Since You've Been Gone

by Morgan Matson

  Beckett was waiting for me by the counter, having hoisted himself up to see the options, his feet dangling off the ground. He informed me that he wanted the all-inclusive kids’ pass, which included everything except paintball, and even though I winced at the price, I got it for him, figuring that the longer Beckett was occupied, the more items on Sloane’s list I might be able to accomplish. I’d just planned on the one, but maybe I could even do two. Maybe, if I somehow figured out how to do the really frightening ones, I could have this thing done inside of a week.

  I paid the bored-looking guy behind the counter, whose name tag read Doug and who picked up a thick paperback the second we walked away, leaning his elbows on the counter to read. Then Beckett ran over to a bench carved to look like a boulder—or maybe it actually was a boulder—and started putting on the climbing shoes that Doug had swapped for his sneakers. “So are you all set?” I asked, not even sitting down. I was already planning out my route to Stanwich Avenue. If I didn’t stop for gas, I could be there in ten minutes. “I told you, I have those . . . errands to run.”

  “I’m good,” Beckett said, Velcroing his shoes and jumping to his feet. “See you in a couple hours?”

  “Great,” I said, and Beckett gave me a grin and ran off toward the climbing wall. As I looked around, I realized that this was actually the perfect place to leave him. I had no doubt my brother would be occupied all afternoon. I decided to wait just a minute more, so I wouldn’t feel like the worst sister in the world, and watched Beckett take his place in line for the climbing wall, hopping from foot to foot the way he did when he was really excited about something.

  “Eight?” I turned and saw two things, neither of which made sense. Frank Porter was standing in front of me, and he was holding out a pair of shoes.

  I knew who he was because everyone knew Frank Porter, one of the undisputed stars of Stanwich High School. He was never off the High Honor roll, he was a National Merit Scholar, he’d been sophomore and junior class president. He seemed to actively be trying to make the world—or at least our school—a better place, constantly circling petitions and founding clubs and organizations, always trying to save a program or monument or bird. He would be a lock for valedictorian if it weren’t for his girlfriend, Lissa Young, who was just as disciplined and dedicated as he was. They’d been together since something like ninth grade, but they weren’t one of the couples constantly making out against the lockers or having screaming fights in the parking lot. They just seemed like a unit, like even their relationship was focused and properly directed. I had heard that they went off every summer together to an academic enrichment program—so I didn’t understand why Frank Porter was currently standing in front of me. He was one of the few guys in our class who seemed totally comfortable when there were formal events and he had to wear a suit and tie, which was why it was a little jarring to see him now, wearing a gray T-shirt with Xtreme Attitude! written across it, in a font that looked like graffiti. Frank, his name tag read, just in case I had any doubt this was him.

  The shoes that were extended to me drooped a little, and Frank tilted his head to the side. “Emily?”

  I nodded, a little surprised, even though we’d been in the same school for three years. Since Sloane had come to town, I’d happily existed by her side. People called out to her by name and waved at me, and I had a feeling that the majority of my class would, like the landscaping guy, identify me as “That girl who’s always with Sloane Williams” or something along those lines. And I never minded—even just being Sloane’s friend made me much more interesting than I ever would have been on my own.

  “Hi,” Frank Porter said, giving me a quick smile. “How are you?” Despite the T-shirt, Frank looked the same as he did during the school year. He was tall, maybe six-two, and lanky. He had reddish-blond hair that was cut short and neatly combed, and curled just slightly at the nape of his neck. His eyes were a light brown, and his skin was freckled. Even in his T-shirt and holding a pair of rentable shoes, Frank somehow radiated authority. It was like you could see him moving beyond the world of Stanwich High, with no doubt he would succeed wildly—running for office, chairing a board, inventing something tiny and electronic and essential. He just had that air about him—competent and trustworthy and, especially, wholesome. If he hadn’t clearly had grander ambitions, I could have seen him in ads for peanut butter and heart-healthy breakfast cereals. When Sloane had first come to Stanwich High, she had looked him up and down and asked, not unappreciatively, “Who’s the Boy Scout?”

  “Hey,” I stammered when I realized I had been staring at him silently for a moment too long. Frank was looking at me, like he was waiting for something, and I remembered, much too late, that he’d asked me a question, and I still hadn’t answered it. “I mean, good.”

  “Did you need these?” Frank asked, lifting the shoes. I couldn’t think why I would, and shook my head. “Oh,” he said, retracting them. “I heard someone over here needed climbing shoes, and I thought it was you. I guessed on the size.” He glanced down at my flip-flops, and I did too, then immediately wished I had gotten a pedicure recently, as the vestiges of the last one I’d gotten with Sloane—bright red, with a cat done in black dots on the big toe—had mostly chipped off. “But was I at least right?” he asked, looking up from my feet. “Size eight?”

  “Um,” I said. I realized that I was waiting for someone else to jump in and direct this interaction, but unfortunately, there was just me, doing a very poor job of it. If Sloane had been here, she would have known what to say. Something funny, something flirty, and then I would have known what to say too, whether to chime in, or make the kind of joke I only ever seemed to be able to make around her. I didn’t know how to do this by myself, and I didn’t want to have to learn. Also, I didn’t think I’d exchanged more than a few sentences with Frank Porter in three years, so I wasn’t sure how we were spending this much time talking about the size of my feet. Which was, incidentally, something I wasn’t super thrilled to be talking about, since they were bigger than I liked. “It’s just because you’re tall,” Sloane had always said to me, with the confidence of someone with tiny feet. “Otherwise, you’d look weird. Or tip over.”

  “Nine,” I said finally, leaving off the and a half  because, really, why did Frank Porter need to know my shoe size?

  He shrugged. “Well, I’m still learning the ropes.” If Sloane had been next to me, I would have said So to speak or That’s for sure or some other punny remark, since there were actual ropes here and Frank had pretty much opened up the door for a joke like that. But she wasn’t, so I just looked away, trying to find my brother somewhere on the line for the climbing wall, so that I could just verify that he was okay and I could leave.

  “Porter!” We both turned and I saw Matt Collins, who I knew from school but wasn’t sure I’d ever spoken to, dangling in midair from one of the rappelling ropes. He was wearing a T-shirt like Frank’s, along with a bright-red helmet, and was turning slowly on his rope, kicking at the wall to spin himself around. “Tonight. We’re hitting the Orchard, right?”

  The Orchard had, at one point, been a functioning orchard, but the land was now just sitting empty, and it had become the place for parties, especially in the summer. It had the benefit of existing in the hazy border between Stanwich and Hartfield, the next town over, which meant the cops tended to stay away, mostly because, rumor went, nobody was sure whose jurisdiction it was. I had gone a few times, mostly that spring, when it had been Sloane and Sam and me and Gideon. The Orchard conjured, for me, memories of sitting close to Gideon and rolling a bottle between my palms, trying to think of something to say.

  Frank nodded, and Collins—even though his name was Matthew, everyone, even teachers at school, called him by his last name—grinned. “Aw yeah,” he said. “The C-dawg’s going to meet some sweet ladies to-night!”

  The woman climbing next to him, who looked like she was in her thirties, with impressive and serious climbing gear on, frown
ed at him, but Collins just smiled wider at her. “And how are you today?”

  Frank just sighed and shook his head.

  “Well,” I said, starting to edge toward the exit. Even though I couldn’t see Beckett, I was sure he was fine. And I really didn’t want to keep having this incredibly awkward conversation with Frank Porter. I needed to get to Stanwich Avenue, and I’d already spent much more time here than I’d planned on. “I should . . .” I nodded toward the door, taking a step toward it, hoping Frank didn’t feel like he had to keep talking to me just because he thought I was a customer.

  “Right,” Frank said, tucking the unnecessary, too-small shoes under his arm. “It was nice to—”

  “Heya!” Collins ran up to us at full speed and crashed into Frank, nearly toppling him over and knocking himself off-balance, windmilling his arms to stay upright. He was still wearing his helmet, which didn’t really do a lot for him. Collins was a head shorter than Frank—it looked like he was even a little shorter than me—and on the heavier side, with a round face, a snub nose, and dark blond hair.

  “Collins,” Frank said in a resigned tone of voice, as he helped to steady him.

  “So what’s up? What are we talking about?” Collins asked, his eyes darting over to me. He frowned for a moment, then smiled wide. “Hey,” he said. “I know you. Where’s your friend? It’s Emma, right?”

  “Emily,” Frank corrected him, “Emily Hughes.” I looked over at him, shocked that Frank knew my last name. “And I thought you were supposed to be spotting on the wall.”

  “This guy,” Collins said, as he clapped a hand on Frank’s shoulder. He turned to me and shook his head. “I mean, I’ve been here a month and he’s here two weeks and is already ready to run thing s. So impressive!”

  “Spotting?” Frank persisted, but Collins just waved this away.

  “Everyone’s fine,” he said. “And I actually was spotting. I spotted you two talking over here and I wanted to join the convo. So what’s the word?” He looked over at the shoes under Frank’s arm. “You climbing?” he asked me. Without waiting for a reply, he took the shoes from Frank, looked down at my feet, then at the back of the shoes where the size was written. “Not with these you’re not. I’m guessing you’re more like, what, a nine and a half?”

  I just looked down at my feet for a second, letting my hair swing forward and cover my face, which I had a feeling was bright red. Did I have to respond to that? People weren’t under any obligation to admit to their shoe size, were they? But I had a feeling that if I tried to deny it, Collins would challenge me to put the smaller shoes on, and would probably soon be taking wagers from onlookers. I took another step away and started to turn for the door, when the scream ripped through the air, overpowering the techno. It sounded markedly different from the happier yells that, I realized, had just become background noise. The three of us turned in its direction, and I saw that it had come from the serious climbing woman, who was leaning back in her harness and pointing up at the very top of the wall—where my brother, I realized with my heart sinking, was merrily walking.

  “Holy crap,” Collins said, his mouth hanging open. “How’d that kid get up there? And where’s his harness? Or helmet?”

  Before I could say anything, Frank and Collins had taken off in the direction of the wall, and I followed. A crowd had gathered, and most of the climbers were rappelling down, out of the way.

  “Emily!” Beckett yelled, waving at me, his voice echoing in the huge space. “Look how high I am!”

  Both Frank and Collins looked at me, and I twisted my hands behind my back. “So, that’s my brother,” I said. I tried to think of something to follow this, like some explanation as to why he was currently humiliating me and jeopardizing IndoorXtreme’s insurance policy, but nothing else came.

  “What’s his name?” Collins asked.

  “Beckett,” I said. “But I’m sure he’s fine. He just—”

  “Bucket?” Collins asked, then nodded as though this made sense. “Hey, Bucket!” he yelled up at my brother. “I’m gonna need you to come down from there, okay? Wait,” he said, shaking his head. “First, put your helmet back on and come down. Actually,” he amended, taking a small step closer, “first put on your harness, then your helmet, then come on down from there. All right?”

  Beckett looked down at the crowd that was now staring up at him, then at me, and I tried to silently convey to him that he should absolutely do this, and as quickly as possible.

  “Okay,” he said with a shrug, picking up his harness and snapping himself back into it.

  The people below seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief and the crowd began to break up, people starting to climb the wall again or heading back to the bike course.

  “See? All good,” Collins said, waving up at my brother, who was buckling the chin strap underneath his helmet.

  “This is why you were supposed to be spotting,” Frank said, shaking his head as he strode toward the climbing wall.

  “He’s coming down,” Collins pointed out, and my brother had indeed started to find the first foot- and handholds to take him back down to earth. “You don’t need to go up there.” But either Frank didn’t hear this or chose to ignore it, because he started climbing up the wall with a sense of purpose, heading toward Beckett. “Ruh-roh,” Collins said quietly, looking up at the climbing wall, his brow furrowed.

  “It’s really okay,” I said. “My brother climbs stuff that high all the time.”

  “I’m not worried about Bucket,” Collins said. “I’m worried about Porter.”

  I looked up at the wall. Frank was almost halfway up now, moving his hands easily from one handhold to the next. He seemed fine to me. “Um, why?”

  Collins took off his helmet, and wiped his hand across his forehead. His hair was dark from sweat and plastered down against his head, making him look like he had a bowl cut. It wasn’t the best look on him. “Porter’s got a fear of heights.”

  I looked around, at all the many things in this establishment that would involve climbing or skating or jumping over high things. “Oh,” I said. I tried to think of some way to ask why he worked here without being insulting. “But . . .”

  “I know,” Collins said, talking fast, sounding defensive. “My uncle said the same thing when I got Porter the job. But he’s great with all things paintball,” he said, and I nodded, wishing I’d never said anything. “And there’s nobody better at the bike course,” he went on. “Dude can straighten jumps like nobody’s business. Also, he’s the most competent one here, so that’s why he’s the one in charge of the bank deposits. I was terrible at that.” I nodded; I could easily believe this. “But heights?” Collins leaned a little closer to me and shook his head. “Not his strong suit.”

  I looked up at Frank, who was now pretty high, almost at the level of Beckett. “Then why is he climbing?” I asked, feeling myself get a little panicky on Frank’s behalf.

  “Because he’s Frank Porter,” Collins said, and I heard a note of  bitterness in his voice for the first time.  “Captain Responsible.”

  I looked back at the wall, thinking that despite this, maybe things would be okay—when I saw Frank reach for the next handhold, glance down, and freeze, his arm still extended.

  “Told you,” Collins said softly, not taking any pleasure in the statement.

  Frank was now holding on to the wall with both hands, but he still wasn’t moving. “What happens now?” I asked, feeling like I was seeing something that I really shouldn’t be.

  “Well, sometimes he pulls it together,” Collins said, his voice still quiet. “Otherwise, there’s a big ladder in the back.”

  “Oh no,” I said, trying to look away but finding that it was impossible. It was clear to me that this was all because of Beckett—which meant, as far as Frank Porter was concerned, it was all because of me.

  “I know,” Collins said, wincing.

  Beckett had now reached the same level as Frank, and he said somethi
ng to him that I couldn’t hear. Beckett kept on climbing down and I realized that he was now below Frank, who still hadn’t moved.

  Doug from the front desk had come out to stare at the spectacle, his book abandoned on the counter. “Ladder?” he asked Collins, who nodded.

  “I think so,” he said.

  A second later, though, Beckett changed direction and climbed back up until he was level with Frank again. He said something to him, and Frank shook his head. But my brother stayed where he was, still talking to Frank. And after a long pause, Frank reached down for the handhold just below him. Beckett nodded, climbed down two handholds, and motioned for Frank to come down to where he was, pointing out the footholds. After another pause, Frank moved down to the next level again. It was painfully clear to me that my ten-year-old brother was talking the IndoorXtreme employee down the climbing wall, and I just hoped that it wasn’t as obvious to everyone else in the facility.

  “Nice,” Collins said, as he watched the progress—slow, but incremental—on the wall. “Does your brother need a job?”

  “Ha ha,” I said a little hollowly. I was watching with a tight feeling in my chest, and I didn’t really let out a full breath until Beckett jumped the last few feet to the ground and then looked up at Frank Porter, pointing out the remaining handholds for him and giving him an encouraging thumbs-up. Frank half stumbled down to the ground, and when he turned around, I could see that his face was almost as red as his helmet. Doug shrugged, then turned and trudged back to the register.