Left Out

by Tim Green

  “Wait, I’m sorry.” Landon’s mom’s face softened. “What did you say your name was?”

  She listened, nodding her head. “Courtney Wagner. Got it. Thank you, Courtney. But your son is Brett? Brett Bell? Yes, I thought about keeping my name too, but my husband is a bit old-fashioned. Ha-ha.”

  Confusion racked Landon.

  His mom held his attention with commanding eyes. “Yes, I think Landon would be happy to talk to Brett, but it would be much easier on Skype, or we can FaceTime. Do you have an account? You do? Super. I’ve got it on my cell phone and I’ll bring it right up. . . .”

  Landon’s mom tapped away on her phone. “Got it. Calling now.”

  His mom switched from the house phone to her cell. The Skype blurted and bleeped, and his mom came back toward the table. “Hi, Courtney. It worked! This is so nice. Let me put Landon on, and thank you. Thank you so much.”

  His mom handed Landon the phone and there was Brett, not scowling, not mean-faced, but wearing an easy smile as if he wasn’t the one-man wrecking machine he had been earlier on the field.

  “Hi, Brett,” Landon said.

  “Hey, Landon. Can you understand me okay like this? Can you see me good?” Brett asked, pointing to his own face.

  “Yes.” Landon felt wildly shy, aware that everyone was watching him, and having no idea what was going on. He remembered Brett’s anger in the drill. Landon searched for a trick, some kind of falseness, but Brett appeared to be genuine.

  “So, Saturday . . . ,” Brett began.

  Landon just stared.

  Brett smiled crookedly, maybe from nerves. “Saturday, we’re going down to New Jersey to visit my uncle. He plays for the Giants and they have the day off. He’s gonna have a bunch of players over at his house—he’s got a pretty big house—for a cookout at the pool. I think Rashad Jennings will be there. Eli Manning, too. Anyway, I thought maybe you’d want to come with us.”

  A surge of excitement and joy rocketed through Landon’s entire body. “I . . . sure. But . . .”

  “What’s the matter?” Brett asked.

  Landon couldn’t help being suspicious. This sounded too good to be true. “Don’t you have that birthday party, with Xander and the whole team?”

  Brett gave him a funny look. “Well, if you’re not going, then it can’t really be a team party, right? Besides, nothing would stop me from being with my uncle and his friends.”

  Landon couldn’t even speak. He glanced at his mom, who was beaming and nodding and mouthing for him to say yes.

  “Uh,” Landon said, “yes. Sure. A cookout would be awesome. Rashad Jennings is amazing. He ran for over a hundred yards last year when they played the Browns. I’m a Browns fan, but I won’t say that to them.”

  Off-screen, his mom waved her hands frantically and mouthed for him to say thank you.

  “Thanks, Brett. Thanks very much.”

  “Hey, no problem, Landon. And don’t worry about the Browns. Everyone gets it. You’re from Cleveland, right? You’re supposed to be a Browns fan.”

  “But I can be a Giants fan too,” Landon said. “You know, unless they face off in the Super Bowl.”

  Brett laughed and then looked at someone off of his screen and then back. “My mom says we’ll pick you up about eleven, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s . . . sure. Eleven would be great. Thank you again.”

  “Here, I’ll give you my mom’s cell number.” Brett told him the number. “Text your address, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. See you at practice tomorrow, then.”

  “See you,” Landon said. The phone bleeped and Brett disappeared. Landon looked up to see if the whole thing had really happened.

  Genevieve still looked destroyed, but his father beamed and nodded like he’d won the lottery, and his mom reached out and touched his cheek. “See, Landon? See how quickly things can turn around?”

  Landon handed her back her phone. “Thanks, Mom.”

  He didn’t want to say anything more. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be angry about Xander’s party, or sad or afraid. He practically tiptoed back to his room, removed his ears, got into his pajamas, climbed into bed, and lay there with his eyes open and the lights off. His parents came in and kissed him good night, looking at him fondly but sensing that he needed to be left alone.

  He felt like he was on the top floor of a house of cards. Any misstep could bring the whole thing down, but for now, for this night, he had a friend—and not just any friend. He had Brett. And if Brett was friends with him, Megan might also be forgiving and understand when she heard his side of the story about barging in on them. She might even help him by telling people he’d done nothing wrong and that it was only a mistake and that Katy Buford was a mean, obnoxious twit.

  Landon sighed.

  Maybe not. But then again, maybe she would.

  40

  Friday afternoon it rained. Landon watched football technique drills and blocking highlights on YouTube while his father pecked away at the computer. Genevieve ignored him, leaving the house with nothing more than a wave. When Landon asked his father where she’d gone, his father said that she was going to the mall with Megan to shop and then see a movie.

  “So that’s a good sign, right?” Landon said, wishing beyond hope that the Peeping Powder Puff thing had died a quick death and everyone had gotten over it.

  His father only shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. Sometimes people surprise you, and I know your mother is on the case, so . . .”

  His mom “working on it” made Landon worry more, but he chose to push it from his mind and instead dwell on the weekend invitation. He wanted to call Brett to make sure it was real, feel him out for signs that it was something his mother had put him up to, but decided that might damage what was a good thing. He needed to be patient and let it all unfold.

  He closed his iPad and picked up his book.

  It was nearly time for practice and still raining when Landon, sitting in his favorite chair, looked up from reading and, out of the blue, spoke across the room to his father. “Genevieve didn’t seem too mad when she left?”

  His father looked up from his typing and over at Landon. “The thing about your sister is that she’s a lot like your mom. You never have to worry whose side she’s on.”

  Landon waited for his father to go on, but he’d stopped talking. Landon filled the silence, saying, “My side, right?”

  His father dipped his chin. “Your side times ten. She might be mad, but she’ll fight for you, Landon.”

  Landon thought for a moment. “But who wants to have a little sister fighting for him? I mean, that looks kind of bad.”

  His father scratched his chin and pointed. “You seem to really like that book.”

  “Huh?” Landon wasn’t sure if he’d heard his father correctly so he held up the book, and his father nodded. “Yeah, it’s awesome.”

  “But look at it,” his father said. “A worn-out green cover with the title and the author’s name, both faded. No fireballs or dashing heroes or swords or brilliant, eye-catching colors. But inside? Wow. What could pack a bigger punch than The Three Musketeers? It’s unforgettable.”

  “So, don’t judge a book by its cover,” Landon said.

  “I never do.” His father smiled and turned back to the screen and his story.

  Later, at football practice, Landon watched the other kids warily. The rain hadn’t stopped. Maybe that was keeping the fires of rumors under control. The temperature had dipped into the low seventies, so there wasn’t as much need for water bottles. Landon found himself shifting from foot to foot, drenched from head to toe, watching the other boys battle in the muddy grass. There was a lot of hooting and hollering. Landon couldn’t figure out why. Large drops swelled on his face mask, growing fat until they broke free and splattered his jersey.

  No one said anything to him. The one time Landon found himself face-to-face with Skip—before practice on the sideline where Skip
was retrieving a football from the ball bag—the quarterback simply walked around Landon like he was a lamppost. He took that as a good sign, but he had a sinking feeling that something might have changed with Brett. It was like their Skype the night before had never happened. He wasn’t able to bring himself to tap Brett on the shoulder until after wind sprints.

  Brett looked exhausted, which was no surprise. The big lineman had hustled and hit his way through practice like it was a fifty-round boxing match, if there even was such a thing. Even in the cool rain, Brett’s face was beaded with sweat and his eyes sagged wearily. “Hey, Landon.”

  “Everything good?” It was the only question Landon could ask.

  “Oh, you mean guys calling you 3P?” Brett shot a glare around at the other players slogging up toward the parking lot. “Don’t worry about that junk. People are stupid.”

  “Wait, what?” Landon had no idea what he was talking about.

  Brett waved a padded hand toward the heavy gray sky. “Forget it. Just jerks. You’re good for tomorrow, right? My uncle’s place?”

  “Yeah.” Landon nodded. “I’m great for tomorrow, but what’s 3P?”

  Brett studied him. “Landon, it’s okay. Junk happens. People blow things out of proportion. The girls you walked in on? I already told Skip to keep his hands off you.”

  “You did?” Landon felt a surge of gratitude. “Thanks, but why would Skip . . .”

  “Well, you know he and Megan are, like, this thing.” Brett wrinkled his face. “Stupid, really. I think they hold hands at the movies or something. Everyone was pushing him to bust you in the mouth, but I got that covered.”

  “But, 3P?”

  Brett tilted his head. “You really don’t know? It’s not nice. I don’t want to even say. It’s stupid.”

  “Wait . . .” Landon lowered his voice. “Peeping Powder Puff?”

  Brett looked disgusted. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll die down, and no one’s laying a hand on you.” Brett made a fist and tapped his own chest. “They know better.”

  Pressure built up inside Landon because he felt like he should let Brett go. The two of them were just standing there alone now. Brett’s dad was huddled up with the other coaches as they sometimes did after practice, but Landon had to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Being my friend. What’s in it for you?”

  Brett shrugged. “Nothing. You’re my teammate. My dad says a real leader treats everyone on the team the same. The best player or the . . . the not-best player.”

  “You mean the worst player.” Landon wondered if, despite the drills, he even qualified as a player. “The guy who plays left out.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Landon.” Brett set his jaw. “Some people just don’t get it, but in my house, that’s how we do things. You help people who really need it.”

  Landon swallowed. “And . . . because of all this stuff, I really need it?”

  Brett had that hard look on his face again. “Yeah. You do.”

  41

  Landon woke early the next morning. He packed and repacked his Nike duffel bag with a fresh change of clothes, bathing suit, goggles, and towel, wanting everything to be just right, to look just right. He modeled three different bathing suits in his bathroom mirror and ended up going with the black knee-length one that had a narrow orange stripe down the side. The others, he decided, made his gut look too big.

  He was ready to go by eight. His dad had pancakes going before his mom wandered down in her robe, bleary-eyed and feeling her way around the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

  Genevieve appeared in a soccer uniform with her wild hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and a headband.

  “You got a game?” Landon asked.

  “Yup.” Genevieve scanned her phone with a blank face. “That’s how it works.”

  Their mom set her coffee cup down with a sharp sound. “What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?”

  Landon stabbed a pancake but dragged it back and forth across the puddle of syrup instead of shoveling it into his mouth. He wondered how much Genevieve was going to say.

  “Just getting my game face on,” Genevieve said with the same blank stare at their mom.

  Landon stuffed the forkful of pancake into his mouth.

  “Hmm.” Their mom sat down and raised the coffee with both hands, closing her eyes to inhale the steam, before turning her head toward the stove. “Well, Forrest, we should go to the game.”

  “Right.” Their dad raised a spatula without turning around. “Should be on the family calendar.”

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to look at any calendar today,” she said with a sigh.

  Their father brought another plate of pancakes to the table and sat down beside their mom. “You don’t. Just leave everything to me.”

  Their mom smiled and then turned her attention back to Genevieve. “How’s the social media looking?”

  Genevieve put her phone down on the placemat and picked up her knife. “Not too bad, actually. Looks like you did your magic.”

  Their mom fought back a smile. “Good.”

  “I just hope it’s not like the French aristocracy.” His sister busied herself with the syrup.

  “Meaning?” their mom asked.

  “We all know how that ended.” Genevieve looked at their mom with a false smile. “The guillotine.”

  The knife dropped with a clank, and the top of her banana skittered into the puddle of syrup.

  “That’s an entirely different story.” Their mom took a swig of coffee and set it down hard again.

  Genevieve only shrugged and dove into her pancakes.

  Landon tried not to think about it, but as he waited for eleven o’clock to roll around, he found himself touching his own neck as he sat in his favorite chair to read. At quarter till the hour, Landon gave up his book and positioned himself in the front window.

  Finally, at 11:04, Brett and his family pulled into the driveway. Landon grabbed his bag and scrambled toward the garage. “I’m going.”

  His mom cut him off and straightened the collar of his bright blue polo shirt. “Mind your manners.”

  “I will.” Landon felt his mom right behind him and he turned to see what was up.

  “I’m coming out, to say hello to Courtney,” she said. Before they got through the garage, she tapped his shoulder again. “Make sure you keep your ears dry—remember, wrap them good in a towel someplace out of the way, and tell everyone you won’t be able to hear when you’re swimming.”

  He was too excited to care what she said, and he just kept going.

  Brett’s mom got out of the big Suburban and circled around to say hello. She stood nearly a foot taller than Landon’s mom, and Landon was surprised to see that she had no hair on her head, not even any eyebrows. If Landon’s mom noticed, she didn’t show it. The two women shook hands before Landon’s mom pulled Brett’s mom into a hug. “Courtney Wagner, you’re my type of gal.”

  Brett’s mom blushed down at Landon’s mom, but she seemed pleased. “Well, Brett says Landon is a very nice boy, and we like nice boys.”

  “He is.” Landon’s mom gave Brett’s mom’s hand a squeeze.

  Brett’s mom pointed to her hairless scalp. “With all my treatments, we’ve been going through a lot, so we know what it is to look a little different, and it’s always nice when people don’t care.”

  Landon’s mom beamed. “You’re wonderful. Thank you again.”

  Landon had stopped before getting into the SUV to keep an eye on his mom because he was afraid she was going to start giving Brett’s mom instructions on his ears, but she didn’t. He gave her a final wave and climbed in next to Brett. In the third row of seats, two twin girls who looked to be kindergarten age wore fluffy, blue bunny ears and were focused on the iPad on the seat between them. Kiddie music jangled and the two of them looked at each other and laughed before staring down again.

  “My sisters,” Brett said. “Don’t wo
rry about them. One’s Susie, the other’s Sally, and even I have a hard time telling them apart.”

  “Hi, Landon.” Coach Bell reached around from the front seat to shake Landon’s hand as Brett’s mom got in.

  “Hi, Coach,” Landon said. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  Brett’s mom turned around in the passenger seat and looked directly at him. He liked what she’d said about looking different, and he was careful not to stare at her missing eyebrows or hair and to look her in the eyes when she spoke.

  “It’s our pleasure to have you, Landon.”

  Landon gave her a nod and then watched his mom wave as they pulled out of the driveway. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally disappeared from sight.

  Brett tapped Landon’s chest. “Know who’s gonna be there?”

  “Well, you said Eli and Rashad . . .”

  Brett trembled with delight. “Yup, them too, but can you guess who else?”

  Landon shook his head. “Who?”

  42

  “Michael Bamiro.” Brett spread his arms as wide as the inside of the SUV would allow him. “Biggest guy on the team and one of the top five big guys in the whole NFL.”

  “Wow,” Landon said. “How big?”

  Brett nodded, evidently glad to see Landon’s enthusiasm. “Six foot eight. Three hundred and forty-five pounds. How about that?”

  “Man . . .” Landon shook his head and then raised his eyebrows. “Did I tell you my dad is six-ten?”

  “I’ve seen him.” Brett’s eyes sparkled. He directed his voice toward the front. “Dad, did you know Landon’s dad is six-ten?”

  Landon could see Coach Bell shaking his head, but he wasn’t sure what he said in response. Landon thought it was, “That’s tall.” But he couldn’t be sure.

  “Hey,” Brett said, nodding at the duffel bag on Landon’s lap. “You bring your phone?”

  “Yes.” Landon got it out and showed him.

  “You do Clash of Clans?”

  “No.”

  “You want to? You should. You can be in my clan. Here, I’ll set it up. It’s free!” Brett took the phone from Landon and got to work.