad sits on a stool next to me. I’m trying to act normal, trying not to wonder where Ronan went.

  “Pretty good with that knife,” Dad says. He ruffles my hair, and I get the rest of the stuff ready—onions, mushrooms, a clove of garlic that I chop really, really tiny. I put everything in a pan with oil and heat up the rice in the microwave. When the vegetables are done, I put them in bowls over the rice and I get out two eggs.

  “This is the secret,” I tell Dad.

  Then I fry two sunny-side up eggs to put on top of the stir-fry.

  Dad and I head to the couch with our bowls.

  “Wow!” says Dad when he takes a bite. “Really great, Claire. I’m impressed.”

  I just chew, trying to swallow down the tiny lump in my throat. We haven’t talked about why he’s here right now, inside the trailer for the first time since I can remember, sitting on the couch with bowls of rice like this is what we do on Sunday nights.

  That’s where we are when Mom comes in.

  “Rick?” says Mom, and I hear the question in her voice.

  “Hi, Bets.” She’s Elizabeth to everyone but Dad. He says Bets with affection, maybe like he used to say it to her, and I feel a little pang.

  “I made dinner for Dad,” I tell Mom. “There are leftovers. Did you eat?”

  Mom doesn’t answer me as she puts down her purse and hangs her keys on the hook by the door. She also doesn’t take her eyes off Dad.

  He reaches for our empty bowls and goes to the kitchen to rinse them in the sink. “Well, I should take off,” he says, drying his hands with the checkered dish towel on the counter. “Bets, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  My parents go outside to the porch, and I can hear the low hum of their voices but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  A sweep of headlights sends a beam across the living room. Ronan’s mom is home.

  I see Christina getting out of her car and saying hi to my mom and dad. They walk up close to her, and the three of them huddle together as my mom puts her arm around Christina’s shoulders.

  A minute later, Mom and Dad come back in, and Dad gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek that smacks a loud sound. “Next Claireday, I’ll cook,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Or we could go to the steakhouse.”

  Dad laughs. “Okay, steakhouse.”

  Then he smiles at Mom, and she smiles back at him. That makes me feel happy, but I wish it weren’t such a bad, weird night.

  “Hey, I’m around, Bets,” Dad says to Mom. He reaches out and touches her arm lightly. “Just call.”

  “Thanks, Rick,” Mom says. He waves, and she closes the door behind him. Then she flops down next to me on the couch.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I still don’t know where Ronan went.”

  “Christina will find him,” says Mom. “Apparently he’s been taking off a lot this summer.”

  What? No he hasn’t.

  I don’t think Mom knows what she’s talking about. Then her eyes get that weary look in them, and it’s like she’s talking to the air, not to me anymore. “It’s a tough age . . .”

  “We are not twelve,” I say to her, and she refocuses on me. Then I ask, “What did Dad say?”

  “He told me what happened.”

  “No, I mean to Mr. Michaels,” I say. “Did Dad tell you what he said to him?”

  Mom looks away, out toward the TV. I guess the TV is easier to look at than a person, even if it’s not on. “Your dad told Mr. Michaels that he needs some help.”

  I swallow, and I feel a chill run through me. “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “He’s in a bad place,” says Mom. “He may need someone to talk to. I think he feels kind of . . . hopeless.”

  “Can we help him?” I ask.

  “That’s what your dad and I are going to try to figure out,” says Mom. I like the way she said “your dad and I.” I lean into her, realizing that I’m very, very sleepy.

  That night when I go to bed, I hear Mom on the phone. She’s checking in again with Christina. She sounds calm, and that comforts me as I try to stay awake to ask her when she hangs up, Did Ronan come home? But I fall asleep to the soft tones of her voice, sure that he did.

  Chapter 19

  “He’s not awake yet,” says Ronan’s dad when I knock on their screen the next morning. The front door is open, and Mr. Michaels is on the couch watching TV. He doesn’t get up, but he does look over at me when he speaks.

  “Really?” I ask. I’m talking through the screen.

  He turns back to the TV. “Go get him up if you want.”

  Normally I wouldn’t do that, but I woke up worried.

  I step inside and walk around the far end of the coffee table. “’Scuse me,” I say as I pass in front of Mr. Michaels’s show. I go down the hallway and notice that there’s a cr
acked hole in one wall.

  Ronan’s parents’ room is on the left, and their door is open, bed unmade. It’s Monday morning; Christina probably left for work hours ago.

  The closed door at the end of the hall is one I’ve walked through a thousand times, but today I approach it slowly, like something might jump out and bite me. I knock softly, my voice a whisper. “Ronan?”

  No response. A few more knocks.

  Still nothing.

  I turn the knob.

  The bed is made, the room is tidy, like no one even slept there.

  “He’s gone,” I say, first to myself and then more loudly to Mr. Michaels. My voice shakes a little when I raise it, but Ronan’s dad doesn’t move from the couch or even turn his head toward me as I walk back into the living room.

  “He’s probably off being mad somewhere,” he says.

  “We’re only eleven,” I whisper as I turn to walk out the door. I don’t even say bye as I march straight to the brook. Maybe Ronan got up really early and came down here to fish. Some people fish at, like, five a.m.

  But there’s no one on the bank and when I kick off my flip-flops and wade in until I get to our rock, letting the bottoms of my cutoffs get wet, I know he’s not here. I call “Ronan!” one time, but then I stop and make myself stay quiet, because hearing myself call for him like that down here in the woods by the brook reminded me of scary movies that don’t end well for the person whose name is being shouted.

  He’s okay, he’s okay. I keep repeating that in my head as I walk back up past our trailers and into Cleland Cemetery to get a good phone signal. Should I tell my mom? Christina?

  I remember Ronan talking about why he loves the brook: No them, just us.

  And before I can think, I text Brianna. She’s us.

  Claire: Can you meet me at the mall? Need you.

  A few beats go by before I see the response bubbles start to move.

  Brianna: ofc. 1 hour

  I exhale a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. We haven’t had a chance to talk about the party yet, about me calling her spoiled. But I needed her help and I didn’t think twice about asking. She didn’t hesitate. That means a lot.

  It’s getting to be late morning and there aren’t many people at the mall yet. I hear a chime from the register of Razzy’s Candy Shop, and I look up to spot Olive Williams’s older sister setting out licorice sticks.

  Then I see Brianna and Eden heading toward me, and I stand up from my seat at the edge of the lion fountain. Of course Eden came too.

  It feels awkward when they get close to me, and I open my mouth to speak but Brianna says, “What’s wrong? Is it Ronan?” like she already knew.

  I nod. “I think maybe he ran away.”

  “What?” Brianna’s eyes go big. “How? Why? Did his parents call the police?”

  “I don’t think they know,” I say, my words coming out in a rush. “I mean, his dad knows, but . . .”

  “Slow down,” says Eden, sitting on the edge of the fountain and calmly patting the space next to her. “Claire, what’s the story?”

  I sit. It’s like she’s a grown-up right now, and I’m automatically listening to her. She has her perfect cat-eye liner on again, like the first day I saw her this summer. I tell them about last night, how Ronan and his dad got into a fight. I leave out the specific words he was saying, but they get the picture.

  “And this morning his room was really neat,” I say. “Like no one had slept there, or even, like, been there in a while.”

  “Did you tell his parents?” asks Brianna.

  “No,” I say. “I mean, yes, I told his dad he wasn’t home, but he didn’t seem to care. Christina was already at work. I don’t think she knows.” Or maybe she does.

  “Could he have just, like, made his bed this morning?” asks Eden. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d up and run away.”

  “Just because you have a photo booth picture with him doesn’t mean that you know him,” I say, and she flinches a little bit but she doesn’t argue with me again. I look at Brianna. “His face last night . . . it was so sad.”

  Brianna bites her lip and looks around the mall, like she might spot Ronan here.

  Eden calmly takes out her phone and starts scrolling.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her.

  “Looking for clues,” she says, leaning in toward me.

  Of course.

  We go right to Ronan’s profile and there’s the picture from the lake. But it’s the latest one.

  Eden gets us to the page where all his posts are displayed, and I peer at the tiny images. There’s a fish he caught, a pretty shot of Mrs. Gonzalez’s tomatoes, and a selfie taken super close-up. But I spot something in the background—a Darth Vader poster.

  “I know where he is,” I say.

  Chapter 20

  As I grab the rungs to climb up to Gemma’s tree house, my heart is pounding. We took the bus here, Brianna, Eden, and I, and we rode mostly in silence. Everything around us felt heavy. We had to sneak into Gemma’s backyard, but I didn’t see her dad’s car, and I knew how to reach over and unlatch the gate. I asked Brianna and Eden to wait below.

  I’m going up alone.

  When I get to the top of the ladder, I take a deep breath. What if he isn’t here?

  But then I push open the hatch and poke my head up. There, in the corner of the tree house, is Ronan. He’s asleep in his army-green sleeping bag, curled up in a ball. Next to him is Ellie the lizard in a small portable cage. So I guess he’s not alone.

  I signal down to Brianna and Eden with a thumbs-up, but also a shh finger to my lips. Then I flash a hand at them—give me five minutes.

  I step inside the tree house and close the hatch quietly. The smell is so familiar, like pine and playdough, and the heavy humidity makes it even stronger. It’s going to rain today.

  Moving close to Ronan, I sit down, knees to my chest. Asleep he looks like he’s five years old, lips parted slightly, hair mussed, eyes closed. I’m staring at his lashes when they start to flutter, and when he wakes up, the blue of his eyes almost makes me gasp.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “Hi.” His voice is soft too, and he still looks like a kindergartener. He half smiles at me for a split second, but then he realizes where we are. Where I found him.

  Ronan sits up quickly. “I was just—” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  He nods, gently kicking off the sleeping bag and leaning back on the wall of Gemma’s tree house beside me.

  “You okay?” I ask after a minute.

  Ronan smiles quickly and shrugs, which I guess means maybe. Then another beat goes by in silence, but finally Ronan says, “I used his phone.”

  Right. For the “lake” picture. “And your dad got mad?”

  “No,” Ronan says. “I took it. Stole it, really. But he didn’t even seem to notice it was gone.”

  “That’s lucky,” I say.

  But Ronan turns to me and looks in my eyes. “No, it’s not,” he says. “He doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t see anything.” Ronan pauses, pulling at a thread near the zipper of his sleeping bag, and I stay quiet. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Him just sitting there. So I threw the phone at him last night, I said all the things I’ve been thinking all summer.”

  I suck in a breath and let it out slowly, remembering the words I heard Ronan shouting last night.

  “I still don’t know if he got off the couch,” Ronan adds.

  “He did,” I say. “My dad talked to him. I think maybe my dad is going to try to . . . I don’t know, help?”

  “Oh,” says Ronan.

  And when I look over at him, I see that he’s about to cry, or is maybe already crying a little, or something. His eyes look wet. I stare at the window so he won’t feel . . . I don’t know, like he can’t cry. He can.

  “Hey, Ronan,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  But I d
on’t know what to say, so I just go with, “It’s okay.”

  I hear him suck up a lot of snot and his arm moves like he’s wiping his face.

  Then he clears his throat. “Hey, Claire,” he says, his voice solid now, stronger.

  “Yeah?”

  “I really am sorry I was laughing at those jokes at Brianna’s. I don’t even know why I was. I just—”

  “I get it,” I say. Because I do. It wasn’t about me, it was about fitting in and being included.

  He puts his hand next to mine, letting our pinkies touch. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

  I feel the heavy air around us shift into something more regular, more easy. It’s strange, and kind of cool, how you can sense forgiveness, like it’s a person who just walked into a room or something.

  In the next moment, Brianna and Eden are knocking on the hatch, and Ronan looks at me with a question in his eyes.

  “You said just us,” I tell him. “Brianna is us.”

  “And Eden?”

  “By default, I guess,” I say, giving in.

  He nods, mouth turned up now, and I call out, “Okay, you guys.”

  Brianna climbs up first, then Eden, who looks around the tree house and lets out a low whistle. “Sweet pad,” she says, smiling, and we all laugh a little. The laughing feels good, like it’s breaking up some of the seriousness.

  And then they sit down on the floor in front of us. We’re in a square formation of four, our knees close to our chests. Ronan, me, Brianna, and Eden.

  I’m not sure where we go from here, but after a few silent moments, it’s Eden who speaks. “So are your parents fighting a lot?” she asks Ronan. And I freeze because that’s definitely a personal question.

  But he actually answers. And not with a grunt. “Not my parents,” he says. “My mom is sort of . . . forgiving, or something. She doesn’t fight with my dad.”

  “But you do?” Eden prods.