Upstander

by James Preller

  “Boys can be such idiots,” Mary said.

  “Are they all like that?” Chantel asked.

  Mary shrugged. She didn’t know. “It seems like a lot of them are, maybe. Like it’s normal for them.”

  Chantel shook her head. “He says the pictures fade away after seven seconds…”

  “Yeah, but they can take screen captures,” Mary warned.

  “Hakeem keeps saying he’s not a screenshotter,” Chantel said. “And you know what? That makes me think he is. If I sent him something, he’d have it forever.”

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “And who knows what he’d do with it after that.”

  8

  [family]

  It was only August 9, but Mary had started thinking about “back-to-school” clothes. Maybe it was the brainwashing from all those commercials that played incessantly, but still: Mary’s wardrobe could use an update. Some jeans that fit right and a couple of soft sweaters would go a long way. A new pair of boots would be awesome, she knew the exact ones she wanted, but Mary wasn’t going to push it. Her mother had promised to take Mary shopping soon, but soon never came. It was natural for Mary to compare her home life with Chantel’s. Three little hilarious monsters compared to one brother who had become pretty monstrous—and not in a cute way. Mrs. Williams was so good at being a mom. Kind and happy and fully present. Meanwhile, Mary’s mother was always anxious and preoccupied. Mary knew for a fact that her mother constantly stalked Jonny on social media. It was like her full-time mission. Sherlock Mom. Every time Jonny tweeted or posted anything, Mrs. O’Malley was there, clutching her phone, scrolling, stabbing her fingers at the screen. She did everything possible to keep tabs on where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing. As far as Mary could tell, it didn’t make one bit of difference. Jonny was either out getting zonked or home, zonked out in bed. A college dropout, he worked part time at McDonald’s and hated it.

  That night, Mrs. O’Malley made a special meal of chicken and penne with vodka cream sauce. At precisely seven o’clock on Friday night, dinner was served. Everyone was in attendance, even Jonny and Ernesto, who was dressed in a bright orange polo shirt, black hair combed back, white walking shorts, high white socks and brown loafers. It was a look.

  Mary could tell that her mother was more tense than usual. Mrs. O’Malley was halfway into a bottle of red wine, and she displayed a jittery cheerfulness that felt forced. Like a hamster running in a wheel, screaming, THIS IS SO AMAZING! I’M RUNNING AROUND IN A GIANT WHEEL! Yeah, right.

  “It’s so nice to all be together like this, isn’t it?” Mrs. O’Malley announced.

  “It smells delicious!” Mary said, ever cheerful. The good child. Murmurs of agreement all around. Even Jonny mouthed something positive.

  During dinner, Mrs. O’Malley worked valiantly to inspire some form of conversation. She prodded and asked questions and talked about new shows on Netflix that she had heard about from coworkers at the bank. Ernesto told a confusing story about work—he managed a car dealership out on Sunrise Highway—and Mary answered questions about how her summer was going. “Fine, good, a little boring,” etc.

  Jonny didn’t say a word. Just sort of grumblingly sat there, moving food around with his fork.

  “You’re not eating, Jonny,” Mrs. O’Malley noted, perhaps with a little too much edge. “Don’t you like it? I made it especially for you.”

  Jonny stabbed a piece of chicken. “I’m eating,” he said.

  “Well…” Mrs. O’Malley faked a laugh. “I’m looking right at your plate.”

  “It’s very tender,” Ernesto chimed in.

  Jonny lifted his head. Staring straight at his mother, he brought the chicken to his mouth and made an exaggerated show of chewing it. After swallowing, Jonny ran a napkin across his mouth, took a sip of water, and echoed Ernesto in a louder voice—“It’s very tender!”—set down his fork, pushed his chair back, and started to get up.

  “You’ve barely touched your meal,” Mrs. O’Malley said.

  “I’m full,” Jonny said. “Besides, I’m going out tonight. I’m going to need the car.”

  “Sit,” Mrs. O’Malley said. She summoned a smile to her face. “I mean, please, stay with us for a few minutes. Don’t rush off this instant.”

  Jonny squeezed his eyes shut and scratched ferociously at the back of his neck. He nodded twice, as if making a decision. Plopped down in the chair. Mary noticed that his right leg started to bounce. It was a nervous habit that had gotten worse lately—sewing machine leg. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Too much nervous energy. Jonny sat there, fidgeting, a live wire. “Isn’t this nice,” he said, looking around from face to face. “The happy family.”

  Ernesto rose to get a beer from the fridge. “Need anything, hon?” he asked.

  Mrs. O’Malley shook her head.

  “I cleaned my room today,” Mary volunteered, hoping to shift the room’s energy. “And the upstairs bathroom, too. Those scrubbing bubbles really work!”

  “Oh, gee. Aren’t you Miss Perfect?” Jonny mocked.

  Mrs. O’Malley cleared her throat. “What happened to your guitar?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Jonny. I bought you a beautiful Martin acoustic guitar for your fourteenth birthday. It cost nine hundred dollars. You used to play it all the time.”

  She paused, looking tired and worn, and pressed on. “Where is it?”

  9

  [things]

  Jonny coughed violently, pounded his fist into his chest. He walked to the counter, spit grossly into the sink, filled a glass with water and gulped it down. Mary suspected he was stalling for time. “You’ve been going through my stuff?” he accused.

  “I was in your room changing the sheets to your bed,” Mrs. O’Malley said, not quite believably. She took a sip of wine. Placed both hands on the table to steady herself. “I couldn’t help but notice that your guitar was gone.”

  “You couldn’t help but notice,” Jonny parroted.

  “Where’s your guitar?” Mrs. O’Malley growled.

  Ernesto shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It looked like he wanted to disappear.

  “My guitar,” Jonny said, and again for emphasis, “my guitar.”

  “The one I bought for you, yes, that guitar.”

  Jonny gestured with his hands. “So that’s how it is now? You go into my room, search through my things? Do I have to buy a lock?”

  “I wasn’t searching,” Mrs. O’Malley clarified. “And it may be your guitar, but it’s my house. My rules.”

  Mary shrank into her chair. She watched Ernesto take an unhappy swig from his beer. She wondered if it helped. If maybe beer had a magical quality that pushed everything off into the distance. Ernesto’s gaze went to the ceiling. There was a frown on his lips. No wonder he didn’t come around as much lately.

  “This is bull,” Jonny protested. “You gave the guitar to me. After that, it becomes mine. Why is that so hard to understand? And guess what? I lent it to a friend, okay? I wasn’t playing it anyway. I’m kind of sick of it. The best musicians make music on laptops anyway.”

  “You lent it,” Mrs. O’Malley said, obviously not believing him.

  “Yeah, yeah, I did.”

  “To whom?”

  “Oh, whom?” Jonny smirked. “Whom? Since when do you talk so fancy, Mom?”

  “Jonny,” Mary said, hoping to alter the path of their argument.

  “Don’t, just don’t,” he advised Mary, raising a hand like a school crossing guard. “I’m not in the mood for a gang-up. And especially not from my little sister. Stay out of it. I’ve got stomach cramps, my head hurts, the house is freezing, and now I have to listen to this.” He looked to the front door like it was an escape hatch, ran both hands through his hair and snapped, “Can I have the car or what?”

  “Honey,” Ernesto murmured. “I don’t think—”

  “Oh, you’re going to talk now?” Jonny said, turning to Ernesto. “I mean, wow, you’re we
aring a clean shirt today. You got your free meal. You can go now,” Jonny mocked. “Besides, since when did anyone ever care what you thought?”

  Jonny moved toward Ernesto, glaring.

  Ernesto stared up at Jonny for a long, tense moment, his thick fingers lightly tapping the table. Otherwise the man sat perfectly still, like a Buddha or a coiled cobra. The threat of violence filled the room. Jonny was asking for it, almost begging for it, as if he desperately wanted to get the crap beaten out of him. The whisper of a smile appeared on Ernesto’s face.

  “That’s enough!” Mrs. O’Malley demanded. She stepped between them and turned to stand toe-to-toe with her son. “You will not speak like that in his house. You will not treat Ernesto with disrespect. Do you hear me? This can’t continue.” She pointed to the front door. “We can’t do this, Jonny. You’ve got to get help.”

  Mary sat quietly, her stomach churning. She felt lightheaded. It was hard to focus on anything. The room was spinning, swirling. She found it hard to swallow. How does that even happen? People swallow all the time without thinking about it. The body just does it. And now, suddenly, trying to swallow with total zen concentration was more than Mary could manage.

  Jonny backed down, seemed to sag, looked at his feet. “Mom,” he said in a whisper. “Don’t.”

  “I think you sold it,” she said. “That beautiful guitar. You loved it so much. This isn’t like you. I’m worried, Jonny, and scared.”

  “Sold it?” Jonny replied. “Are you nuts? That’s crazy. Why would I do that, Mom?”

  “Money,” Mrs. O’Malley said. She stared into the eyes of her troubled son. And then, in the softest voice she could muster: “For drugs. I believe you sold your guitar so you’d have money for drugs.”

  Jonny laughed, shaking his head derisively. He began to speak in a jittery, rapid-fire pattern of half sentences, forming a nearly incoherent symphony of anger and delusion. It struck Mary that he had snapped in some fundamental way. Broken was the word that popped into her head. His brain was broken. “Drugs, seriously? Okay, yeah, sure, I do need money—you don’t help me at all!—I went through a rough patch with college, you know that, it was hard on me—I was depressed—and yeah, I didn’t tell you, but I got fired from my job last week—it was soul-sucking, mind-numbing, and spirit-killing anyway—so don’t even start with that—I don’t have a father, by the way—that might have been nice—but even if I did sell the guitar, Mom, it’s not a big deal. It’s just a thing. An object. It doesn’t matter. Why is everything about money with you? None of this matters,” he swept an arm, taking in everything and everyone with one grand gesture. “Believe me, Mom. Where’s your faith? It’s not the end of the world. It was just a freaking guitar.”

  Mary poured water down her throat and it felt like drowning. She was all stopped up. It was hard to breathe. “I’m going out,” she announced, rising. No one tried to stop her from fleeing. No one even asked where she was going. She wasn’t even a blip on the radar.

  10

  [walking]

  He wasn’t always this way.

  Step by step, block by block, Mary repeated those words to herself: He wasn’t always this way. Forcing herself to remember. She didn’t think about ghosts or anything silly like that. This time it cut to the bone. Her big brother, who she adored since she was a baby, was turning into something horrible and ugly before her eyes.

  Why couldn’t he stop? It was drugs and prescription pills and alcohol. Mary didn’t know what else he was doing, but she suspected it was bad. And getting worse. He didn’t make sense anymore. His guitar! He talked gibberish, the story kept changing: He didn’t sell it, he lent it to a friend, he might have sold it, nothing mattered anymore, and on and on. Jonny couldn’t keep up with his own lies.

  And since when did he become so mean?

  How did Ernesto not crush him right then?

  Mary walked without purpose or direction. Motored, really. Head down, tears in her eyes, fuming, muttering. She tried to remember the good times. Her real brother. Darkness fell without her noticing. She was in shorts and a T-shirt and sneakers.

  An orange pickup truck juddered up, rolled along beside her. The passenger window slid down. “Mary? Mary?”

  Mary shook her head, clearing out the cobwebs, and stopped. It was Ernesto. She should have recognized his truck; it had sat in her driveway many times. The guy loved the color orange.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Mary stood on the sidewalk, bent at the waist so she could peer into the truck.

  “I’m great,” she stated in a flat voice.

  Another car passed. Ernesto watched through the front windshield, checked the rearview mirror. He looked at Mary and nodded. “Okay.”

  “She told you to come looking for me?”

  Ernesto was silent. Shook his head once, a small movement. “I came on my own.”

  Mary almost smiled. He was actually a sweet man who was in way over his head. Ernesto reached across to push open the car door. “It wasn’t easy finding you. Come on, get in. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  Mary walked to the car and firmly, politely closed the door. “Thanks, really,” she said, ducking her head through the open window. “I get what you are doing, and it’s nice, but I need time alone right now.” She stood, hands on her hips. There was a shaggy-haired boy seated on a bicycle, balanced on one leg, watching from across the street. Ernesto followed her gaze, turned his torso around to the left to get a good look at the boy. “Friend of yours?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Look,” Ernesto said, “I need to get back there, in case your mother, she needs me.”

  “Is Jonny gone?”

  “Yeah, yeah. He stormed out not long after you. Broke the front hall mirror, though I don’t think he meant to. Lot of emotions, lot of glass.” Ernesto drew out the words with a weary sigh.

  Mary made the calculation. Breaking a mirror was what, seven years bad luck? It also meant that her mother was alone—and probably freaked out.

  Ernesto pulled a bill from his wallet, extended an arm outside the window. “Here’s twenty. Get yourself a cone. Roberta’s Ice Cream isn’t far from here. I like the mint chocolate chip. Good milkshakes, too. Times like this, I’m a big believer in ice cream.”

  Mary accepted the money.

  He looked back at the boy again, who still sat watching the car. “You sure about that guy?” he asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Ernesto flicked on the turn signal, pointed a stubby finger at Mary, and said, “You need anything, call me. You have your phone, right? You know my number?”

  Mary started to shake her head.

  “Listen, just text your mom. You call, I will come. That’s a promise. Any time. When you’re ready to come home, I’ll come pick you up. All right?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Mary said. “I just needed to get out of there.”

  Ernesto nodded, “Stay safe.” He checked the rearview mirror, put the car into drive, and pulled away.

  Mary lingered on the sidewalk, watching the red lights of Ernesto’s pickup fade into the distance. A breeze kicked up and she shivered. It was chilly for an August night. She glanced across the street at the boy slouched over his handlebars, still watching. She waved the twenty dollar bill in the air. “Woo-hoo! Twenty bucks! You like ice cream?” she called. “My treat.”

  Griffin Connelly pedaled over. “Well, that was weird,” he said, blowing the hair from his eyes. “Sure, ice cream sounds good to me. But don’t believe that guy about the mint chocolate chip. It sucks.”

  11

  [roberta’s]

  Mary and Griff sat in a booth at Roberta’s Ice Cream Palace—which was about as far from an actual palace as you could get. Still, the ice cream was sweet and creamy, and the space itself wasn’t bad. There were booths along one wall, scattered plastic tables in the middle, and a long, low counter opposite the booths. It had a retro black-and-white tiled floo
r and fake rock star memorabilia on red walls. Everyone in town went there, especially on a Friday night in August. On any other day, Mary would have been reluctant to be seen eating ice cream with Griffin Connelly—people might get ideas—but on this night, she couldn’t care less.

  Twenty dollars didn’t buy much in the United States of America, Planet Earth, so they shared an extra-thick chocolate milkshake and a three-scoop Cosmic Crunch sundae. Mary threw the extra change in the tip jar. There wasn’t much, and she didn’t get a big thank-you.

  Griff leaned back, swung his legs onto the booth bench, and groaned. “I’m stuffed.”

  They hadn’t talked about anything important. Just ate, ravenously. Griffin gave Mary space, didn’t crowd her with questions. She was grateful for that, and glad to have normal human company.

  Mary leaned forward, peering closely at Griffin’s face.

  “What?” he said.

  “You really do have incredibly long eyelashes,” she observed.

  “Yeah, I hear that a lot. My sisters are jealous.” He shrugged and smiled in her direction.

  “What were you doing out, just riding around?” Mary asked.

  The shrug again, signaling whatever. “Actually, I was headed to Cody’s. He’s an amazing mechanic. Loves to take things apart and sometimes he even puts them together again,” Griff said with a grin. “I was supposed to help him out. He’s rebuilding a dirt bike, but I texted that I wasn’t coming.”

  “That’s neat, that he can fix things,” Mary said a little awkwardly. Neat, how sad.

  Griff nodded and looked away. He watched a group of high schoolers walk into the shop. Lacrosse guys and girls. Then he pulled his feet back around to the floor and said, “Do you want to talk about why you were wandering around with tears leaking out of your face? Because I can go either way. You don’t have to. But if you want to,” he said, looking directly into Mary’s eyes, “we can do that.”