Afterward (11 page)

I think about playing that Ludwig all by myself. I think about listening to Green Day songs in my headphones, closing my eyes and going through them and then opening my eyes and realizing I'm all by myself except for my mom checking on me by staring out the kitchen window every five seconds.

“Maybe,” I finally anwer. “Maybe it could be fun.” I stare out the window again. I've already said more than I thought I would, and I really don't want to keep talking.

I guess Dr. Greenberg senses as much because he says we can wrap it up. As he walks me out all I feel is exhausted, like I've just run for miles instead of sat on a couch.

*   *   *

Because my life couldn't be any stranger, when my mom and I arrive home after my session with Dr. Greenberg, Caroline is waiting for me in the driveway, sitting cross-legged next to her practice amp, her red Fender resting in her arms. Her ten speed is laying on its side in the grass. How did she make it over here on her bike with all that gear?

“Oh my,” my mother says as we pull in, and she presses her dark pink lips together like she does when she's nervous or angry or mad. She taps her manicured nails on the steering wheel. “Oh, my,” she says again. Then she takes a deep, careful breath.

“Mom,” I start, my pulse racing, “I didn't mention it, but Caroline came by the other day when you were gone, and we talked about playing music together, and I want to play with her, and we'll only play here not at her house. If that's okay?” I sound like I'm five years old, begging for a Christmas present that's way too expensive.

My mom's eyes open up a little bit at my speech, and her eyebrows pop up and down a few times like twin jack-in-the-boxes. I'm waiting for her to tell me that she needs to talk to my dad and Dr. Greenberg and Dr. Sugar and maybe the president of the United States before she lets me play with Caroline. But she just takes a breath and peers out at Caroline. Then she finally says, “You're sure you're okay to play with her?”

I nod. “I just want to see what it would be like. To play with another person.”

Her eyes well up a little with tears when I tell her that.

I look at Caroline. She's eyeing the Volvo, scrambling to get up, still holding her guitar by the neck.

“Okay, you can play music, but just for a little bit,” she says, blinking back tears. “Your dad will be home soon, and we're having dinner together.”

When I was little and Jesse would come over, my mom would always invite him to stay for dinner. She won't with Caroline, of course. Not that I think I would want her to.

We get out of the Volvo, and my mom smooths out her khaki skirt and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hello, Caroline,” she says, her voice neutral. “It's nice to have you over to play music with Ethan.” Like she knew all along this was the plan for today. Like it was already on one of her To Do lists.
Find Ethan someone to play music with.

“Thanks for having me,” Caroline says. She glances at me and gives me a little half smile. “Hey,” is all she says.

“Hey,” I say back.

My mom mentions something about being out in a little while with a snack and something to drink, of course, and we both say thanks. She heads for the house, and I realize my heart is still hammering. Maybe this was a stupid idea.

“So,” Caroline says, “where do I plug in?”

I like that she wants to get right to playing because that means maybe there won't be too much talking. I point to the outlet and watch as she gets set up. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail and she's wearing a Violent Femmes T-shirt that hangs off her like a curtain. Her dark jeans are worn out and tight. I'm not sure if she's cute or not. I think she is, but when I try to decide what's cute about her, my body goes numb. I don't know what the hell that means other than I'm definitely, totally not normal in the way every other teenage guy is, and that scares the shit out of me.

I grab my drumsticks.

“You want to count off?” she asks as I sit down at the Ludwig and center myself on my stool.

“Yeah,” I answer, nodding as she straps on her guitar. She pulls a bright yellow pick out of her back jeans pocket. “I can just, like, try a couple of chord progressions or whatever? See what sounds good?”

“Okay,” I say. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she glances at me and for a second we catch each other's eyes, and then I count off one-two-three and I start to drum and Caroline starts to play.

She's good. Like, really good. Like good enough that I'm trying to keep up and watch her play at the same time just to see how she does it. It sounds so much better to hear electric guitar live five feet away from you than in your headphones.

We fool around for a little while and then we come to a natural end, like we're each reading the other, knowing when to stop. After my last wallop on the drums and her last chord, we're still and quiet. She stands there, her Fender hanging low around her waist.

“You're good,” I say at last. “Where'd you take lessons?”

Caroline shakes her head. “I didn't. Lessons are expensive. I saved up for the guitar, and I taught myself from watching videos online and everything.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously,” she says. She shrugs her shoulders like it's no big deal. “You're good, too,” she says. I'm pretty sure she's just being nice, but I tell her thanks. She peers across the back lawn. “How long before your mom is out here with some snacks so she can spy on us?”

“I'm surprised she's not out here already,” I say.

“Well let's see if we can squeeze in a little more playing before she shows up with apple slices and, like, Sunny D or whatever,” she says.

“We don't have Sunny D,” I tell her. “Only these organic juice boxes.”

Caroline grins, and I realize I'm smiling back. Just a little bit.

“Okay, until the juice boxes then,” she says. “Go ahead and count off.”

And I do.

 

CAROLINE—183 DAYS AFTERWARD

Dylan has fallen asleep on my parents' bed, his head nestled on my shoulder. His episode of
Jeopardy!
is still on, but I'm scared to turn it off in case moving wakes him up.

I listen past Alex Trebek's know-it-all voice. Coming from down the hallway in the kitchen are the hard movements of my mother cleaning up after Thanksgiving dinner. The clatter of plates as they hit the sink. The gush of water coming out of the faucet at full force. The rattle of knives and forks as they're jammed into the dishwasher.

My dad isn't here. He's gone to his favorite place—Out. As in I'm going Out. I've got to get Out. I need to head Out.

Dad is the only person in this house who gets to do whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants to do it.

My phone resting on my stomach buzzes. Trying not to move, I tilt it up so I can read. It's Emma.

Hey

I debate whether I should answer. It's like I'm too exhausted to bother. But I manage a
hey
back. A few seconds later Emma texts me again.

So how was turkey day?

I wish I hadn't answered in the first place, but now I feel like I have to.

Kinda sucked

Why?

My parents got into this big fight cuz my brother wouldn't come out to sit at the table and my dad's mom and stepdad were assholes about it too like it was my mom's fault for not controlling him better

Dylan shifts a little in his sleep and slips off my shoulder. He's still wearing his favorite Superman T-shirt, but not even the promise of his favorite T-shirt and dinner with his usual plate and cup and bowl would get him to sit down with us. My grandmother insisted that Dylan would join us if only my mother didn't “baby him” so much.

I scowl at the thought and lean in to give Dylan a kiss on the cheek. When he's asleep is the only time I can kiss him, and it reminds me of when he was a baby and we didn't know there was anything wrong with him yet, and I could sit on the couch with him cuddled in my arms and I could sing to him while he slept. This was back when people thought we would be the kind of brother and sister who fought over the television or staged elaborate pranks on our parents. Normal stuff.

He's got crust lining his eyes from where mom couldn't wash his face enough and clusters of little freckles on either side of his nose and the lightest eyebrows. He has my mom's coloring, and I have my dad's, so I'm not sure we even look related. But he's my baby brother, and when I think about those days he was gone, those days he had to have been so scared and not knowing what the hell was going on, it makes me want to cover him with a blanket and protect him from everything always.

When I think he's in a deep enough sleep, I manage to turn off
Jeopardy!
Just then, Emma texts back.

Sorry your turkey day sucked … mine was okay but my mom bought ham instead of turkey and I was like wtf?

I sigh. When we were little, my problems and Emma's problems matched better. We knew what to say to make each other feel okay about bad grades on spelling quizzes and dumb unrequited crushes on members of boy bands. But it's like as my problems have gotten bigger, Emma hasn't been able to keep up. Like she sometimes has no clue what's the right thing to say.

The banging around in the kitchen has stopped, finally, and I cover Dylan with my parents' bedspread. My mom will probably let him sleep here in the bed with her tonight, and my dad will end up on the couch. The thought of my dad sleeping there doesn't bug me even though the couch, which we bought on clearance, doesn't have a comfortable spot that lasts more than ten minutes.

There's the sound of the television coming on in the family room and the fizz pop of my mom opening a can. My mom doesn't drink that much, but who could blame her for having a beer tonight?

I slide off my parents' bed and hover in hallway, trying to decide what to do with myself. I could go into the family room and talk to my mom, but I know how it would go.

ME: Hey.

MOM: Hey.

ME: Dad still gone?

MOM: Yeah, looks like it.

[LONG PAUSE WHILE DUMB SITCOM WITH FAT HUSBAND AND CUTE WIFE PLAYS ON TELEVISION IN THE BACKGROUND]

ME: The dinner you made was good.

MOM: Thanks, sweetie.

[LONG PAUSE WHILE MOM CHANGES CHANNEL TO DUMB SHOW WHERE WOMEN GET ROSES FROM A DUMB GUY IN A TUX WEARING TOO MUCH HAIR GEL TO BE LEGAL]

ME: Dylan's asleep on your bed.

MOM: Okay, honey, thank you.

ME: I'm sorry things were … weird tonight.

MOM: It's okay … it's just how they are sometimes.

ME: Yeah.

MOM:…

So instead of going to talk to my mom, I creep into my bedroom and put on my pajamas, the red ones with the little white guitars on them. My aunt and cousin sent them to me from Chicago last Christmas and even though I'm not that into cutesy stuff, when I opened them on Christmas morning I let myself smile and love them right there in front of my parents and everything. They've been washed so many times they're softer than soft. And I don't even mind that they reek of the cheap detergent my mom uses. The one that tries and fails to smell of flowers and sunshine.

I crawl into my bed with my phone and fiddle around with it. I could text Emma again, but the idea kind of leaves me empty.

So I start a text to Ethan.

How was …

I delete it.

What are …

I delete it.

Finally I tap in
Hope you had a good thanksgiving
and hit send before I can think about it too much
.
It's not open-ended. If he doesn't respond, I can just tell myself I wasn't asking a question anyway.

I flip over on my back and stare at the ceiling. Ethan and I have played music together four times since I managed to bike over there with my guitar and practice amp a few weeks ago. It's weird. We don't even talk that much. I just plug in and we play a little, each one of us figuring out what the other can do. He's actually really good at the drums. Way better than I am at the guitar, which makes me feel kind of self-conscious.

Each time I've gone over there I've stayed one hour, and his mom has come out to the garage about three times. Seriously. One time she came out and watched us play with this hyper excited smile pasted on her face, shifting her glance back and forth from me to Ethan and from Ethan back to me. I got so nervous my fingers slipped like twenty times and I could barely play an A chord.

“I kind of suck,” I said, after his mom went back inside.

“No, you're really good,” Ethan told me. It was the first full sentence he'd said to me that afternoon. I'm pretty sure he was just being nice, but I just said thanks and tried to keep up.

My phone buzzes from my nightstand, and I grab it. It's Ethan. My stomach flips a bit. I read his text back.

Thanks. Hope you had a good thanksgiving too

I turn over onto my stomach and stare at his words. This is the first time we've texted about something other than getting together to play music. He was the one that suggested we exchange numbers so we could figure out good times to play. I wonder if his mom knows I know how to reach him.

All of a sudden another text from Ethan pops up.

My grandparents are here from boston. Saw them when I first came home but it was good to see them again

I guess he wants the conversation to keep going. I like texting in general because it's the best mixture of being vulnerable and being safe. I can't even figure out how people communicated before they could text. The idea of having to call on the phone and talk with someone you just met seems so bizarre. But even though Ethan and I are texting, I'm still not sure exactly how to behave.

Cool you got to see your grandparents. I had some family drama. Now I'm sitting here in my room bored