I listen as Vance calls Joey and Bill. His voice cracks with each brief conversation, and both times he shoots a look over his shoulder to see if I’m listening. I pretend I’m not, but I am.
“They’re both on their way,” he says. Vance plops down hard into the leather reclining chair and slams it back, his legs snapping up with the footrest. He punches the armrest a few times and looks out the window. There’s nothing to see except a streetlight and a tree. It’s pitch-dark outside.
“What about Aunt Renee? I mean, I know she’s not going to fly all the way from Singapore or anything, but she does know Dad,” I say. “I’ll—”
Vance cuts me off. “Sure. I guess. But I’m done calling people. If you want to call people, go ahead.”
If he’d let me finish, I was about to offer that I’d call her. I didn’t want to stress out Vance any more so I let it go. As I turn on my phone, it dawns on me that I don’t know her phone number. The one aunt I have, and I don’t have any way to contact her. A frustrated sigh slips out.
Vance turns his head. “What?”
“Do you have her phone number?” I know this is a ridiculous question. Vance having Aunt Renee’s phone number would mean that he has called or will call Aunt Renee, and that simply isn’t true.
“Why would I have—?”
I cut him off. “Where’s Dad’s cell? He’s gotta have it.”
“We don’t know his password, remember?”
Vance is right. We already tried everything we could think of, and our cell provider won’t give us the code until our father is dead. (Isn’t that nice?)
“I wonder if Mom has the number in her old address book,” I mutter to myself.
“Aunt Renee didn’t move to Singapore until after Mom’s accident. Her current number wouldn’t be in there. Remember?” Vance’s tone drips with annoyance. He should be sitting in a puddle.
“All right, Vance. I got it.”
I guess we’re not calling Aunt Renee then.
I take a seat in our sitting area and put my feet up on the coffee table. “Stephen left his sunglasses here.” I hold them up for my brother to see.
He doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”
I fold them up and place them on top of the dresser. When I resume my position on the sofa, it hits me: I don’t have anyone I want to call about my father’s looming death. There are people I talk to in my classes—people who are nice to me and to whom I return the niceness—but I’m a loner. It’s not something I worry about; it’s just me. Being by myself brings me peace. I’m not a people person.
After Growler pulled away and stopped including me, I spent a lot of time alone, and I liked it. It felt good for me to have my own space.
Besides, no one’s into what I’m into, so I’ve found it useless to try to include people in my world. I know this sounds like I’m a complete weirdo, but I’m not. Like I said, I’m just me, and I’m fine with that.
Why am I caring that I don’t want to call anyone? What would having someone here actually do for me? I’d have to make small talk and worry about what they’re thinking—two things I’m not capable of right now. I can barely concentrate on one thing for more than a few minutes. Having people from school visit would be nothing but a hassle.
I look at Stephen’s sunglasses. I stare long and hard at them.
Stephen is practically part of our family. He and Vance became really close after Mom’s funeral. He slept at our house more than he slept at his own in the months after she died. Vance rode me less when Stephen was over. That’s probably why I like the guy so much.
But he’s Vance’s friend, not mine. And believe me, my brother never lets me forget it. He treats Growler like a brother. When he gets a glass of ice water, he makes one for Growler without being asked. They have lacrosse tosses in our backyard, sometimes for hours. They sit shoulder to shoulder and laugh at Vines. They stay up late watching old episodes of SpongeBob, laughing and saying lines along with the characters. There’s conversation. There’s understanding. There’s trust and fun and happiness.
There’s everything I should have with Vance.