Lost in the Sun (20 page)

They were pretty crisp. I ate some more.

“How do you do in school?” he asked me.

I swallowed my mouthful of green beans as quickly as I could. “Okay,” I answered. “Some classes better than others.”

“Grades?”

“B-minuses mostly. I'm not doing so well in P.E., but I'm making it up right now.” This truth thing wasn't easy.

He set down his fork and knife, crossed like a long X on his plate, and turned to look at me full-on. “Why do you want to be friends with my daughter?”

Now
here,
I thought, was the big question.

“I don't know,” I said. That was the truth. “I don't think I
want
to be friends with Fallon, I think we just
are
friends. Fallon's . . . well, she's funny. She's weird.” I looked up at Mr. Little, because I didn't
want him to think I was being rude. “In a good way, I mean. Most people try really hard not to be weird, but Fallon's different. And she's nice. And . . .” Had I been talking too long? I wished I had some water. “She doesn't feel sorry for me.”

Mr. Little nodded again, taking it all in.

“Can I tell you something else?” I said. I mean, as long as I was being honest . . . “I don't want to get Fallon in trouble or anything, so I really hope this doesn't, but I think I should tell you that Fallon and I have been having lunch together. I didn't know at first you said we couldn't hang out, but even after I found out last week, we've still been having lunch. I only wanted to tell you that because I didn't want you to find out later and think I was lying about it.” I was talking fast now, trying to get it all out. “And I know you don't like me, and I know sometimes in life you only get one chance, but Mr. Little, I sure hope you'll give me another one anyway, because Fallon . . . She's . . . she's my friend, and . . . well, I guess that's all. I'm sorry for talking so much.”

When I started telling the truth, I really got going, I guess.

Mr. Little chewed in silence for a long time. I chewed in silence too.

Finally, he said, “You know, Trent, I appreciate your coming here. That was brave of you, and I have to give you credit for that. I know I'm not always the easiest person to approach.”

“No, sir,” I said. Which was exactly when I probably should've kept my mouth shut, judging by the sideways glance Mr. Little gave me then, but he kept going anyway.

“Unfortunately,” he said, and for a splash of a second I felt that heated ball of rage inside me, but it was extinguished almost immediately by my heart, which sank right on top of it. I guess I didn't even
have room for rage in my body, that's how hurt I was. I gulped a dry scratch of a gulp. “I'm afraid I'm not the one you have to convince to trust you,” Mr. Little finished.

I swallowed over the scratching again. “I'll talk to Mrs. Little too,” I said. “I'd be happy to. I'll answer any questions she wants. I can come every day. I can come to her work. I can—”

Mr. Little stopped me with a raised hand.

I waited for him to talk.

“I'll need to talk to my wife, of course,” he told me after a minute or two of just chewing, “but I think she might be turned in your favor. It's Fallon you'll really need to work on.”

I paused with a forkful of pasta halfway to my mouth. “Fallon?” I said.

“Look. I know my daughter likes you. She likes you a lot. And you're clearly a good friend. But she's also pretty fragile sometimes.” I scrunched my eyebrows together at that. Fallon? Fragile? “And you scared her pretty badly that day at the movies.”

My heart, which had only recently started beating again, whimpered once more.

“She's the one you need to talk to, Trent,” Mr. Little told me. “Worry about Fallon trusting you, all right? Then you and I can talk again.”

•   •   •

Here's something I needed to figure out.

With some people, when they didn't like you, you could do something silly and unimportant, say, water their plants. If you showed up every day, showed you actually cared, they might start to like you. Just a little bit.

With other people, if they didn't like you, you could talk to them. Tell them the truth. And maybe they wouldn't like you, but if they listened, really truly, maybe they'd learn to trust you just a little. Maybe they'd start to.

And with other people, you only got one chance. If you screwed up, that was it. It was over. And you knew that it was over.

And all those sorts of people made sense to me. Like it or not, I could work with all those kinds of people.

But what were you supposed to do with the sorts of people who didn't have plants to water? Who didn't seem to dislike you, but didn't totally trust you, either? What were you supposed to do with the sorts of people who would talk about everything under the sun except the things you knew they really wanted to talk about? What did you do with people who never ever got mad, but who were somehow mad at you?

That was the thing I needed to figure out.

I tried and tried to think of a way to make Fallon trust me again, but I had nothing. If I got her to crack a smile at lunch, I felt like a winner.

But I knew I hadn't won yet, not really. It was going to take something a lot better than a bad joke to get Fallon back.

On Tuesday I bought a new sketchbook at Lippy's corner store, and slowly I began to think things through on paper.

•   •   •

Wednesday afternoon Mom picked me up early, right after lunch, for an eye doctor's appointment. I'd told Ms. Emerson ahead of time that I wouldn't be able to water her plants that day, and she told me, “That's okay. They can be a little thirsty now and again. It builds character.”

I had to admit I was starting to like her a little bit.

After the eye appointment (“Twenty-twenty, Mr. Zimmerman!” the optometrist declared), Mom took me to the store to work with her.
It was a slow afternoon. Mom and I were sitting at the counter, not doing much of anything, when Mom said, “How about a movie tonight? Just you and me?”

I followed her gaze across the street to the theater marquee.

“Which one?” I asked her warily. There was a 5:30 showing of
Hawk & Dove,
a superhero movie I'd been bugging her to see for a while, and a 6:15 of
Lucky in Love.
I didn't need to know what that one was about to know that I didn't want to see it.

“Your pick,” she said.

I was surprised, I guess. Not about her letting me pick the movie, but about suggesting we go at all.

“Aren't I supposed to have dinner with Dad tonight?” I asked her.

“Were you actually going to show up?” she asked back.

I guess that was a fair point.

•   •   •

Mr. Jacobson wasn't at the window selling tickets, which I was pretty glad about. It was one of the other workers, one whose kid I hadn't beaten up on Halloween.

While Mom went for a last-minute bathroom run before the movie started, I went to get the popcorn. That's when I noticed Jeremiah behind the counter. There were two other kids back there with him—older kids, high schoolers—and I prayed and prayed that I would get one of them instead of Jeremiah when my turn came. But no such luck.

Actually, at first Jeremiah pretended to ignore
me,
asking the guy behind me what he wanted. Which was kind of funny, really, because
I was busy ducking down to study the candy counter, like I really didn't know which was better, Milk Duds or Junior Mints, and here was Jeremiah not wanting to help me either. Unfortunately, the guy behind me, who had obviously forgotten how much it sucked to be in middle school, said, “I think this kid is next.”

“I'm still thinking,” I told the guy, barely glancing up from the candy.

He ordered a soda.

By the time he was finished, Jeremiah was still the only person free behind the counter, so finally I straightened up. I did my best impression of someone who had never met Jeremiah Jacobson before and said, “Two small popcorns, please. Thanks so much.”

Jeremiah did his best impression of someone who hated my guts. “Next!” he shouted over my shoulder.

“Dude, Jeremiah,” one of the high school kids, who was filling up three sodas at once, told him, “help that kid, all right?”

Jeremiah glared at me. I'd done a pretty great job of dodging him the last two weeks at school, and it was starting to occur to me that maybe it'd been so easy because Jeremiah didn't want to see me either.

“What do you want?” he asked me. He did not say it very nicely.

I could feel the ball of fire starting in my chest, but I thought happy things—Movie Club with Fallon, the Dodgers winning the World Series—and pushed it down. “Two small popcorns,” I said. I even managed to smile a little bit.

Jeremiah didn't nod or anything. He didn't ask if I wanted butter. He turned around and filled up one small popcorn bag barely to
the top. Usually the high schoolers packed it till it was overflowing.

“Eight fifty,” he said, slapping the bag on the counter so hard that one of the corners crumpled and at least ten pieces spilled out. He rang me up, and the price clanged on the front of the register.

I stared at him. I didn't want to start anything, I really didn't, but I wasn't sure what to do. Eight fifty was technically what I owed him, but that was for two bags of popcorn. He'd only given me one.

“Eight fifty,” he said again, like he was bored or something.

Over my shoulder I heard someone growl, “Hey, kid, you gonna pay or what? It's a long line.”

Luckily, the high schooler with the sodas seemed to notice that something was up. “Everything okay?” he asked me. The way he said it, I could kind of tell he was aware what a major jerk Jeremiah was. Which made me realize that working beside Jeremiah at the concessions stand might be almost as terrible as going to school with him.

“I, uh,” I said, doing my best not to look at Jeremiah as I said it, “I was just waiting for my second popcorn.” Pushing down the fire.

The high schooler darted his eyes toward Jeremiah. “Ah,” he said. “Small?” he asked me.

I nodded. “Thanks.”

As Jeremiah took my money, he told me, “Enjoy your movie, dill hole.” Only he didn't say “dill hole.”

There was the fire again. But instead of letting it radiate out to my arms, my legs, my everything, I clenched my fists tight and did my best to stop it.

“I'm sorry about Halloween,” I told him. Speaking truths.

And I didn't wait to see what he said to that, or what his face looked like when he heard my apology, because none of that mattered, I decided. What mattered was that I'd said what I felt. I unclenched my fists and grabbed the two bags of popcorn.

Mom was standing right beside the line. I hadn't even seen her. She was smiling at me, a proud motherly smile.

“Ready for the movie?” she asked me.

“I think so,” I said.

•   •   •

After the movie, Mom insisted we get dinner at the Mad Batter, and I didn't argue, because the Mad Batter was delicious.

But I did ask, “You think Ray's all right at the store by himself?”

Mom waved a hand in front of her face. “He's got fifteen minutes till close,” she said. “He'll be fine. I want to talk to my boy.”

I got my usual, grilled cheese with bacon and a side of fries. Mom got a western omelet with extra onions. You weren't technically allowed to have breakfast after 11:00 a.m., but Mom said that was one of the benefits of being friends with the owner.

“So,” Mom said, sipping her coffee while we waited for our food. I just had water. “I had a good talk with Aaron the other day.”

I concentrated on Mom's coffee mug, which had a giant picture of the Cheshire Cat from
Alice in Wonderland
on it. I didn't want to say anything that would give away Aaron's secret, in case he hadn't told her everything. He was my brother, after all. “What about?” I asked, rearranging my utensils on top of my napkin.

“Trig, mostly,” she said. She took another sip of coffee.

She knew. Aaron had told her everything. I could see it in her face.

“How did his test go?” I asked her. I really wanted to know. Aaron hadn't told me yet.

Mom frowned. “Not so well. He works so hard and he's such a smart kid, but math's never been his strong suit. He still has time to get back on track, but there's a chance he'll have to do summer school.”

“Oh,” I said. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.” I was playing with my fork on my napkin again, flipping it over and over, and Mom reached out her own fork and jabbed the tines together. “We'll figure it out, though. It'll be okay.” We had a mini fork-joust. I let Mom win.

“Aaron said you were the one who told him to talk to me,” Mom said after a while. Our waitress, Giulia, brought our food then, so Mom paused while Giulia set it down. “Anyway, thanks for that.” She dug into her omelet. “Anything
you
wanted to tell me about?”

I picked up my grilled cheese. Studied it. Thought about what I wanted to say to Mom. If I'd learned anything from lunches with Fallon the past couple of weeks, it was that it was a lot more fun to eat with someone who talked back to you.

“Things are okay,” I said. “I mean, mostly.” She nodded, looking for more. “Basketball Buddies is pretty fun, actually. They paired me with Annie.”

“Annie Richards?” Mom seemed surprised. “How's that going?”

“Not bad. She's nice. Well, she says she hates me, but I don't think she does.”

“I guess that's good then.”

“Yeah.”

“And I've been watering plants for Ms. Emerson. Every day after school.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” she said. “I thought you hated Ms. Emerson.”

I thought about that. I think lately I hated Ms. Emerson the way Annie Richards hated me.

“It turns out she's not so bad.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Mom took another big bite of her omelet. “Anything else going on?”

Speak truths.

“I think I might have ruined things with Fallon,” I said.

Mom set down her fork, all concern. Listening, waiting.

“That night, at Halloween,” I went on. “She was really upset. And I don't know how to fix it. I've been trying, but . . . I think maybe I ruined it.”

“I can't imagine your friendship would be over,” Mom said, thinking things through. “Not just like that. I don't believe you only ever get one chance.”

I was starting to understand why it hadn't worked out so well between her and Dad.

“But Fallon doesn't talk to me,” I said. “Not really, anymore.”

Mom picked up her mug. Took a long sip. Stirred in a little more cream.

“I've heard Fallon talk to you plenty,” she said. “Maybe you're just not listening to the right parts.”

That Cheshire Cat was grinning big at me, like he knew something I didn't. I stuck a few fries in ketchup and chewed them. “Maybe,” I said slowly. But I wasn't so sure.

“Keep me updated?” Mom asked. I nodded.

When Mom had finished her entire giant mug of coffee and was on a second cup, she told me, “I like you when you're chatty, you know, Trent. I like knowing what's going on with you.”

“Yeah?” I said.

She smiled. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” I told her, and I set my grilled cheese down on my plate. Folded my hands together. “Now it's your turn. Tell me all about you and Ray.”

•   •   •

In the car on the way home, Mom told me, “I had a good time hanging out tonight, Trent.”

“Me too,” I said. Because that was the truth.

“It wasn't really fair, though, was it?” she said. I glanced sideways at her. “I mean, it was your dad's night with you.”

I didn't say anything to that.

“He misses you,” she said.

“He doesn't,” I told her.

“He's bad at showing it,” Mom said slowly. And I could tell it was hard, saying anything even remotely nice about Dad, because she probably hated him more than I did. “But he loves you, a lot. And I think it would be nice if you went easy on him sometimes.”

I wanted to say that he was the one who should go easy on me. I
wanted to say that if he loved me so much, then why did he have to be such a jerk all the time.

But I looked at Mom's face, and she was so
hopeful.
She was trying so hard to raise a good kid, not a screw-up. So instead I just said, “I'll try.”

•   •   •

When I opened the door to my bedroom, I saw them right away. Fake black plastic spiders. Hundreds of them. Doug must've gone to four different stores to find so many. They were everywhere—taped to my light switch, crawling up the walls, crunching under my feet as I walked. Sprinkled on top of my pillow.

Not for one second did I think they were real. Not for one second was I even mildly close to having a heart attack. This prank might've been even worse than the soup one, which was saying something.

But I didn't tell Doug that. What I did instead was let out an incredible fake scream, as loud and shrill and girly as I could. And when I heard Mom holler,
“What? What happened?”
really worried, from down the hall, I called back, “Uh . . . Nothing! Sorry, I just thought I saw a . . . mouse.” But I kept a tiny hint of fear in my voice.

From outside my door, I heard a muffled giggle.

After Doug went to bed, I slipped a note under his door. It said:

I'll get you back for this, Doug. Just you wait.

It was the least I could do, really.