Tonight, I have no answers at all.
* * *
—
Later, as I lie in bed, trying to make sense of the day, I realize the list of people I trust is shorter than ever.
I don’t trust Jake like I used to.
I don’t trust myself around him.
And no matter how many times I chase the thought away, I wonder for the first time if Seth might be hiding something too.
I watch as Daphne’s taillights recede in the distance, headed toward home. Why the hell would I promise to check on Jake?
Because you didn’t want her to do it herself. Because who knows where that would have led.
I text Kolt, just so I can say I’ve done something.
Did you talk to Jake?
I tried but he didn’t answer
You think he’s OK?
I think he’s the MVP of the state tournament
So yeah he’s OK
Will you go check on him? Daphne said he was acting weird. I’d go but this place is a disaster and I still have to clean up.
U serious?? It’s almost midnight and my cars out of gas
My mom whisper-shouts at me from her bedroom doorway. “Is everybody gone?”
“Yeah, the last people just left. Can I talk to Dad for a second?”
Mom gestures at a mound under the covers. “Good luck. I barely got him horizontal before he passed out.”
I watch the rise and fall of the comforter as Dad lies there, his face slack and blank. What does she mean by “passed out”? That he was so exhausted from tonight’s game—and this season, and the six years of late nights leading up to it—that he fell asleep, hard and fast, the second his head hit the pillow? Or does it have more to do with the empty beer bottles lined up along the windowsill that he snuck in over the course of the party?
I learned discipline from my parents, by their instruction and their example. Mom has put up with so much from both of us for so long, and she never even breaks a sweat. But lately Dad has been so focused and disciplined when it comes to the game and the season that things have started slipping in other areas. He’s still as fit as most of the guys on the team, but instead of running three miles every day, it’s ten or nothing. (Usually nothing.) Instead of lean protein, it’s greasy burgers. And now the line of beer bottles, when he’d always limited himself to two.
When my phone shakes my pocket, I hope it will be Kolt. Normally I’d rather have a text from Daphne, but tonight all I can think of is what I saw in the locker room—and the fact that she’s still thinking about Jake.
It’s her. And yup, she’s still thinking about him.
Jake will be fine. Don’t check on him—I didn’t mean to dump that on you. He and Kolt are probably passed out in front of Demon Slayer or something. I’m going to sleep. You should too. xoxo
It’s impossible not to picture her in her soft shorts and the Stanford T-shirt she sleeps in. She always could fall asleep so quickly, so peacefully, even on bus trips or curled up on a couch during movie nights.
Jake must know that about her too. The thought burns me up. And even though I’m exhausted, I’m too mad—at Daphne, at Jake, at myself—to fall asleep. I lie there listening to Coach’s passed-out snores keeping no time whatsoever with the tick of the clock on my wall.
Everything is out of sync, and there’s no chance of my brain shutting off until I clear this up.
There’s still a light on in my parents’ room, so I knock softly. Mom’s awake, reading. “I need to check on something real quick,” I tell her. “Jake was acting weird tonight, so I’m going to make sure he’s okay. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Mom rests a hand on my arm. “You are a good kid, Seth. Wake me up when you get back.”
I don’t pass a single car on the long drive into town, but when I get to Jake’s, there’s one parked at the curb. A beat-up truck, actually, with Kolt hunched over the wheel in an old basketball hoodie, looking pretty ticked off. He must have borrowed one of his dad’s semifunctional trucks since his truck is out of gas. And Jake’s truck is in the driveway.
I pull over—across the street and far enough back that they won’t notice me—and cut the engine and the lights. If Jake’s home and Kolt’s on it after all, maybe I don’t have to get involved.
Jake comes out of the house then, hood up and hands stuffed in his pockets.
As he walks to the truck, though, there’s something off. The way he keeps looking around, maybe, or the little bit of stagger in his step.
Jake shrugs out of his backpack and tosses it in the bed of the truck, then climbs in the passenger seat. I swear, Kolt gasses it before Jake’s door is even closed, and they tear down the street.
Straight toward me. Shit. I pull up my own hood and duck down, but still, I want to get a good look at Jake’s face.
Even in that split second, though, I can tell he isn’t okay. His face shines too pale in the dim glow of the streetlamp. His eyes seem sunken somehow. If I had to pick one word for it, I might pick haunted.
In the very last instant before they pass, those sunken eyes lock with mine, and I shiver deeper into my hoodie and crank the engine to start the heat back up. For half a second, I think about following them, but I talk myself out of it, using the same excuses I’ve been hiding behind all night.
He’ll talk if it’s just him and Kolt. He doesn’t want you there.
He doesn’t deserve your help after what happened in the training room.
And most of all: Jake Foster is a lot of things to a lot of people, but he is not your problem. You deserve to go home and check out for tonight.
So that’s exactly what I do. I send Kolt a quick text: Let me know if you need backup. And Daphne too: He’s with Kolt. He’s fine. Then I drive straight home.
As I’m driving, it’s hard not to hope karma kicks him in the ass. Because I still can’t guarantee I won’t do it myself.
* * *
—
When my alarm blares Monday morning, it still takes everything I have to haul my butt out of bed.
I slide into the desk next to Daphne’s in calculus. She doesn’t straight-up ask me about Jake, but I can tell she’s wondering, especially as the day drags by and we still haven’t seen him. After the last bell, she comes to my locker, and I can see the question in her eyes.
“I drove by Jake’s house Saturday night,” I say. “He and Kolt were headed somewhere. They probably decided to take today off. It’s pretty rough on those two how they have to go to class every single day during the season.”
Daphne doesn’t laugh. “Kolt’s here today.”
That’s a surprise. I haven’t seen him all day, so I assumed he and Jake were still out together, maybe getting themselves stuck in that truck in the hills somewhere or heading south to find someplace warm enough to camp.
I check my phone. No texts from either of them.
“Kolt’s here?” I ask. “Are you sure?”
We walk out to the parking lot, and I can see Kolt’s ugly orange Ford, plain as day. He must have gotten gas in the last thirty-six hours.
“We could go over to his house together,” I say, realizing I didn’t really mean it when the look on her face tells me that’s exactly where we’re headed.
Except we don’t make it that far. As we start down the sidewalk, a police officer walks up to us.
“Daphne Sharp and Seth Cooper?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” we say together. It might be funny if I wasn’t starting to freak out.
“Nice job at state,” he says. “Both of you.”
“Thanks,” we say, but out of sync this time. We’re ready to walk straight past when the officer puts out his hand, stopping us without even making contact.
“I wonder if you’d be willing to talk with me for a minute.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask, even though that sick, sinking feeling inside me knows there is.
“Come inside,” he says. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
I think I might puke. I was pulled over once and wanted to puke then, but this is a thousand times worse.
Daphne goes first, and I sit and stare at the closed door of the counseling office the whole time, trying to think about anything other than being interviewed by the police. We came here together two weeks ago to talk about summer internships. I’ve missed some of the deadlines already, I realize. That’s got to be first priority when I go home.
But when I see the look on Daphne’s face as the door opens, my priorities are shot to hell. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She buries her head in my chest.
“Daphne, what happened?” I ask, wanting to hear it straight from her.
She looks up at me, eyes brimming.
“He’s gone.”
Phoenix comes in and drops a paper bag on the long, low table in the center of the room. The smell makes Jake sick. He notices the translucent spots on the bag where grease has seeped from the food.
“I can’t eat that,” he says.
“You have to eat that,” Phoenix says. “Tonight’s the night we plan our next move, so I need you fueled up and ready to think.”
Our next move. That’s what he said. Jake feels something in him loosen. He’s been hearing the unmistakable rip of packing tape and the dull thud of things being dragged around. He’s been so afraid that Phoenix was planning to leave without him, and then what? There was no going back, but he had no idea what forward might look like.
Because everything has changed since he’s been down here. He still thinks of home, misses his mom and Luke, but he sees now that Phoenix has saved him. That this really was the only way.
“Make a list,” Phoenix says, sliding a burger and a pile of fries across the table. “The shorter the better. Once we grab what we need, we can get out of here.”
“Am I going back with you to get the stuff?” Jake asks, hopeful in spite of himself.
Phoenix gives a short bark of a laugh. “Hell no, you can’t go back. You’re barely ready for forward.”
Jake picks at his food. “When are you making the grab?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Probably the day after that.”
“What day is tomorrow?”
Phoenix looks surprised—maybe that Jake doesn’t know, or maybe that he cares. “Friday. The fifth. You’ve been here awhile.”
If tomorrow is the fifth, then the next day is Luke’s birthday. Jake’s not sure exactly what that means to him tonight, but it means something.
“Don’t go on the sixth,” he says.
“Why? You got other plans that day?”
Jake nods. “You know me. Calendar’s always full.”
Phoenix laughs. This time it sounds like a release.
“Tomorrow it is. We can take off the next day.”
“And then you’ll give me my phone back.” Jake expects Phoenix to ignore it or shut him down like before, but he stops and thinks as he eats fries, two at a time, from the bag.
“Maybe,” he says. “If you’re ready.”
Jake doesn’t believe him.
Phoenix finishes his can of off-brand soda, pulls off the tab, and slips it in his pocket. He notices Jake watching this. “Just something stupid I do for good luck. You superstitious, Foster?”
Jake pulls the tab off his own soda and puts it in his pocket. Phoenix laughs again; Jake likes making him laugh. “Maybe. Comes with being an athlete, I think.” But is he still an athlete? Even in this broken, bruised body? He lowers his gaze, unsure—and catches a flash of metallic red in a split seam of the cushion of Phoenix’s chair.
Jake needs Phoenix to lean forward again, to see if he really saw what he thinks he saw. So he asks another question, trying not to let his words betray the new thought in his mind. “Can I have your ketchup if you’re not going to eat it?”
“Holy shit, Foster. When did you become such a diva?” Phoenix throws a pair of half-eaten fries at Jake, who catches them. As he leans forward, reaching for the ketchup, the seam splits further, and Jake can see it clearly.
This is where Phoenix is hiding his phone.
* * *
—
When they’ve finished eating, Jake writes the list of things he needs Phoenix to take for him, noting the location of each and keeping the list as short as he can. He’s got to be in and out as quickly as possible. As Jake writes, the knot inside him loosens just a little more. Tomorrow, when Phoenix leaves to make the grab, he’ll be able to take the phone back, at least long enough to send a message.
But the next day, when the moment comes, the cushion is empty. Jake swears, realizing Phoenix has taken the phone with him.
In the end, all he gets is a few stolen seconds with it around dinnertime the following day, while Phoenix is in the bathroom. Jake taps the group message at the top of the list and types as quickly as he can. There’s no time to check what he’s written, but he hopes it’s enough. Hopes it’s worth something, even if it isn’t worth nearly what a kid deserves on his birthday.
He sends the text and shoves the phone back into the seam just as the light spills in from the open door.
This is the second time in two days I’ve been sure Luke’s shitting me.
The first time was yesterday, when he texted to tell me he saw my brother. I might not be in AP psych, but even I know that’s called “projecting.” “Remember your brother who disappeared? Great news: he’s back! Everything’s fine!” You can’t blame the kid for wanting to believe that so bad he says it to somebody else.
And now he’s inviting me over for his birthday party. I haven’t been to a twelve-year-old’s birthday party since I was—you guessed it—twelve. What do you even do at a party like that, when there’s a Jake-size elephant in the room? What do you say?
But when it’s time for the party, I go over there. Mostly for Luke’s sake, but also because there’s something nice about being around people who are as worried as I am. And maybe they’re even mad at Jake too, like I am some days, even if that’s not totally fair. People who know him and, okay, love him like I do.
Daphne pulls up right after me, and Luke comes out the front door wearing the Space Jam T-shirt Jake gave him for his last birthday. I wonder if Daphne’s even seen the movie. I wonder what memories the two of them have that I’m missing. If each of us were a circle on one of those Venn diagrams, is there anything but Jake in the section where we all overlap? Anything else in the world that would bring the three of us together?
Mrs. Foster comes out, looking like she partied a little too hard last night, even though I know she doesn’t drink and she sure as hell hasn’t been partying. She wraps Luke in her arms.
“Thanks for inviting us,” Daphne says. “I’ve missed you guys.” She joins in the hug, and then I’m the sucker just standing there by myself. This is it, I think. The point of overlap for all four of us. They literally have their arms around each other. I should get in there.
But by the time I’ve talked myself into it, they’re pulling apart. “Come in,” Mrs. Foster says. “Dinner is almost ready.”
Mrs. Foster’s pad thai is probably about as authentic as an eBay Da Vinci, but it’s pure Jake. I look around and wonder how many times each of us has eaten chicken and red peppers and noodles and peanuts, with little wedges of lime to squeeze on top, here at this table. It would feel exactly right if it weren’t so disturbingly wrong.
While we eat, the four of us talk about the schools Daphne has applied to, the way the baseball team is shaping up for this season, the fact that even if Luke believed in astrology (which he doesn’t), today’s signs are based on the position of the constellations two thousand years
ago, so they’re extra wrong. You know: normal dinner conversation.
When my plate is pretty much empty, I scrape together the last little pieces of peanut and scoop them up with my fork. “Mrs. Foster, that was amazing. It would be a special kind of hell to be allergic to this stuff.” Then I remember Seth’s peanut allergy, and when I see a way to tease Daphne, I have to take it. “No making out for you tonight, huh?”
It’s the wrong joke. I don’t even need Jake here to tell me. Wrong because Daphne used to be with Jake and it’s pretty obvious the Fosters still miss her, and because Seth’s so allergic something like that could actually kill him, and, most of all, because we’re all sitting here pretending to party when we don’t even know if Jake’s alive.
Daphne’s speechless, which isn’t Daphne.
“I’m sorry,” I say, crushing the peanuts with the tines of my fork.
“It’s okay,” she says, even though nothing is.
“I made my own cake,” Luke says, and we all smile because it’s kind of a perfect bittersweet, not-so-smooth reminder of why we’re here.
Luke’s cake is covered in chocolate frosting and leans a little, but it’s better than I could do. He puts twelve candles in a constellation across the top, and we sing (badly).
Right as we finish, there’s a buzz and a chime and the rustle of three people reaching for their phones when they get a text all at once.
Three, but not four.
Mrs. Foster makes the connection first, maybe because she’s the one on the outside. Or maybe a mother knows stuff like this. “It’s Jake, isn’t it?” she whispers. “What does it say?” Her face looks so pale in the flickering light of the candles. “Is he okay?”
It’s Luke who reads the text out loud.
I’m so sorry I wish I would have done everything differently maybe when this is all over you will find a way to forgive me
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