by Natalie Lund
I’ve never been as nice as him. No one can be. It’s a high bar. But I know that I could still be nicer.
Today was a hard day. But Sandy wouldn’t have used that as an excuse and so I won’t either.
If there’s anyone on here who needs to hear it: I’m sorry.
And for everyone else: be like Sandy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NATE
Twenty-nine days before
AFTER DINNER, NATE’S dad helped set his bedroom up for the night with his tablet, a stack of pillows to prop up his knee, and the textbooks Janie had brought over—not that he planned to study. There was no point if he wasn’t trying to get a soccer scholarship.
“Got everything?” his dad asked. He smelled strongly of his favorite green bar soap, which you could find in hair-speckled slivers throughout their house. He said it was the only one that took away the stench of fish.
“Yeah,” Nate replied, eager for his dad to leave him alone.
But his dad seemed to have other plans. “Listen.” He cleared his throat and sat in Nate’s desk chair. “You know how I played baseball in college?”
Nate nodded.
“Well, I had this buddy who hurt his knee. Just like you. He couldn’t play, but he did equipment management and stat keeping for the team for a couple seasons. And you know what he does now?”
It was rhetorical, Nate knew. He kept quiet.
“He’s head of baseball operations for the Mets.”
“Is that supposed to inspire me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you that there’s so much more after this. You don’t know where your path will lead.”
His dad seemed to want him to be over the injury already, to make plans for a new, soccerless future, but he didn’t have the first clue where to start. And what’s more, he didn’t want to imagine a life without soccer.
The doorbell rang—saving him from further lectures—and he heard the murmur of his mother’s voice and two sets of footsteps down the hall: Shane and Israel.
“Hi, Mr. Herschel,” Shane said, practically bursting into the room. “We wanted to surprise Nate. We promise not to stay super long.”
Nate’s dad squeezed Shane’s shoulder. “All right. I’ll leave you guys to it.”
Shane grabbed Nate’s desk chair and pulled it next to the bed. Israel stepped into the room, but still hovered near the door. His hair—somehow always perpetually overgrown—curled over the tips of his ears. He kept his eyes down, but he shot looks at Nate.
“Dude, it’s Saturday night, and you’re in bed,” Shane said.
“It’s Saturday night and you’re here,” Nate responded. “Why aren’t you with Cass?”
“She’s at a volleyball tournament in Austin for the long weekend.” Shane glanced around the room. “I’ll get another chair. Is, take this one.” He bounded out of the room with as much energy as he’d entered it.
Israel sat in the chair. He held himself so stiff and upright, Nate thought it was a miracle he wasn’t the one to break a knee.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He’d always been jealous, though. Nate remembered how Israel would sit across the bus aisle from him and Shane after games freshman year, listening hungrily to their conversations as though there’d be a test on how much he’d learned. The next day he’d show up to practice with a favorite snack or song on his phone that Shane had mentioned in passing.
“Nate? I said I’m sorry.”
The thing about painkillers was that they only worked for short intervals, which Nate was beginning to think of as sweet valleys between massive hills of pain. He was nearing the top of his pain hill, and he had to wait to take the next dose so that he could sleep through the night. It was his last dose too. Dr. Dennis wanted him on over-the-counter meds as soon as possible.
Nate pushed his fists into the bed and tried to shift so his knee would hurt a little less. “I heard you before,” he said with a grimace.
Israel’s shoulders dropped—a jerky motion, like even relaxation was robotic. “For what it’s worth, it was an accident,” he said.
With the pain returning, Nate felt like a ball of raw nerves. “Was it?” he asked.
Israel’s eyes widened at the question. “Of course,” he said. “Why would I want to hurt you?”
“To be a starter maybe?”
“Nate, I like soccer, but I only play to hang out with you guys and have another activity on my college apps. I don’t need to be a starter.”
“Right, you don’t need it because you are the model student with good grades and community service and teachers who worship you,” Nate said.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying,” Nate said. “And, well, I do need it.”
Shane returned, dragging a chair from Aaron’s room. “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going in here?”
Israel stood. “I should go,” he said. “Can you walk home, Shane?”
“Yeah, but—” Shane looked at Nate and raised his eyebrows. Ask him to stay, his face seemed to be saying. Nate started browsing for a web series on his tablet. “Do you want me to go too?” Shane asked.
“Up to you,” Nate said. Israel was standing in the hallway, hovering outside the room.
“It seems like you might be tired,” Shane said.
Nate shrugged, aware he was testing Shane. If Shane was really his friend, he’d stay.
“Okay,” Shane said. “See you at school?”
Nate didn’t answer. Shane paused in the doorway for a moment, as if waiting for more, then closed the door behind him and left with Israel.
Nate tapped the last pill into his hand and chucked the empty bottle at the door. He didn’t need his friends.
He didn’t need anything now.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ISRAEL
Twenty-nine days before
ISRAEL DROVE SHANE home, pretending it didn’t matter one way or another if Nate forgave him. But it mattered. As soon as Shane had climbed from the car, the streetlights transformed into blurry blobs. He tried to take deep breaths and stitch himself back together, but there were too many holes to repair at once: his GPA, Randolph’s death, Peter catching him lying in the emails, Nate’s knee.
Luna didn’t greet Israel when he came in, which meant she was probably following someone else around the house, hoping to get fed instead of watching out the window for his return.
“Hello?” Israel called. “Mami?”
“She’s out with Magdalena. Dad’s working,” his sister called from upstairs. “Are you okay?”
Israel didn’t answer her, but he trudged up the stairs. Luna was sprawled on the floor outside Izzy’s room. She sprang up and wagged when she saw him.
Izzy swung open her door. She was wearing sweatpants, folded over at the waist, and a soccer tournament T-shirt that she’d sliced at the neck so it fell off one shoulder. All of it had been his from freshman year, but she’d made it retro cool.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, touching her side.
He wasn’t sure what face he made at her, but she dropped her hand.
“I thought you were hanging out with Nate and Shane tonight,” she said.
“Nate was too tired.”
Her laptop was open on her bed, something paused on the screen. As popular as she was, she spent a lot of time alone watching movies.
Mostly, though, he was jealous she got to have her own hobbies. Their parents wanted Israel to succeed so badly that anytime he deviated from their plan for him—like the time he’d enrolled in the dance PE elective instead of a computer programming class—they’d freaked out. Izzy wasn’t under the same k
ind of pressure; they’d already realized she wasn’t going to follow anyone’s path but her own.
“You going to tell me what’s hurting you or are you just going to stand there staring?” she asked.
She wasn’t going to leave him alone unless he offered her something. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s get the shoebox.”
“That bad, huh?”
Without answering, he retrieved his stash of cigarettes that he kept hidden in a shoebox and they climbed onto the roof together. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, handing it to her after he took the first drag.
“I’m the one who injured Nate,” he said after a long exhale. It was part of the truth.
“That’s no secret,” she said. “Cass already told me.”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“Okay,” she said. She handed the cigarette back and inspected her split ends. She was always complaining about how straightening her hair damaged it, but she couldn’t stop. People expect me to have straight hair, she’d say as though it were unquestionably true.
“It wasn’t,” he said again.
“I said okay. Why are you so defensive?”
Because he was used to people not taking his words at face value. His parents and their doctor didn’t believe him about the dreams. But he had to remember that Izzy did, probably because she experienced something inexplicable too: her twinsense. “Nate doesn’t believe me,” he said.
“Do you believe you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there part of you that wonders if maybe you did it on purpose?”
“Why would I do it on purpose?”
“All of us—even you—have been that kid on the beach poking the bird with the broken wing.”
He blinked at her. “You’re shit at metaphors,” he said.
“I’m just saying it’s human to want to watch something bleed.”
“I’ll admit to wanting to beat him at soccer sometimes. Wanting to win,” he said cautiously. “But that’s competitiveness—not cruelty. It’s not like I’ve wished harm on the guy.”
“Okay,” she said again.
He shoved her with his elbow.
“What?”
“You have the most judgmental okays of anyone I know.”
“Fine. Fine. You work this out on your own. I’ve got my stories to watch,” she said, and stood, brushing the dirt of the roof off her butt.
“What is it this time? Murdered orcas? Tortured artists? Child brides?” She’d been on a documentary kick lately.
“Close. Child soldiers.”
“Bye, Iz,” he said.
“Bye, Is,” she said back.
He finished the cigarette and took out another. Was she right? Was there a tiny part of him that had wanted to hurt Nate? He closed his eyes, picturing it. He’d gotten a breakaway and had momentarily been flooded with adrenaline—enough to spur his tired body down the field—his ears ringing with his teammates’ cheers. But Nate was faster and had recovered the ball from Israel easily. Israel’s teammates had fallen silent, and Israel had felt the weight of their disappointment. It was only a scrimmage, but he was already carrying the weight of his parents’ expectations too. He’d gone after the ball at Nate’s feet with all that added weight. It was enough to bowl anyone over.
This was all his fault.
If he didn’t stop the dreams, they’d continue to hurt him and the people around him. Not just Nate, but Izzy, who was already becoming more and more of a stranger. His parents, who he was bound to fail.
If he had any shot at stopping the broken record of Randolph’s death from consuming him, he couldn’t shy away from figuring it all out just because Peter had caught him in a lie.
He opened his email and began to type.
Peter,
The truth is that I think I’m him—your father. Since I was little I’ve remembered a car accident and a fire that I couldn’t escape. I also remembered worrying about my son, Peter, and my wife, Lara. That’s how I found you. I know this sounds like bullshit, and I’m sorry if my lies caused any pain.
Could we please meet in person so I can explain better?
Israel J. Castillo
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHANE
Twenty-seven days before
Hey, we should be arriving in 20. Can you pick me up? Cass texted.
It was a relief to hear from her. She knew Shane hated texting, but she’d been especially quiet all weekend. She hadn’t even posted anything on social media from the tournament, but he’d seen her in a few of her teammates’ photos and videos. In one photo, a long table was crowded with empty glasses and plates, and she was grinning, cheeks flushed, an arm draped around Karen’s neck.
He wanted to tell her how Nate and Israel were taking a break from each other, how Meg had come home for the long weekend to move some of her stuff back and was hogging the washer and dryer. How his mom had insisted they eat every meal together and had put him on cleanup duty, which meant he’d been dealing with smeared egg yolks on the counters, onion skins stuck to tiles, and trash that smelled of chicken carcass.
Picking up Cass would be a break from it all.
* * *
• • •
The charter bus was parked in front of the school, a pile of duffel bags beside it. Cass waited away from the other girls with a pillow under one arm and her bag over the other. It was hot, but she was in oversized sweats. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and a stretchy green headband kept it flat to her skull. She looked vastly different than she had in the team dinner photo, her face drawn and gray. Was she sick?
“Hey,” he said as she climbed into his mom’s car. He leaned over to kiss her. She accepted the kiss but didn’t return it. He caught some of the other girls staring at them as he put the car in drive. He was used to stares. People wanted to be him and Cass. But today Cass’s teammates seemed something other than jealous.
“How was the tournament?” he asked.
“It was okay,” she said. She was quiet. Quieter than usual.
“Want to come over for dinner?” he asked. “Meg’s home, so my mom has been acting like it’s Christmas.”
“No, my mom is expecting me, but I needed to talk to you first.”
This made his stomach sink. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned toward her house.
“Actually, can we go to the beach instead?” she asked.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. He looked over at her, but she was staring straight ahead. He wished he could tell what she was thinking.
“So, how’d you do this weekend?” He tried to make his tone breezy.
“We won the first game but lost the second. So we just got to hang out for the rest of it.”
“It looked like you were having fun.”
Cass’s face froze.
“I saw a photo from some dinner online,” he prompted.
“Oh. It was kinda fun,” she said cautiously.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“I’m just tired.”
He tried to meet her eyes, but she turned her head toward the passenger-side window.
He parked along the seawall and was about to climb out to put a dollar in the meter when she grabbed his arm. She still didn’t look at him, though; her eyes were on the beach. A few surfers were sitting on their boards. A man and a boy were flying a kite.
“I just want to talk,” she said. “We can stay in the car.”
Now his stomach was churning. She was about to break up with him, wasn’t she? Sure, they weren’t on the same path anymore, but he’d thought they were going to try to make a go of it with long-distance in college. It had been her idea, which he’d thought was a little strange considering she often talked about how poorly long-distance went for her parents. But he
was willing to do it because he loved her. Didn’t she know that?
But maybe it wasn’t about college at all. Maybe Izzy told her that he’d been cheating at school, and she’d decided she couldn’t be with someone dishonest like him.
“In Austin I—” Her voice cracked. “I slept with someone.”
She said the words in a rush, and Shane felt like they were being force-fed to him. They grated their way down his esophagus and plummeted into his stomach. He tried to throw them back up.
“What?” was all he could manage to say.
“It wasn’t a thing,” she said.
“What does that even mean?” The world was tilting again, and he was scrabbling for purchase. There was nothing to catch him.
“It means—I didn’t—there weren’t feelings or anything,” she said. Tears fell down her cheeks, which only made him angry. Why was she the one crying? “It was just sex.”
He blinked at her. What was he supposed to do with that information? Forgive her? “So you want me to be like, ‘No biggie; it was just sex’?”
“No, I—” She finally met his eyes, but didn’t say any more.
“So you threw this away—us away—for sex. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I—I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix it.” He thought of how angry Nate still was even after Israel had apologized. He got it now.