by Robin Benway
“Stop it,” I said, laughing a little. “You know it creeps me out when you do that.”
Drew, of course, did it even more, and I shoved him away and tried to cover my eyes. “Stop!” I said. “Or I won’t share my sandwich with you and you’ll starve for the rest of the day!”
Drew stopped and flicked his hair out of his eyes. He always looks cool when he does that, even though I know he doesn’t mean to. “Why would I want your sandwich? Caro’s bringing me a delicious burrito from Del Taco.”
“Hope springs eternal,” I said as we wandered into the quad. There were scattered freshmen (most of them hung out near the cafeteria’s exit, like it was difficult for them to move too far away from the food) and a few juniors whose names I didn’t know, and then a figure sitting on a long cement-block wall under a tree, wearing headphones and eating something out of a brown paper bag, gazing off into the distance like he was at a museum and the rest of us were moving sculptures.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh,” Drew replied.
I elbowed him. Hard. “Shut up.”
“What? All I said was oh!” He elbowed me back, but I moved away. “Are you blushing?”
“No,” I said. (I totally was.)
“He’s sitting by himself,” Drew said.
“Yes, thank you, I can see that.”
But Drew was on a roll. “Here we see the typical teenager during an average high school lunch period,” he said, doing his best PBS documentary narrator voice. “This creature is normally sedate, but can be provoked with milk cartons and conversation.”
“I’m going over there,” I said.
“What? No.” Drew grabbed my arm before I could even take a step. “You’re not talking to him.”
“He’s sitting by himself!” I hissed. “Look at him, it’s sad. And, like, we grew up together and now he’s back and he lives next door to me. I can’t just ignore him.”
“We’re supposed to give him space, Emmy.”
“He’s not a rabid animal at the zoo!” I cried, shrugging off Drew’s arm. “How much space are we supposed to give him? He goes to our school now. It’s not like we can pretend that we don’t know him. Or, I mean, used to know him.”
“You’re not good at making conversation. In fact, you’re pretty much the worst at it.”
I thought of how I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue at Oliver the day before, then said nothing. Drew didn’t need to know any of that.
“No, I’m not,” I said instead. “I took public speaking in freshman year, remember?”
“Remember?” Drew repeated. “I’m trying to forget.”
“I was good!”
“Yeah, you were good, but every time you gave a speech, you’d kick the podium and your microphone would screech!” Drew swung his foot a few times, mimicking me. “And you’re terrible without a plan. Oliver would probably be in physical danger. You’d take out his kneecap or something.”
“Drew. I am going over there. So you can help me or watch me make a total fool of myself.”
Drew sighed. “Fine.”
“So, what do I talk to him about?”
“Just go over and say hi—”
“Got it.”
“—and then ask him if he needs your notes for any classes—”
“Easy.”
“—and then offer to make out with him.”
“Okay, I—DREW!”
He giggled and ducked away from me as I swung my notebook at him.
Drew didn’t know what he was talking about, I told myself as I stalked away. I could make great conversation.
“Hey,” I said when I was close enough, before realizing that Oliver probably couldn’t hear me with his earbuds in. I waved my hand a little, trying to get his attention, and I didn’t even have to turn around to know that Drew was smacking himself in the forehead.
Doing great so far, genius, I scolded myself.
“Oh,” Oliver said after a few seconds. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry, am I . . . ? I mean, I don’t want to . . .”
So, Drew may have had a point.
“No, it’s cool.” He slipped his earbuds out of his ears and let them dangle over his shoulders. “What’s up?”
“Hi,” I said again. “I just wanted to say that. I mean, I wanted to say hi and, um, see how you were doing.”
“I’m good,” he said. “Getting a lot of calcium, as you know.”
He was so deadpan that it took me a few seconds to realize he was kidding. “Oh!” I laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that. Drew and I”—I gestured to Drew behind me—“were just saying that people can be assholes.”
Oliver just shrugged. “Law of averages. Some are, some aren’t.”
“Yeah. Speaking of, do you need any notes or anything?”
Oliver frowned a little at my segue (which was, to be fair, nonexistent). “Notes?” he repeated.
“For class,” I added, patting my backpack. “Like, if you’re not caught up.”
“I don’t think we share any classes,” Oliver said. He was squinting up at me now, like the sun was in his face even though it was behind a cloud. “I’m a junior.”
And I wanted to die. Right there, right then, I wanted that cloud above us to throw a lightning bolt down and strike me dead. I had forgotten that they had put Oliver back a grade from the rest of us. Apparently, his dad had homeschooled him, so his math and science skills were off the charts, but his history and English were behind. He was easily the oldest-looking junior in our school, yet another thing that made him stand out when he needed more than ever to blend in.
“Oh, riiiiight,” I said, knocking myself in the head and grinning like an idiot. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot.”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “Just adds to my rebel image. New guy in school, mysterious past, being held back a grade.” He smiled up at me. “Girls like it.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.” He smiled wider. “That’s why I’m eating lunch with all these people.”
I laughed despite myself and then he laughed, too, a familiar sound that I hadn’t heard in years. His laugh was deeper now, but still Oliver’s, as unique as a double helix. Or a fingerprint.
“You have fun with my sisters last night?” he asked, tearing off a piece of sandwich and eating it, rather than biting into the bread.
“You do that,” I said, pointing at him, and Oliver stopped midchew and looked down at the sandwich.
“What?” he asked, then swallowed. “Eat?”
“No, you do this”—I mimed him tearing the sandwich—“and then eat it. That’s how you used to eat sandwiches when we were little.”
“You remember that?”
“I do now.”
Oliver smiled, almost to himself, then tore off another piece. “My mom keeps saying things like that,” he said. “You do this or you do that.”
“Preserved in amber,” I said before I could stop myself, and he laughed again.
“Yeah, something like that,” he said. “A fossil in a brave new world.”
“Hey,” Drew said, coming up behind my left shoulder. “We should, uh, go get to that thing.”
I had no idea what thing he meant, but I knew a friendly rescue attempt when I saw one. “Yeah, that thing,” I said. “Oliver and I were just talking about sandwiches.”
“Hey, man,” Oliver said, and he and Drew did the fist-bump thing. (I will never understand how so many guys always know how to do that. Is it genetic? Is it a talent carried on the Y chromosome?)
“Hey,” Drew said. “Sandwiches? Uh, they’re cool, I guess.” He shot a quick smile at me. “Did you maim him yet?”
“Oh my God, please shut up,” I said, then started shoving Drew away and following close behind. “See you later, Oliver,” I said, and he waved before putting his earbuds back in and popping the last crust into his mouth.
“Sandwiches?” Drew hissed at me. “You’re terrible. Is there a dating elective at
this school, because you need to sign up for it immediately.”
“Hey, who doesn’t like sandwiches?” I shot back. “People who hate life, that’s who. And I was just saying that I remembered the weird way he ate them.”
“You talked about sandwiches . . . and called him weird.” Drew closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. “Caro’s going to die when she hears this. Secondhand embarrassment will claim yet another young life.”
“I didn’t say the word weird to him!” I protested. “Tell Caro whatever you want.”
“Tell me what?”
Caro was just coming in through the glass doors, carrying a huge soda from Del Taco and pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “I’ll totally believe whatever you say.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Even if you’re lying, I’ll believe you. That’s what friendship is.”
“Don’t become a lawyer,” Drew muttered.
“It’s a long story,” I told her, stealing a sip from her soda.
“A long story about Oliver,” Drew added. “Where’s my burrito?”
Caro looked at him. “What burrito?”
“Caro!” he screamed. “You were supposed to bring me a burrito! I’m starving!”
“I’m sorry! You know I never remember these things!”
I pulled my sandwich out of my backpack and silently handed half to Drew.
“Thank you,” he sighed.
“That’s what friendship is,” I told him. “Just don’t eat it weird.”
THE LIGHT
Emmy devises the lamp system when they’re in kindergarten. Oliver perfects it.
“So I’ll flick the light three times,” she starts to explain, but he interrupts her.
“No, just once. Just turn it on once ’cause our moms might see if we turn it on three times. Just once.”
“Okay, just once. Okay. And then . . . and then you turn it on once.”
“Yeah!” Oliver’s totally excited. He loves secret things. “Then what?”
Emmy hadn’t thought this far. She’s only five years old, after all, just like Oliver. “Ummm . . .” She bites her lip. “Then you look out the window to make sure it’s me. ’Cause what if I’m not there and there’s a witch instead, Ollie?” Emmy is the only person allowed to call him “Ollie” so she likes to say it a lot.
Oliver lights up and hops onto the swing next to her. They swing when they have supersecret conversations because that way, no one can overhear. (That was Emmy’s idea, too.) “What if the witch is wearing a disguise?” he asks her. “How will I know it’s really you?”
Emmy pumps her legs and thinks for a minute. “Well, that’s dumb,” she finally says. “You’re always gonna know it’s me. And I’m always gonna know it’s you.” She pushes her hair out of her face and swings harder. “You’re Oliver. Who else would you be?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and they fly higher toward the sky.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So we were thinking,” my dad said on Saturday. “Maybe you could take Oliver out this afternoon.”
I glanced up at him from an old issue of Real Simple that my mom hadn’t recycled yet, no longer interested in the best way to iron a linen tablecloth. “What?”
My mom came over to stand next to my dad. Ah, the parental sneak attack. I should have seen this coming. Seventeen years of living in the same house with them and yet they still surprise me.
“We were talking earlier with Maureen,” my mom said. “It seems that Oliver is having a hard time making friends at school.”
I snorted a little, but my stomach was flipping around just like it did whenever I saw a wave that seemed a little too big to ride and a little too strong to avoid. “Get in line, Oliver,” I said to my parents, trying to keep my voice light.
“You know what I mean,” my mom said. “Maureen says that he spends all of his time in his room watching movies.”
I already knew this, of course. “So don’t give him any more space, is what you’re saying? Basically, just do the opposite of everything that you said two weeks ago.”
My mom rolled her eyes as my dad patted my arm. “Maureen’s worried, kiddo. Maybe you could just hang out with him for a few hours, show him around town or something.”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I thought about it. On one hand, I would finally get to really talk with Oliver. On the other hand, I would finally have to really talk with Oliver. It was different on campus last week, back when I had Drew right behind me. What was I supposed to say if it was just the two of us? “Sorry your dad kidnapped you ten years ago and ruined your life”? Yeah, that probably wouldn’t do much to stir up conversation.
“You’re not worried about his dad being out there somewhere?” I asked.
“We’ve discussed that with Maureen,” my dad said carefully. “And we’ve all agreed that Keith is probably not going to try anything.” My mom looked slightly less sure of that, but she nodded, anyway. “It’s best if we all just move forward. Including Oliver.”
“What if I say the wrong thing?” I asked my parents, pointedly not looking at them. “What if I ask him something and end up traumatizing him and he goes completely mute?”
My parents glanced at each other before looking back at me. “You,” my dad said, “give yourself entirely too much credit.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Maybe you could go out for ice cream—” my mom suggested.
“You mean coffee?”
“—or the movies?” My dad dug his wallet out of his pocket and fished out a few twenties. “On the house, of course. You could discuss—the movie! See, no trauma there. Make sure it’s a comedy, though. And be back by seven.”
I looked at my dad, who was doing his best “I’m kidding, but no, seriously” face. “You mean right now?” I asked him.
“You had plans?” my mom asked.
I had actually planned to say I was going to hang out with Caro, then secretly sneak down to the beach to surf for a few hours, but I was still a little suspicious of my parents’ motives. “You’re not trying to set me up with Oliver,” I asked them. “Because that would be creepy and invasive, right?”
I waited for them to agree. “Right?”
“Of course not!” my mom said. “We just thought that maybe Oliver would like to make a few friends and since you were friends . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes hopeful.
I sighed as I took my dad’s still-offered money, and he kissed my forehead just before I ducked away and went to find my shoes.
My mom watched as I trudged through the back door a few minutes later, her eyes on me as I slipped through the broken slat in our backyard fence. “Drive safe!” she called. “And check in after the movie, okay?” I pretended I didn’t hear her, even though I always heard her. In the years since Oliver had disappeared, my parents had reacted by making sure I wouldn’t disappear, too: early curfews (in the summer, the last dregs of sunset still streaked the sky when I had to come home), homework first, and a slew of extracurricular activities up until this year, when I put my foot down and insisted that I needed more time to study. It was kind of true, but I had really wanted—no, I needed—more time to surf. And breathe. And get some space from them and all their nervous reminders of the ways things could go so wrong, so fast.
Oliver’s backyard had gotten weedier and more overgrown in the past two weeks, which was understandable. Who has time to mow the lawn when your son comes home after ten years? I knocked on the back door, three fast knocks that echoed my rapidly beating heart. I squinted a little against the sun, and when Oliver opened it, I sort of took a step back. “Oh,” I said. “Um, hi. Hi.”
“Hi,” he said. “My mom’s not here, she took the twins to get new shoes.” His hair was rumpled, like he had been lying on his bed for too long, and his shirt was a little wrinkled.
“Oh, cool.” Why would that be cool, Emmy? Shoe shopping with four-year-olds is not cool. “No, actually I’m here to see, um, you? My mom and dad thought
that maybe we could hang out?” Once the words were out of my mouth I wanted to cram them back in. I sounded ridiculous, like some made-up character in a health class textbook. No, thanks, I don’t want any drugs. Hey, how about we play a board game instead?
“Hang out?” Oliver repeated, but he didn’t sound entirely disinterested. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”
“Okay!” I said, entirely too cheerful. “Cool, yeah! Okay. Cool. I have my car, or you could drive or—”
“I don’t have a license,” he said. “I didn’t really need one in New York.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Okay. Well, then, I guess I’ll drive. Don’t want to do anything illegal, right?” I tried to smile as I realized, I just made a joke about illegal activity to someone who had been kidnapped for ten years. Oh God. Let the trauma begin.
But Oliver just turned around. “Give me a few minutes. Gotta find my keys.” He patted his pockets, like they were hiding somewhere in his jeans.
“Sure!” I said, then went to fire up my car, my jaw tight with embarrassment.
This was all my parents’ fault.
“So,” I said once Oliver was settled in the front seat of my car, “what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “What do you do here?”
“Not a lot,” I admitted. “The movies, coffee, ice cream. Just hang out at the Spectrum, usually.” I paused for a few seconds before adding, “It’s a new shopping center. Well, not new new, but it went up right after . . .”
Right after you were kidnapped.
I needed a subject change, fast. “What did you do in New York?”
“Oh, you know, movies, coffee, ice cream,” he said, then looked over and smiled. That motion made something in my heart seize up for a few seconds. “No, seriously, whatever you want to do,” he said, not realizing what he had done. “It’s cool. I have one question, though.”
“Yeah?” I asked as I backed down the driveway. I could see my parents peeking through the blinds and I ignored them.
He glanced down at the floor. “Why the hell is there so much sand in your minivan?”