21
IT’S TUESDAY AFTERNOON. AUDREY’S ON Mrs. Eisenberg’s computer and I’m putting away the puppets in the craft closet when Audrey clears her throat. She clears it again. Okay, she starts legitimately hacking up a lung, and finally Mrs. Eisenberg says, “You need some water, dear?” and I look up and Audrey is glaring at me.
Oh.
Oh.
Her eyes dart to the monitor.
You know how little kids do that dance when they have to pee and you’re like, just go pee already, but they say they don’t have to? And you’re like, no, seriously, you do, why are you arguing with me, three-year-old despot? It’s sort of like that, except I’m the kid who’s so antsy I’m practically dancing as I wait, wait, wait for Mrs. Eisenberg to go somewhere—a meeting, the bathroom—or help a patron, but instead it’s the quietest time in the history of the universe and she’s just sitting there, feet from Audrey, checking in some new books, and I feel like I might actually explode. Not with pee, though.
Finally she gets up to use the restroom and I book it for Audrey at the computer.
“Next week!” She pulls up the e-mail from Loretta.
Well, John, you’re in luck! They’re sending over a copy of the 1995 yearbook and we should receive it sometime early next week. Would you like a phone call or an e-mail when it comes in?
“You wrote back ‘e-mail,’ right?”
“No, I figured it would be more fun to track down some guy to pretend to be John and get a cell phone with this number and—of course, silly.”
“Okay. Okay. Phew.”
“Back when I graduated fifth grade in Chicago, my school made yearbooks, and we got to write class wills. Maybe Phil’s yearbook will have class wills! I wonder who he left things to.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Did he leave things to my mom? What else is even in yearbooks, anyway? Were they like Facebook before, well, Facebook?
“Guess we’ll find out,” I say, glancing at the e-mail again. It’s coming. The yearbook will actually be here, in my—our—hands. Monday. Tuesday? Anything past that is midweek, right? So. Early next week, I’ll know. Well, maybe not for sure. But I’ll have enough—enough to go on to ask my mom or Phil if it’s true. Mom didn’t say exactly when Phil would swing back through town, but it can’t be before then. He was meeting up with folks all the way in northern Maine.
“Hey, Drew?”
“Yeah?”
Audrey spins around to face me. “Are you okay with all this? Are you excited or scared or … ?”
“Both,” I say. “I just want to know the truth. Rip off the Band-Aid already, you know?”
Audrey grimaces. “That’s kind of gross.”
“Depends what’s under the Band-Aid. Healed scab or gushing blood.”
“Okay, even grosser. I just had lunch!”
“Sorry.”
“Drew?”
“Yeah.”
“You want your dad to be your dad, right?”
Suddenly it’s hard to look her in the eye. She doesn’t know the truth about my dad. Maybe if she did, she’d get that I have so many reasons to want Phil to be my father.
“Yeah,” I say to the computer monitor. “Of course.”
We’re both quiet for a little while, and then Audrey says, “Mrs. Eisenberg’s not going to be in the bathroom forever.”
“Sure. Right. Yeah. Okay.” I catch Audrey eyeing me as I roll my chair back to where it’s supposed to be. Her brow is furrowed and for a second I wonder if she’s figured me out. She’s going to find out the truth eventually. She’s too smart not to.
My stomach sinks for a second. What if she gets mad at me for not telling her the truth about my dad from the start? I should have told her, or at least not made up lies on the spot. Not let her think my parents were divorced or separated. But it’s too late now.
Audrey pivots and almost catches me staring at her, but I look the other way just in time. She turns back to the computer and logs out of fake John Jacob Langham’s e-mail account.
My whole body feels like it’s slowed down. That fake having-to-pee energy is gone, and I just feel—tired? Like I’m ready to go home. Like all I want right now is to be alone.
There’s only a half hour till Mom is done for today. We’re leaving early so she can take Xan to the doctor—his left ear’s been hurting him and she’s worried he might have an ear infection.
I head back over to the closet just as Mrs. Eisenberg is coming out of the bathroom. “Everything okay, Drew?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, Mrs. Gupta was raving about your latest story. Dhipthi’s evidently been doing impressions all week. A little zombie mouse constantly begging for brain cookies.”
“That’s … cool.”
“You’re making quite an impression on these kids. I think you could have a future in entertainment. The high school has an outstanding theater program.”
“Wait, you think I can act?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” Mrs. Eisenberg rests a hand on her hip. “You can command a stage—if you want to, of course. Where you take your gift is up to you.”
“Okay,” I say, staring at my feet.
“Well, I’ll let you finish up. You’re doing a great job, Drew. I feel fortunate for how this whole arrangement has worked out. You’ve really blossomed here.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say as she heads back to her desk and I finally enter the closet. Well, that was awkward.
By the time I’m done putting the puppets away and clearing up the mess some first graders made with the puzzles, it’s time to meet my mom upstairs.
It’s only when I get into the stairwell, when I’m truly alone again, that I remember what happened right before Mrs. Eisenberg told me I was a flower. The yearbook. It’s really coming. Early next week.
“You sure you don’t want to come to the doctor’s?” Mom sticks her head out the car window, offering like it’s some kind of treat, even though we both know it isn’t. Maybe she wants some company? My brother’s ear appointment is in fifteen minutes.
“Doctors’ offices are gross,” I say. “Plus … I can mow the lawn while you’re gone.”
“Mow the lawn? You don’t say! Okay, bud. See you later.” Mom rolls up the car window and backs out of the driveway.
The lawn doesn’t exactly need mowing yet—Phil must have lowered the setting when he mowed—but it can’t hurt, either. Anything’s better than hanging out in the waiting area at the doctor’s with those gross piles of wrinkled old magazines. Bad paintings. Stained carpet. Weird smells.
Dad’s dental office wasn’t like that. He said there was no reason for a waiting room to be so sad—no wonder people dreaded seeing their doctor or the dentist! Dad’s waiting room had hardwood floors, cool retro movie posters that we picked out together, and a pinball machine. Okay, so he did have a lot of random things with teeth on them, but otherwise it was possible to forget you were waiting to see the dentist.
I wish Mom had saved the pinball machine, but it was one of the first things she sold on Craigslist when she packed up his office.
I pull the mower out of the garage and check to see if it needs gas. Phil seems like the kind of guy who might use up somebody’s gas and forget to say anything about it, but I check and it’s full. I roll it onto the grass and rev it up, letting the whirring motor quiet my thoughts.
Clean lines across the yard. Across. Pivot. Back. Pivot. Across.
Every time a car passes up the road, I jerk my head, worried somehow it’s him on his motorcycle. The yearbook has to beat him. Or come while he’s here. I guess that would be okay, assuming he stays a couple days again.
But what if it doesn’t? What if the post office fails and I still have no idea what’s going on when he comes? What if he heads all the way back to Colorado before I know the truth?
Something catches the corner of my vision. A blur of white T-shirt and green shorts. Is Filipe really coming over after what happened at the library? He didn’t come by all weekend, which, as far back as I can remember, has never happened, except for when his family’s gone out of town. But I saw both his parents’ cars in the driveway this weekend, so I know they were around.
He stands off to the side of my path, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear a thing over the mower.
“I can’t lip-read!” I shout back at him, though he probably can’t hear me either.
I finish the pass I was making and shut off the lawn mower. “What?” I ask him.
There are blue marks on either side of his lips like parentheses. Gatorade? “I was coming over to see if you wanted to bike over to the park. But, look, if you’re going to be in a mood again, then never mind.”
A mood?
“Why don’t you just go with Theo? Or did he finally get sick of you? Or wait, what’s her name … Sophia? Who even is that? Tell me you don’t seriously think eighth-grade girls are going to be interested in you now.”
“Sophia Carlson. She’s not even an eighth grader. She lives in East Providence. We met her at camp the other week. Jeez. What’s your deal?” He scratches at the edge of his mouth.
“My deal?”
“Yeah. Why were you all weird at the library?” Right. Like I was the one acting all weird at the library. “Did we interrupt something? You and that girl?” Filipe raises his eyebrows.
“Audrey? No!”
“Hey, you’re the one who said she was some loser out to ruin your summer. But you didn’t exactly seem to be having the worst time with her. Wait, do you … like her?”
“No,” I spit back at him. “She’s …”
“What?”
My friend? No, that’s the last thing I can admit to Filipe. “Nothing.”
Filipe tips his head back. “Oh my gosh. You do. You like her. You like her, like her. You totally do.” He’s cracking up, his eyes squinting closed, and I—I reach out and shove him. Hard. He trips on himself, catching his balance right before he hits the ground.
And then I’m on the ground on top of him, like we’re play wrestling, except this time I’m not playing around. This time is for real. My hand balled into a fist, whaling and whaling on him until strong hands clasp my shoulder, wrenching us apart.
I whip around, thinking it’s Phil. That somehow he’s back. But it’s only Anibal, all six feet of him looming over us. “What the heck?” he says.
Next to me, still on the ground, Filipe adjusts his T-shirt. Even though it felt like I was going at him hard, he doesn’t seem hurt at all. Unlike my hand. I swear I can already see a bruise forming beneath the skin.
“Ask him!” Filipe points a finger at me, looking up at his brother. “We were just talking and then out of nowhere, he went all crazy on me, like …”
He doesn’t have to say the words out loud. I hear them in my head, loud and clear. Like his dad.
“Well, whatever. You guys need to work this out. But Mom sent me over because she needs you, Flip.”
Filipe pushes himself up to standing and brushes off grass clippings. “I was just kidding,” he says under his breath. “You didn’t have to go all psycho on me.”
I’m still down on the ground, trying not to let Filipe see me wince as I rub my knuckles. He and Anibal exchange a few words as they wait to cross the street, but they’re already out of earshot. Is Filipe telling him about Audrey, about what happened at the library the other day? Or are they both talking about Dad? Like father, like son.
They finally cross the street and disappear behind the bushes, out of sight. My knees are smeared in green from the freshly mown grass. I rub at them, but that doesn’t help and only makes my palms green too.
My first fight and it’s with my best friend—former best friend. Why did I even do it? I hate how fast it happened. One minute Filipe was picking on me, not that much more than any other time, and the next—boom. Something was different—had to be, because I snapped. I wasn’t in control of my own body. Was that what had happened with Dad? Did something inside him just snap one day?
I hate even having to think these things. Filipe never does. He never has to worry that one day he’s going to turn into his dad. That one day he could be a danger to himself. No, he’s never once had that thought flit through his mind. There’s no worst-case scenario in turning out just like Mr. Nunes.
I need that yearbook to come. I need to know so badly, I think maybe I am losing my mind. I can’t turn into Dad. I just—I can’t.
Filipe doesn’t get it at all, what it’s like to be me. Except sometimes, it feels like he has to. He must. Because he’s so good at pressing my buttons. Picking and picking at me. Like he wants to set me off. Does he know the guilt I feel now too? That urge to text him and apologize, even if he’s the one who started it?
I check my phone, start to text something to him, but then I stop and delete it. My breath quiets down to normal as I stare at my phone for several minutes, and then I fire the lawn mower back up. This time, the whirring doesn’t drown out all my thoughts. Doesn’t even come close. My fingers vibrate with the motor, my whole body whirring in tune, like I’m part of the machine.
I want to do it now more than ever. Shake it all out, just like Phil. I get why he does it. Why it feels good. Letting loose all the sadness, the frustration, confusion, all the things you can’t go back and fix. The fear. The hope. Except I don’t want to do it so quietly. I want to shake everything out and scream at the top of my lungs.
Maybe then, some stillness would come.