How to Say I Love You Out Loud (3 page)

The senior girls are a different story entirely. They emit a frenzied energy as they call loudly to each other across the room, laughter and snarky comments about butt size echoing off the open
lockers and cinder-block walls. They’re pumped for the season, and locker doors are slammed, shoes are knotted hurriedly, and hockey sticks are tossed jauntily over their shoulders as they
try to get down to the field as quickly as possible.

Their energy is just as palpable on the open field as it was within the confines of the locker room. Leighton, standing next to Dana, bounces on the balls of her feet as she waits for the rest
of us to assemble in a circle around her to stretch. She pulls an arm across her chest and rolls her right ankle at the same time, and we follow along, a group of compliant mirror images.

“Listen up, you guys,” she begins loudly, waiting for all other conversations to end. She stares pointedly at two fellow seniors who don’t shut their mouths quickly enough.
“Summer was fun and all, but just to remind you, as of today, the season is officially underway.” She glances toward our coach, who is halfway across the field, setting up orange cones
for a drill. “Time to cut the bullshit,” she says firmly. “We have T-E next week, and I will
not
let them embarrass us this year. That cool with everyone?” Without
waiting for a response, she gives her next command. “Switch.”

She promptly pulls her other arm across her chest and begins rolling her left ankle, and we all follow along, like clockwork. Leighton assesses us and nods her head approvingly.

I drop my head, pretending to stretch my neck, and try to stare without being seen from under my overgrown bangs. Leighton is so comfortable there, the literal center of attention, a group of
nearly thirty girls mimicking her every movement. Her position does not cause her to tug self-consciously at the bottom of her tiny shorts or lead her to fiddle nervously with her ponytail. She is
supremely confident, reminding me of a lioness governing over a pack.

Leighton and Dana lead us through the routine, and then we jog over to the other side of the field to join Coach Marks. She leads us through a series of drills—dribbling, passing, and
blocking. We practice taking shots on the goal from the edge of the circle. We practice penalty shots from mere feet away. Then just before she lets us break for water prior to our daily scrimmage,
she sets up a final drill. We are divided into two lines, and when the ball is tossed toward the net, one person from each line sprints toward it, attempting to beat the opponent from the other
line, capture possession of the ball, and move toward the net to score.

Slowly, I join the left line, feeling a slight, silly nausea in the pit of my stomach. I hate face-off drills. I hate them more than anything, especially since most of the senior girls have
ended up in the other line and I’ll likely be paired against one of them.

As my turn approaches, I count quickly, and my stomach does another series of turns when I realize I’ll be forced to compete against Leighton for the ball. She will win. Where I’m
precise, she’s fast. And ultimately, she is more aggressive than I will ever be. I’m not naturally aggressive, and on the hockey field, that makes the difference between mediocre and
really spectacular.

Coach Marks blows her whistle and Leighton takes off like a hunter, charging in my direction like I’m the prey. I make a halfhearted attempt to force her back into her space, but fear
holds me back.

What happens if I actually beat her? What then?

Leighton doesn’t really handle defeat well.

In the end, I’d rather be subjected to her self-satisfied smirk than a glare of annoyance-tinged anger.

Thwack.

The ball hits the net and there it is—the grin, the one that says she’s a winner and she knows it. The grin that keeps me in my place.

We run through the drill a few more times, but thankfully the numbers are uneven and I don’t have to face off against her again. JV scrimmages varsity, and then it’s my least
favorite part of the practice—wind sprints first to the twenty-five-yard line, then to the fifty, and eventually all the way to the hundred. We take off to the staccato blasts of the whistle
until my calves are cramping and I bend over from exertion, all the while knowing that makes it even harder to breathe.

Finally, mercy is granted and I hobble toward the bleachers. Leighton reminds us we need to stay for a minute so she can dole out our uniforms in time to wash them before the game next week. She
hands out maroon away jerseys, white home jerseys, and maroon-and-charcoal kilts. Leighton and Dana check the numbers on the shirts to make sure the captains, along with their closest friends on
the team, get their numbers from last year.

Leighton retrieves the next shirt from the box; it has the number twenty-three on the back. She stares at it a moment, then rolls her eyes. She scans the crowd until her gaze, still entirely
unamused, meets mine. The jersey is tossed in my direction, with much more force than necessary. “Alex said to make sure to give you number twenty-three.” She shakes her head. “I
don’t really get the inside joke . . . but whatever. The number’s free, so there you go.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, folding the shirt neatly to busy my hands. The idea of my having an inside joke with her boyfriend seems to have irked her. I don’t smile at the idea of
Alex telling her to give me a certain number or the image of him laughing as he imagined how annoyed I’d be at one more M.J./twenty-three reference.

Leighton has just added a new layer of worry to my concerns about the status of my friendship with Alex. This morning, I was forced to acknowledge an unexpected distance between the two of us.
Now, it occurs to me there might also be an actual barrier between me and Alex, a person who is interested in keeping me from closing that distance.

When we’re dismissed, I shower quickly and stumble to my car, completely disheartened, already feeling the lactic acid accumulating in my muscles. I can imagine how sore I’m going to
feel by the time I get home and have to stand up again. It’s been a long-ass day and suddenly I feel more exhausted than ever.

By five forty-five on that first Tuesday of the school year, all I want out of life is a Pablo & Pancho’s chicken enchilada.

My mother and I go out to eat at my favorite restaurant every year on the first day of school. It’s rare that we eat out during the week; in fact, it’s rare that my family goes out
to eat at all. This is something special for
me
. Another rarity. Most weeks, days, minutes in the Michaelson household revolve around my brother, Phillip. But I don’t usually
complain, at least not out loud.

Fair doesn’t mean equal, fair means everyone gets what they need.

It’s a concept that’s been drilled into me since I was three years old. Phillip needs a lot more than I do and any equitable division of time, attention, resources, or preference
goes straight out the window in my parents’ attempt to apply this concept of fairness.

But on the first night of the school year, it’s my turn to come first for once and I look forward to our trip to Pablo & Pancho’s after a month of at-home meals during August.
It’s not only the melted cheese I’m craving. It’s nice to have my mom’s undivided attention for a couple of hours.

I know my mom looks forward to this night, too. I usually find her waiting eagerly at the front door, lipstick freshly applied, dressed in a pair of reasonably fashion-forward jeans. (My parents
really don’t get out much.)

But when I walk in the door, I find Phillip instead, hooked up to one gaming system or another, headphones on. He makes happy little grunting noises and occasionally flaps his hands at his
sides. My arrival doesn’t even register on his face, flashing with the bright colors from the screen.

I stare at him for a minute. It’d be easy enough to ignore him—he prefers to be ignored. But every once in a while, Phillip checks back in to the human world and there are these
moments of clarity. He sometimes says my name, reminding me that he actually knows it. He might look right at me with those shocking blue eyes. Puzzled expression on his face, he might ask,
“Will you help me?” as if he actually wanted someone to take his hand and guide him out of the confusing maze of existence he’s typically lost in.

So I sigh, let my hockey-stick bag slide off my shoulder, and approach my brother, even though I really don’t have the energy for this right now.

Dropping to my knees in front of him, I wait for eye contact before speaking. I would take his headphones off, too, but that would drive him berserk. Instead, I smile and wave. “Hi,
Phillip. How’s Phillip today?” Pronouns don’t make sense to Phillip.

He grants me eye contact for less than three seconds before returning his gaze to the screen. Then he laughs maniacally. “Aww, cheer up, Squid, it could be worse.”

“Phillip, look at me. Look at Jordyn.”

“It could be worse.” He laughs again. “It could be worse.”

Bizarre as they are, something about his words actually resonates, given the day I’ve had.

I grit my teeth and stand, quads screaming in protest. It’s not a clarity kind of day, apparently. Phillip’s not in Berwyn, he’s in Bikini Bottom with SpongeBob SquarePants and
crew.

I stare down at Phillip’s shaggy hair, typically overgrown because haircuts are a battle. My brother is fifteen years old. We are only nineteen months—yet entire decades—apart.
I guess he’s considered a high school freshman, but he’s been in an ungraded program for so long now, the term doesn’t really apply.

Phillip’s autistic.

If you Google “famous people with autism,” the search engine will produce names such as Mozart. Daryl Hannah. Andy Warhol. Even Albert Einstein, for crying out loud. If you
didn’t know better, you might think that most people with autism are brilliant, accomplished, interesting, even glamorous.

My brother’s not really any of these things. He’s smart, I have to give him that much, and apparently he’s really good at math. He’s not sitting around testing advanced
mathematical theory like Matt Damon’s character in
Good Will Hunting
, though. Most of the time, Phillip does everything in his power to stay in his private little world—as
distant as possible from the rest of us—as parents, teachers, and therapists do everything in their power to drag him out of it. It’s a mental battle that sometimes turns physical as he
fights their attempts.

If Phillip had his way, he’d sit around in his Bose noise-reducing headphones, watching episodes of
SpongeBob SquarePants
on repeat and reciting his favorite lines for hours
afterward. He just wants to be left alone, because something about his neurological makeup leaves him unequipped to deal with the sights, sounds, smells, and touches of our human world.

I don’t know how well equipped the rest of us are, but a lot more so than Phillip, I suppose.

My mom comes in from the kitchen and right away I know something’s up. She’s wearing her best fake-cheerful smile. Over the years I’ve become Pavlovian conditioned to fear the
bad news that will inevitably follow. “Thought I heard you! You all ready to go? Taco Tuesday!”

Huh. Maybe no bad news after all.

“Yeah, I showered in the locker room so I’m ready.”

She picks up her purse. “Great.”

I smile and my stomach growls in anticipation of my chicken enchilada.

Then my mom walks over to Phillip and gently removes his headphones, something only she can get away with. “Come on, Phillip, time for dinner.”

My hand freezes on the doorknob. “Umm, where’s Dad? It’s supposed to be Girls’ Night.”

Phillip is
not
coming with us. That’s not part of the plan.

My mom refuses to meet my eye as she quietly prompts Phillip to shut off his game. Then she says, “Dad messaged me a few minutes ago. He said something came up that he had to deal with
immediately and that he wouldn’t be home in time to stay with Phillip. There’s no reason he can’t come with us. We can still do our thing.”

I tilt my head and give her a Look until she finally glances over her shoulder at me.

“C’mon, Jordyn, this is the best I can do.”

The best she can do kind of sucks. Going out to dinner with Phillip definitely sucks.

I step away from the door. “We can just go another night. Sounds like that will be easier for everyone.”

“No, this is our tradition.” She stands and puts her hands on her hips. “It has to be tonight. It’ll be fine.”

Maybe it will be fine, but it won’t be good. But she’s already busy gathering Phillip’s things, double-checking that we have everything he’ll need just to get through the
meal, periodically prompting and reprompting. “Time for dinner, Phillip. Time for dinner.”

“No McDonald’s!”

“No McDonald’s, Phillip. The restaurant will be quiet.”

“No McDonald’s!”

“No McDonald’s, I promise.”

“Vacuum?”

“I’m sure the restaurant has a vacuum.”

I roll my eyes and open the door, conceding defeat. Dinner is happening and now I sort of want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Phillip rides up front because he gets carsick. I’m stuck in the back, getting passing smiles from my mom in the rearview as she tries to concentrate on the road while at the same time
keeping Phillip from reprogramming the radio station presets. At least it’s a short drive to the restaurant and we make it there unscathed.

The interior of Pablo & Pancho’s is dark and cozy, with bench seating and overstuffed pillows, small candles flickering in red-and-blue mosaic cups. Despite the dim lighting, I can
still feel the weight of the stares as soon as we walk through the door. Phillip is thin and frail. He walks like an agitated heron, on the tips of his toes, head moving from side to side, scanning
the room for something to set him off. My mom actually dangles his Nintendo 3DS in front of him like a carrot but she insists he keep his headphones off until we’re seated, why I don’t
know. He stands out without them.

In the small lobby, mariachi music, rife with the rapid-fire strumming of guitars—
“Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay mi amor, ay mi morena!”
—blasts over the speakers.
Phillip claps his hands over his ears and begins shrieking loud enough to drown out the repetitive, passionate refrain of the song. His shrieks are high-pitched and alienlike, but nothing like the
full-on screaming that will follow if we don’t get him away from the speakers pronto.