Things That Are (retail)

by Andrew Clements

  Gertie comes to her feet and pulls toward the bed, then yips a little. “Gertie, sit…sit!…Good girl.” And I use her behavior as an excuse to stand up and move toward the door. Because this has already been much more of a talk than I’d thought it would be.

  “I think my dog needs to go out now. It’s been good to talk, William. And I hope things are going to work out for you.” And quickly I add, “When Bobby’s dad comes back.”

  “It’s been good to speak with you as well, Alicia. And…” He waits a second, then two. “And I want you to know that my friends call me James. William is my middle name. I’m James William Townshend.”

  Another confession. And I know he’s telling the truth. I can feel it in his voice.

  I hope he can see my face from over here in the darkened doorway, get a glimpse of how glad I am to hear his real name.

  Because I’m not going to say what I’m feeling. It would sound too personal, and it might make him uneasy to know that I’m getting so emotional about a stranger. Because right now, he doesn’t seem like a stranger. More like a brother, someone I’ve known a long time. And I’m hoping with all my heart that he gets his second chance. I think he deserves it.

  Because it’s what we all need. We all need second chances, then third, fourth, on and on. All the fresh starts we can find.

  I smile at him from the doorway and I say, “Thank you…James. It’s nice to meet you.”

  chapter 19

  still of the night

  Bobby’s dad and mom called while I was upstairs. They’ve changed their plans, and they’re coming home Friday now. Not Sunday. Friday. That’s tomorrow, arriving at three P.M.

  And of course, Bobby didn’t tell them about the houseguest, about William. I mean James.

  Or about the FBI agents who’ve been following him.

  Or about me staying here tonight. All night.

  And about eight-thirty, when I call my mom, Bobby gives the performance of his life as Mrs. Hamlin, Nancy’s mother. Best line: “Oh, yes, Alicia is such a dear. We just love having her come to visit us.”

  After all the phone calls, Bobby and I set up camp in the TV room. Tray tables, a couple of fleece blankets, some ice cream, some pretzels with this sweet mustard dip, and some root beer. All the essentials.

  And for the past two hours it’s just been couch time. We’ve had some small talk about music, and Bobby told me about some of his auditions, about how well he played, about some of the incredible musicians he met.

  And I was tempted to ask him about Gwen, but I didn’t.

  I mean, I know Bobby would tell me everything there is to tell about her. But I don’t want Gwen to be part of this night. Because we’re balanced on this tiny pinpoint of time, just the two of us now. And before our parents reclaim us, before the man in the guest room wakes up, before some officer knocks on the door, we need to make the most of this night. This is our night. Ours.

  So we’ve talked some about our parents, about things our families did during the summers when we were growing up. Sort of like stream-of-consciousness sharing, while Miles Davis and John Coltrane and Bill Evans spin out their sounds, one CD after another, all of Bobby’s favorites.

  This is good time. That’s what I tell myself. And it is. It takes this kind of time for us to get to know each other, to get a feel for who that other person is.

  But I keep thinking that this has to be our time to go deeper. Those tender feelings are in the air again, but down under so many other layers, pushed aside by so many other worries and concerns. Time bombs all around us.

  Still, I keep hoping. Because Bobby and I and what we mean to each other—we’re just as important as all this other stuff. And in the long run, I think we’re more important. Much more important…aren’t we?

  During all this time, neither one of us has mentioned the man upstairs, William. I mean James.

  I don’t know what to do about that. I haven’t told Bobby about the name. I feel like telling would be breaking a trust—because of the way he said it: “My friends call me James.”

  I don’t think Bobby is his friend, not yet. Bobby doesn’t want to be friends with him. Because when you’re a friend, you care more, and more caring is always more risk. So Bobby won’t let himself care yet. About William. About James.

  That’s what I tell myself. And I think it’s true.

  When it’s ten-thirty or so, Bobby sneaks upstairs. He comes back two minutes later and says, “Lights out, and big snoring. The Phillips–Van Dorn Molecular Readjustment Facility is officially open for business.”

  He sits back down on the couch, closer this time. A big yawn.

  “You getting tired?” he asks.

  I nod, and answer with a yawn of my own. “Yeah,” I say, “long day. A big day. Huge.”

  “Does Gertie need to go out again?” he asks.

  “No, she’s good. But is there another blanket, one she could lie on? It’s a lot colder here than it is at our house at night.”

  “Sure,” he says, standing up again, “and I’ll grab another one for us. And a couple pillows.”

  Us.

  He said us. Another blanket for us.

  As in, another blanket for us to sleep under.

  Us. Sleeping under a blanket.

  And suddenly a voice rings out so clearly in my mind that I’m almost certain I’m really hearing it:

  “Alicia? I need to speak with you.”

  It’s Mom. The woman with boy radar.

  But it’s my imagination. She’s not here.

  And now I’m wishing the Brain Fairy would talk to me.

  Hello?…Are you there?

  Nothing. Never around when I actually need her.

  I’m on my own here.

  Pillows arrive. Another blanket arrives. For us.

  And Bobby arrives. And here we are.

  Us.

  We’re sitting up. And we’re close. And we’re sharing a blanket. And there’s still music in the air, an all-night show on the radio, turned down really low. Subliminal jazz.

  And I’m pretty sure all the lights are off now. Because I know that matters to most people. Me, I’ve always got the lights dimmed. I’ve got built-in ambience.

  And now our heads are touching, sort of temple to temple.

  He says, “So, did you miss me when I was away?” A trace of mint on his breath.

  I nod, because he’s that close.

  Close enough to hear a nod. Breathing the same air.

  All my hoping for a time when we could talk? Gone, vanished.

  We both know there’s been enough talking.

  He changes position slightly. Almost face-to-face now.

  And he reaches across under the blanket and rests his left hand on my side. Not high. Not low. Right on my ribs.

  And his hand just stays there.

  And I can feel the heat of his hand on my side, all the way through my sweater and all the way through my shirt. Resting there.

  Or do I just imagine the heat?

  Doesn’t matter. I still feel it.

  Gertie whines and gets up off the blanket on the floor, and in one fluid motion she jumps onto the couch beside me. And then she leans up against my back. Because she loves to be close.

  And she leans right onto Bobby’s hand. And he moves his hand, pulls his hand with all its heat back to his side of the universe.

  And I think maybe Gertie has a deal with Mom, some kind of long-distance boy-patrol deal. Entirely possible.

  Gertie jumps off the couch, curls up on the blanket again, and yawns, her mission accomplished.

  But still, I can feel our moment coming.

  Bobby’s working up his courage, I know he is.

  And I can wait for him, forever if I have to.

  But I don’t think it’s going to take that long.

  We’ve been this close before.

  We’ve even kissed before—exactly one half time.

  Because a fourth of a kiss plus a fourth of a kiss equals
one half a kiss.

  That’s what we’ve had, two short, sweet, simple kisses. Shallow kisses.

  Before.

  Bobby stirs, moves closer again. And he buries one shoulder deep into the cushions of the couch. He moves, and I move too.

  And we kiss.

  We do. It is. I am. We are. Kissing.

  No words.

  Not needed.

  Because I know. I’m not just his friend.

  Something else now. Something more.

  chapter 20

  some friend

  My left arm is killing me. And as the pain wakes me up, last night swirls into my head. I know where I am.

  I’m on the couch. And this…this is Bobby. On top of my arm. And his breath against my neck.

  And I’m back there, remembering last night.

  Delicious.

  I’m not moving. I don’t care if my arm falls off. I am not moving. And I am mapping this moment, this scene, these smells, the sound of his breathing, the way Bobby and I are layered together on this couch, the way the hair on his arm feels under my fingers. Us. Sharing a blanket.

  I free my right hand and slowly, slowly, I’m able to reach the watch on my left wrist. And I press the correct buttons, and it vibrates.

  Six…nineteen.

  So it’s morning. Barely light outside.

  My feet are freezing. And I reach down with one foot, feeling for Gertie on her blanket in front of the couch. Because she’s always as close as possible. And she’s always warm.

  Not there.

  And not on the couch to my right.

  I snap my fingers, and I whisper, “Gertie, here.” Because I would love a warm dog leaning against my back right now.

  She doesn’t come.

  “Gertie, here!” I call.

  No dog. And the grab of sudden panic.

  I sit up and yank my hand from under Bobby’s shoulder.

  He says, “What?” all groggy with sleep.

  And I shout, “Gertie? Gertie, come! Bobby—Bobby! Where’s Gertie?”

  And upstairs, I hear her.

  She barks, twice. Then again.

  She never barks.

  Bobby sits up, then jumps to his feet.

  “What’s…” His voice is slurred, still in a dream. Then, awake, sharp, urgent. “Alicia, what’s wrong?”

  “Gertie, she’s upstairs.”

  Bobby’s gone, sprinting, and I hear him take the stairs on the run.

  Gertie barks again, then her voice trails off into a garbled whine.

  “Bobby—is she all right?” I’m screaming, terror now, on my feet. “Is she okay?” And I’m at the front staircase, running up the stairs, tripping, rushing ahead again.

  I’m at the top of the stairs and Bobby calls, “She’s all right, Alicia, she’s all right—just a little wobbly.”

  I hear her whining, and I’m in front of her now, my arms around her neck, and there’s sudden joy in her voice. And love, such love.

  And tears spill out, the relief.

  Then instantly, anger. The kind that strangles. “What happened, Bobby? Is she hurt—William! Did William hurt her? Because—”

  He says, “No—actually, William gave her a treat. Some chunks of General Tso’s chicken, looks like, with a couple of my mom’s sleeping pills buried in each one.”

  “And he’s—”

  “Right,” Bobby says. “Gone. And so is the blanket. And…” Bobby hangs the word in the air as his voice moves out the door and across the hall. “Yes. Also one of my dad’s suits, plus some shoes, plus who knows what else. Gone.”

  “Did it work?” I ask. “The blanket, did it change him?”

  Bobby says, “He took clothes, but I don’t know. But taking the blanket, that has to mean something—maybe he took it to the FBI. Or to someone else. And if anyone was actually watching this house, either William slipped past them, or they were waiting for him. He’s just…gone. That’s all we know for sure.”

  “And that he poisoned my Gertie.”

  And I hate how angry I am, because this is the kind of rage that murder is made of. It’s a good thing the man isn’t here.

  And I hear his voice, but now it seems twisted, mocking me: “My friends call me James.”

  Some friend.

  Because a friend doesn’t betray a trust, doesn’t lie and steal and run away in the dead of night. And I’ll never think of him as James, never again.

  He’s a creep, and his name is William.

  chapter 21

  now

  I am not forgiving him. Those drugs could have killed Gertie.

  It’s Thursday again, so it’s been a full week, and I can still feel the hot rage bubble up at the thought of his name.

  William.

  I am not forgiving him.

  And I’m not forgiving myself either. To be so tricked, so totally bamboozled by that man’s smarmy stories about solitude and church and all his feelings.

  The Brain Fairy was right. Feelings are dangerous. So I’m trying to get my heart to be more obedient.

  My heart.

  That brings me to Bobby. And kissing.

  Before the blindness, I know I saw thousands of kisses. I saw them with my own eyes. And in movies and on TV shows and up on theater stages, every kiss I saw had a sound, a shape, a motion—a beginning, a middle, and an end. Every kiss had its own little story line.

  The kisses I saw in photographs and drawings, the ones in magazines and on book covers and billboards—those were the frozen kisses, just the middle bit, where the lips are touching, the arms are clinging.

  The kisses in books, the ones described with words, those were the most powerful to me. Still, I soaked up the words so I could see the kisses.

  So many kisses. I saw them with my own eyes, each one. I drank them in, photos, drawings, and words.

  And all that seeing made me believe that I was preparing for kisses of my own. Seeing so many kisses made me think I was becoming an expert, that I’d know just what to expect, just how I’d feel when it was my turn to kiss. I thought I’d be ready.

  I wasn’t.

  Because a real kiss, a kiss that two real people choose to give each other—it’s something that can’t be filmed or photographed or drawn, or even described with words. Because a kiss isn’t what it looks like, or how it feels. A real kiss happens down deep inside of two hearts at the same time. It’s hidden away. A real kiss is invisible.

  And now I know what kissing is. So does Bobby.

  But it’s not like we’ve had any time to be together this week. Senior year is almost over, so schoolwork is intense for both of us, plus the college admissions process doesn’t let up for a single day. And we’re also staying apart in case there’s still some trouble with the law, in case there’s still surveillance.

  Although, with each passing day, that seems more and more unlikely. We haven’t heard any more from the FBI, and no one in Bobby’s family or mine has been able to spot anyone following or watching any of us. Which could mean they’re not watching—or that they’re really good at staying out of sight.

  When Bobby’s parents got home from Europe, his dad and my dad got together, but cautiously, and not at our house. And Daddy actually got one of those electronic sweepers so he could be sure there were no listening devices hidden in his study. Not that he and Dr. Phillips are planning to work on any more mice…or that’s what they’re telling us.

  They’re still preparing their data in case the secret gets out, preparing a fail-safe server upload, an emergency burst of information that would hit the Internet if it ever becomes necessary.

  Because no one knows what happened to William. But if you ask me, he wouldn’t have stolen that suit from Bobby’s dad if he’d still been invisible. But I’m not going to think about him, because it just makes me upset. He’s gone without a trace, so I say good riddance.

  And if he stays gone, then I don’t see how we could have any more problems with the FBI. No William, no evidence; no e
vidence, no case; no case, no FBI.

  So for the moment, it looks like the secret remains a secret. And the two Science Dads actually made a solemn promise not to do any more research.

  But they didn’t promise to destroy the research they’ve done. Because, and this is what Daddy said: “What if there’s a security crisis, and it becomes clear that this technology is being used, that there are invisible agents out there doing evil things, hurting people? Or what if we discover that William took that blanket and sold it and everything he knows to some extremists? Then we’d have no alternative but to take everything we know and publish it, push it all out onto the Internet so everyone all over the world gets it at once. Because that’s really all there is to our fail-safe plan. And we almost put it into action the day the FBI came to our house, the day I had to get rid of those mice. The message I left for Dr. Phillips at his hotel in Geneva that day—‘our research has hit a snag’—the word snag was code, and it means, ‘be ready to dump the contents of your laptop onto every server you can link to.’ And if I’d told him ‘our research has hit a brick wall,’ then he would have published everything we know. If we ever do that, everyone would be able to understand the threat, everyone would know how to defend against it. And for all we know, there could already be dozens of other invisible people out there right now, being used, being exploited, doing really terrible things. If we ever discover that’s true, we publish. And if we have to do that, there would certainly need to be more security measures worldwide. But once everyone knows, those measures would just be part of the routine, part of the new normal. Because if you know about this technology, it’s not that hard to defend against it. And that will keep the playing field level. No awful surprises. At least that’s our hope. Because sooner or later, this genie is getting out of its bottle. So we have to be ready, just in case.”

  About all the lying. Bobby and I are not lying at all, no more, either of us. Not to each other, not to our parents, not to anybody. And we told my mom and dad all about the fake sleepover gambit and all the rest of it, and explained why we had to do what we did. And we’re sticking with the truth from now on.