GUS

I NEVER THOUGHT I could joke about murder. I would never dare, not in my house. But Kalyn is so comfortable in everything she does and says, I guess it’s catching. And laughter is good medicine. Tamara knows this, but Mom doesn’t always appreciate the idea, so every weekend I leave home to visit a house where laughter isn’t so unusual.

“You dick,” John hollers, clutching the N64 controller like a weapon, fingers working madly. “Stop it with the fucking bombs, Matt!”

Matt cackles, round belly shaking. In the game, Link yanks another bomb out of thin air and pelts it at Pikachu. Phil snorts in derision, as if his two older brothers are bickering children; he’s playing as Kirby, as usual, and seems to spend most of his time floating near the top of the screen, far removed from danger, waiting for the moment to strike. All three Wheeler brothers are crammed on the basement sectional, but John always lets me sit in his gaming chair when I’m spectating.

Every three weeks or so, the usual Friday night hangout in the cluttered Wheeler basement shifts from tabletop to retro gaming. I’m not great at video games, with my muscle weakness and coordination deficits, but I do okay with button-mashers like Mortal Kombat. Besides, I enjoy watching Phil and his brothers go at it, because all three of them are way too invested in throwing each other off floating platforms in Super Smash Bros. The fun comes from watching the Wheelers clash: John is large and serious and bearded and kind, Matt is short and bald and usually snickering, and Phil is Phil.

I always savor these evenings, the camaraderie and escapism and popcorn and caffeinated soda, but today something feels off. Maybe it’s because Phil’s been quiet all evening, or maybe it’s the realization that lately when I’ve been sitting in a dark room—with Kalyn—it has actually mattered whether I’m there. I’ve been an active participant, not a piece of the audience.

I try to feel more involved. “Phil, there’s a hammer on the upper platform—”

“I don’t need your useless assistance,” Phil snaps, so sharply that John says, “Whoa, overreaction much?” Matt takes advantage of the hiccup by taking the hammer for himself, ending the round in seconds when he knocks both opponents into the sky.

John hits the pause button. “Seriously, Phil, the hell was that?”

Phil’s not looking at anything but the screen. “I simply don’t need Gus’s brand of help. It has proven inadequate of late.”

“What are you, four?” Matt says, smile fading. “It’s a game. Apologize.”

But Phil isn’t talking about Smash Bros. He’s talking about homecoming, and the fact that I don’t have an answer for him. He’s talking about the lunches he’s spent alone while I’ve been with Kalyn. Phil can never convey his feelings in any normal way.

Phil stands. “Go ahead and take my spot, Gus. As is your wont.”

He stomps across the basement and into the downstairs bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him. My ears are ringing, my throat is dry.

Matt whistles. “Gus, I don’t know how you tolerate him. He’s so off.”

“Is everything okay?” John says.

I don’t meet their eyes as I pull myself out of the chair. “I’m going up for a dr-drink. Anyone need anything?”

“I can get it—” John starts, but I shake my head.

“No, it’s fine.”

Yes, getting up those stairs is a slow process, but it gives me time to think. Does Phil really believe that I’m trying to, what? Steal Kalyn?

She doesn’t belong to you, I think. She doesn’t belong to anyone.

Is Phil really so clueless about what he means to me?

But what does Kalyn mean to you?

I pause at the top of the scuffed stairs. I’m not trying to date Kalyn, but I am befriending her. That feels like a small betrayal, though I can’t explain why.

I step into the kitchen and startle when movement catches my eye.

Mr. Wheeler sits at the kitchen table with his laptop in front of him. He looks almost like Mom, typing away with a gleam in his eyes. Like Mom, he immediately changes when I appear. His eyes lock onto mine, and he closes the laptop.

“Hey, Gus. How’s it going?” Unlike Phil, Mr. Wheeler has a face that smiles really seem to suit. “Anything I can get you?”

I lower my eyes and make for the fridge. “Just getting some, um. I mean, drinks.”

“Haven’t seen you around as often lately.”

“Um, yeah. Junior year. It’s been busy.” I pull out one SunnyD and one Vault.

“Gus. Look at me.” I do so, because it’s a hard habit to break. When I was in elementary school, Mr. Wheeler was my counselor. It’s like he left a footprint on me somewhere. “Is everything okay? With Phil, I mean? Has he been a good friend to you?”

I open my mouth and close it again, eyes prickling. Mr. Wheeler’s always had good insight, because he’s a therapist or because he’s a good dad, I guess. But this seems too perceptive, even for him.

“Yeah, we’re cool,” I manage, because what else can I say?

“That’s good to hear,” says Mr. Wheeler, leaning back in his chair. “You’re all he’s got, too, you know that?”

The implication that I don’t have anyone else stings. I’ve only known Kalyn for two weeks, but it’s not nothing. And there’s something else that bothers me, something that always has.

I don’t know how to say it other than this: the way Mr. Wheeler talks, it’s like he thinks Phil has a disability. I used to think it was because Phil’s awkward, or Phil’s maybe on the autism spectrum, or Phil is too nerdy to function, but the older I get, the more this treatment weirds me out. Mr. Wheeler sees something sinister in Phil, some illness I’ve never seen. The way he talks, you’d think Phil was a murderer.

“I really don’t know,” Mr. Wheeler murmurs, before I can escape down the stairs, “I don’t know where or who he’d be without you.”

At the bottom of the stairs, the players have moved. John’s back at his desk in the corner, typing feverishly on a forum, and Matt is leaning over the card tables behind the couch, adjusting Warhammer figures on a playing field made of Styrofoam mountains and mirror lakes. Phil is alone on the sectional with a controller in his hand, punching the hell out of someone in Mortal Kombat. He hits the start button and pauses the game as I hold out a soda to him, then budges to the side.

I pick up a controller, sit on the couch so that our knees are almost touching, and do my best to start punching, too.