The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “You never listen to me.”

  “I may never admit that I listen, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. Remember when I wanted to build a zip line from my room to Toby’s? That would not have ended well. We only stopped because you threatened to get Mom and Dad. Seriously, Rory, with the amount of adventures you’ve interrupted, stealing my partner in crime to go do something behave-y, I’m probably alive because of you.”

  Because I was the tattletale spoilsport who “interrupted her adventures.” I frowned. “I didn’t steal your partner in crime.”

  “Are you serious?” Merri laughed. “You’ve always been able to walk into the middle of our chaos and mention something you wanted to try—building Everest in the sandbox, melting crayons on the driveway, making your own origami paper—and Toby would abandon me and go to you like you were an artistic oasis.”

  She had that backward. I was the one left behind—paper half-made, origami half-folded—when she barged in with walkie-talkies and plans for a spy mission, or a map and a treasure she’d buried.

  Merri wobbled in Lilly’s high heels—each of her feet in a shoe of a different height. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m alive because of you? Take the compliment.”

  Lilly rolled her eyes. “Hyperbole aside, what Merri is trying to explain is that you’ve been there for us and we’re happy to be here for you.”

  I didn’t know what “hyperbole” meant and didn’t ask. “That’s nice, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not asking Mom and Dad for the money.” Ms. Gregoire was only half right—avoiding things I was afraid of might not make them go away, but saying them aloud wouldn’t make dollar bills magically appear.

  “Is that the issue? Then ask us,” said Merri. She stepped down from the heels and put them back.

  “How much is it?” Lilly’s voice was quiet, not as confident as Merri’s.

  “Too much,” I answered, standing up and taking Lilly’s stress ball with me. Merri was no longer guarding the door and I took the chance to slip out. “I appreciate this, but it’s not going to happen.”

  I avoided my sisters the next day and continually reaffirmed for Mom and Dad that not-going was what I wanted. Mom believed me because that was what she wanted. Dad knew I was lying but couldn’t figure out why.

  “Is this about a boy?” he asked me Tuesday night when we were the only two in the kitchen. “Or your classmates? Mrs. Mundhenk mentioned there’d been some jealousy issues going on. Rory, I don’t want you to ever burn less brightly because others don’t glow. Your talent is a gift. Don’t hide it.”

  “I’m not,” I told him. “I’m learning so much at Hero High. I don’t need this. Okay?”

  “I’m not sure it is okay.” Dad sighed. “But I’m not going to force you to go if you’re uncomfortable. We learned that lesson when we believed the camp counselor who told us Lilly would get over her homesickness if we gave her time. Do you remember? You were still in a car seat and still not sleeping through the night, so the two of us made a midnight three-hour trek to the Hudson Valley to pick her up. She made me wake and unstrap you so she could hug you before we drove home—which meant you roared the whole way back.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t remember it, but I liked the visual so much I spun it into a reflection journal. I hadn’t read any more Little Women, but I wanted to rethink my response to chapter seven. This time not focused on the crime of pickled limes that got Amy punished at school, but on the way her sisters reacted to her punishment. Meg cried as she bandaged Amy’s lashed hand. Jo had made threats and stormed the school to get Amy’s things.

  Amy was hurt by what happened, but her sisters made it better. When I’d had my origami catastrophe, I hadn’t told Lilly or Merri. I hadn’t given them the chance to stick up for me and have my back. They would’ve. Merri would’ve stomped down from the middle school and told off my teacher and Stella and anyone who laughed. Lilly would’ve taken me back to the store and bought more paper with her own money.

  We made a great team when I let them play, but I usually kept them on the sidelines. I thought it wasn’t fair to ask for their help when I had nothing to offer in return. But they didn’t seem to feel that way. And maybe families weren’t a game of balancing a seesaw but of playing Red Rover. You held on as tight as you could and protected that bond from the forces that flew against you and tried to tear you apart.

  41

  Convocation on Friday was a dizzying rundown of all the deadlines and special events before winter break. Some people around me had fancy planners out, color-coding and sticker-charting their next week. Others were in a button-pushing frenzy on their phones as they programmed in the Candlelight Concert, final projects, holiday parties, and schedule changes.

  My phone was in my locker, along with everything else. The only thing I’d brought to Convocation was a feeling of restlessness and a case of the fidgets. Both grew worse as I realized I was the unprepared fool in a sea of type A organizers.

  “How did you know to bring that?” I asked, pointing to the calendar in Clara’s lap.

  “My Knight Light told me,” she whispered back, her eyes not moving from the page in her binder as she switched from green pen to purple and added Knight Light meeting—no Convocation to next Monday.

  “Oh.” My Knight Light hadn’t warned me. Maybe he would’ve, but we’d spent the whole drive to school discussing chickpea cookies, cashew “cheese” cake, and other plant-based dessert recipes Toby had apparently been researching with Curtis’s help. Some sounded gross, but we’d licked the bowl of black bean brownie batter last week, and I’d gladly talk cauliflower rice pudding if it meant he didn’t bring up the Snipes workshop.

  “I’ll take pictures of each page and send them to you. Or—” Her pen lifted from her paper. “Oh my stars! I finally know what to get you for Christmas. Your own planner.”

  I mumbled, “Please don’t,” because there was no way I was maintaining something like that. Hers was adorable with a monogrammed sparkly leather binder and pages decorated with washi tape, hand-lettered to-do lists, and thematic stickers. Each page was crafted. I knew myself—I’d get obsessive over the artsiness of it and neglect its actual function.

  Huck, on my other side, elbowed me and whispered, “Relax, I’ve sent you an event invite for everything I added to my iLive calendar.”

  “Thanks.” I exhaled as Headmaster Williams transitioned to the school song.

  Toby found us when Convocation ended, making his way against the current of exiting students to reach my second-row seat—Clara’s pick, she preferred the front. “Hey, Roar—”

  “Thanks for the heads-up about the schedule rundown,” I interrupted.

  “Oh, right.” He face-palmed. “Sorry, it’s always the last Friday before break. You can see my notes.”

  “Sophomore notes aren’t super helpful for freshman schedules,” interjected Huck. “But I got her covered.”

  I waited for Clara to chime in and show off her planner, but she’d gone down the row to compare layouts with Gemma.

  “Uh, great, I guess.” Toby’s eyes shifted from Huck to me. “Anyway, Roar, I’ve got physical therapy at four, but you’re working today, right?” I nodded and he added, “Okay, meet me at my car and I’ll drop you at the store on my way.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  Huck waited until he’d left, then elbowed me. “So, Project Green Light is still glowing?”

  “What?” I stopped tracking Toby’s back and glanced up at Huck. “No.”

  “I don’t know—I just saw some glow. At least some embers.” I was shaking my head, but Huck was busy scanning the room. “Let’s find Clara before we start brainstorming, because you know she’ll be pissed if we—”

  “No. Stop.” I yanked on his arm until he listened. “Sometimes I just want to be your friend, not your project.”

  His dimple flickered. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Let’s save Rory from the mean people in art. Let’s s
ave Rory from her unrequited love.” I squared my shoulders and looked at him. “Huck, did it ever occur to you that if I need saving, I’ll do it myself?”

  His dimples disappeared as his face went serious. He swallowed, weighing my words. “That’s fair.”

  “I just—”

  “No, I get it. Sometimes I get too aggressive with fix-it mode. I should wait for you to ask for advice.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I made you feel like a project.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I do appreciate the help, it’s just . . . I’m trying to be Toby’s friend, and comments like that . . .”

  “Are a reminder of why you’re doomed to fail?”

  “That’s not fair!” Normally I’d back down. I didn’t instigate arguments—not with anyone but Merri—but I’d fought too hard for this and I trusted Huck would still be there on the other side of the disagreement. “I don’t swoon after him anymore. I don’t giggle and go along with whatever he wants. I don’t see him as this perfect person.”

  “The thing is, Campbell”—Huck leaned one knee on the bench so we were closer to the same height—“I don’t think he sees you the same way he used to either.”

  “Stop. Please, just stop.” Because I didn’t want to hear words like those, words that might make me hope and twist my thoughts and feelings into silly, reckless knots. “I need to focus on passing freshman year, not chasing disasters.”

  Huck mimed zipping his lips. Then locking them. Then throwing away the key. Halfway down the row, Clara pantomimed catching it, then she marched back over. “Now that we’ve got him set to mute, let’s make winter break plans. Tell me again what days you’re away in New York? Is it before or after Christmas?”

  She pointed to the spread in her planner where in each block of winter break she’d penciled in Rory away? Rory away? Rory away?

  I felt each of those question marks like a needle in my skin. I pushed the book back. Clara tutted. “Don’t tell me you don’t know when you’re gone. This is why you need a planner.”

  No, what I needed was a plan, a way to explain to everyone not when I was going, but why I was not.

  42

  At the store that night Merri and Lilly tried to ambush me with “We’ve been talking and—”

  I held up a hand. “I need you to hear me.” They quieted immediately, the way Gatsby did when you held up a treat, and I was almost too shocked to continue. “I don’t want to talk about the Snipes workshop. I want you to respect my decision not to go.”

  “But, Rory—” Merri began.

  Lilly clamped a hand over her mouth. “We hear you and we’re here for you if you want to talk.”

  I didn’t. And I’d never been more grateful for the stream of people seeking drawings of their dogs. The thing had gotten an unofficial name: Pup Portraits. And the whole night there was at least one customer waiting while I drew the dog before theirs. By the time we flipped the sign to Closed, I needed to shake out my wrist and crack my back.

  “Lilly, do you have any of those fancy bath bombs left?” I asked as we walked to her car. “I need to find a more comfortable way to draw in the store. My spine feels like a slinky someone left unattended with Merri.”

  “They’re under the sink,” Lilly said with a laugh. “Help yourself.”

  But I didn’t get the chance, because Mom and Dad were waiting at the kitchen table with their checkbook and store ledgers when we walked in. “Girls, take a seat.”

  “Are we in trouble?” Merri slid into a chair and pulled up her feet. “I didn’t do it.”

  Lilly and I shot her a look like Great teamwork, but Dad laughed. “No one’s in trouble. We have a question.”

  I grabbed the fruit bowl and put it in a bare spot among the bills on the table. Lilly grabbed a banana and I went for a pear. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “It started a little more than a month ago,” began Mom. “We noticed the register didn’t balance. At first we thought it was a one-time thing, maybe we overcharged someone. We put the money aside in case they came back. Then, two weeks later, it happened again.”

  “It’s kept happening. Tonight I realized it’s only on the nights you three are working. I bet if I get the cash bag from the safe right now, it’ll be more than the amount on the register tape.”

  Merri looked up from the numbers she was jotting on an envelope. “I’m guessing it would be a hundred and fifty over. Maybe more. I couldn’t keep up with Rory tonight because the store was super busy. The waiting customers all bought stuff.”

  Mom held up a hand. “Slow down and speak as if you want people to understand you.”

  Merri pointed to me. Lilly put a foot on one of my chair’s rungs.

  “I draw pictures of people’s dogs.” I set down my pear and folded my hands in my lap, not quite sure why I was nervous. “It started by accident, but it’s grown. Tonight, there was a line of people waiting.”

  “They pay you?” Mom asked at the same time Merri said, “You’ve been putting all that money in the register?”

  “How much do people pay per drawing?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know. I make Merri do that part.”

  “Between twenty and fifty,” she said. “Sometimes more, but usually in that range. I can’t believe you’ve been putting it in the register. That’s got to be at least”—she looked at her envelope math—“six hundred dollars.”

  “Seven-seventy is what we calculated,” Mom said. “Not including tonight.”

  Lilly and I both gasped. Merri did too, but was quicker to make it into words. “See? I was right, I didn’t do it. This was all Rory.” She turned to me. “But, why?”

  “Because obviously I was too stupid to realize people would notice,” I mumbled.

  “It’s your money,” Mom said. “Why wouldn’t you keep it?” Lilly got it. I could see the dots connecting on her face, which was a map of sympathy and concern. She scooted her chair closer.

  “Because you guys need it. You keep saying everything is expensive and I thought . . .” I swallowed and added, “I don’t deserve to be at Hero High. I’m not smart enough and you guys shouldn’t be stuck paying for me to flunk out.”

  Dad turned to Mom. Both of them were horror-struck. “Where do we even start with that?”

  Mom swallowed and fanned her eyes, trying not to cry. “With the facts—Rory, you’re not even close to flunking out. Yes, you struggled with math in the beginning, but your average is currently six-tenths away from a B-minus. And all your other grades are Cs or higher.”

  “Wait.” I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “How do you know all that?”

  “Parent Portal,” Dad said. “While we wish you’d come to us with your math troubles, we watched you handle it—we’ve seen how hard you’re working with Toby. We’re proud of all the effort you’re putting in. That’s worth more than all the As in the world.”

  My middle sister squirmed in her seat, probably horrified that they’d implied all her A’s were not as impressive, but for once she remained silent. She’d grabbed another bill’s envelope and was scratching a column of numbers on it.

  “As for the other thing.” Mom sighed. “There’s nothing we’d rather spend our money on than your education.” She paused to kiss Merri and me on our heads. “And your happiness.” Then she blew a kiss to Lilly.

  “Someday when we’re old and drooling, you’ll pay us back by wiping our chins,” Dad joked, but there was a layer of hurt there and his forced laugh faded into a sniff. “I wish we could give you girls everything you’ve dreamed of: dream schools, dream cars, dream weddings.”

  “But what we can do,” Mom added, “is return the money. This is yours, Rory.” She slid a fat envelope across the table to me. “Put it in the bank.”

  “And on that note, we’re off to bed.” Dad stood and kissed each of our foreheads. “Sleep sweet, little dreamer” (Merri), “Sweet dreams, sweet girl” (Lilly), “Dream big, little one” (me).

  Th
ey headed out of the kitchen and my sisters turned to me as soon as the stair light was switched off. “So?” Merri said. “Are you going to New York?”

  I spun the envelope with one finger. “I had no idea I’d made that much money . . . but it’s still not enough.”

  “But it’s seven hundred and seventy dollars,” Merri said. “The cost is now too much minus seven hundred and seventy dollars—plus what you made tonight. Let us pay the rest.”

  “You’ve got books and stuff to buy, and, Lilly, your dream wedding . . . I know there’s got to be things you’re paying for out of pocket.”

  Lilly laughed. “My dream wedding would be New Year’s Eve: new year, new beginning.”

  “Same guy?” Merri joked, and Lilly glowered at her.

  “Let us do this,” said Merri. “I can get books from the library or Hannah.”

  “And you’re doing my makeup for all wedding events,” said Lilly. “I was going to pay the makeup artist some ridiculous amount. You’ll make me look twice as good.”

  “Guys . . .” My voice trailed off. “I can’t.” Lilly was one thing, because she was months away from marrying a gazillionaire; but Merri . . . I’d spent so long resenting her for Toby’s sake when she didn’t do anything but exist and be lovable.

  “You’re my sister,” she said. “I love you. This is your dream. And I’m going to support it today and tomorrow and five years from now. If I need to empty my bank account to buy a painting at your first gallery display, I will. Because I know I won’t be able to afford one at your second.”

  We laughed and sniffed. Merri took one of my hands in both of hers. Lilly did the same. Merri leaned close. “I don’t know why you thought we wouldn’t do this—and right now I’m not going to tell you how much that hurts my feelings—but I’m Team Rory. Always. You don’t have to ask for my help. You get it by default.”