The Truth About Forever (28 page)

As always, he paused, considering this. From vomit to deep introspection: this was how Truth worked. You either went with it, or you didn't. "Bert," he said flatly, after a second.

"Bert," I repeated.

He nodded. "I just feel responsible for him, you know? I mean, it's a big brother thing. But also with my mom gone… She never said so but I know she was counting on me to take care of him. And he's so…"

"So what?" I asked as the cashier scanned the towels.

He shrugged. "So… Bert. You know? He's intense. Takes everything really seriously, like with all his Armageddon stuff. A lot of people his age, you know, they just don't
get
him. Everything he feels, he feels strongly. Too strongly, sometimes. I think he freaks people out."

"He's not that bad," I said, as he handed the cashier a twenty and got change. "He's just…" And now I was at a loss, unable to find the right word.

"Bert," he finished for me.

"Exactly."

And so it went. Question by question, answer by answer. Everyone else thought we were weird, but I was starting to wonder how I'd ever gotten to know anyone any other way. If anything, the game made you realize how little you knew about people. After only a few weeks, I knew what Wes worried about, what embarrassed him most, his greatest disappointment. I couldn't be sure of any of these things when it came to my mother, or Caroline, or Jason, and knew they'd be equally stymied if asked about me.

"I just think it's weird," Kristy said to me after walking up on us a couple of times, only to catch the tail end of Wes detailing some seventh-grade trauma or me explaining why I thought my neck was strange-looking. "I mean, Truth or Dare, that I understand. But this is just talking."

"Exactly," I said. "Anyone can do a dare."

"I don't know about
that
," she said darkly. "Everyone knew if you were smart, you always picked Truth over Dare. That way you could at least lie, if you had to."

I just looked at her.

"What?" she said. She rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't lie to you. I'm talking about cutthroat slumber party ethics. Nobody tells the truth all the time."

"You do in this game," I said.

"Maybe
you
do. But how do you know he is?"

"I don't know," I told her. "I just do."

And I did. It was why I liked being with Wes so much, that summer. He was the one person I could count on, unequivocally, to say exactly what he meant, no hedging around. He had no idea, I was sure, how much I appreciated it.

"Macy!"

I turned around, and there was Bert, standing at the top of his driveway in an undershirt and a pair of dress pants. There was a piece of tissue stuck to his chin and another on his temple, both clearly shaving injuries, and he looked desperate. "Can you come here for a second?"

"Sure," I said, starting across the road. When I got within a few feet of him, I could smell his cologne. One step closer, and every step after that, it was all I could smell, which was saying something, considering I'd spent the last hour helping Delia peel garlic to make hummus and was pretty fragrant myself. "What's going on?"

He turned around and started down the driveway toward his house, walking at such a fast, frenzied pace that I found myself struggling to keep up with him. "I have an important engagement," he said over his shoulder, "and Kristy was supposed to help me get ready. She
promised
. But she and Monica had to take Stella to deliver bouquets, and she's not back yet."

"Engagement?" I asked.

"It's my Armageddon club social. A
big
deal." He looked at me pointedly, as if to emphasize this. "It only happens once a year."

"Right," I said. As we walked up the steps to his front door, I watched as one of the pieces of tissue dislodged from his face, taking flight over his head and disappearing somewhere behind us. On the bright side, at least with us moving, I couldn't smell the cologne. As much.

I'd never been inside Wes and Bert's house before. From the road, all you could see was that it was wood, cozy and cabinlike, but I was surprised, as I followed Bert in, by how open and bright it was. The living room was big, with beams across the ceiling and skylights, the furniture modem and comfortable looking. The kitchen ran against the back wall, and there were plants all along the counter, many of them leaning toward one large window above the sink. Also there was art everywhere: abstract paintings on the walls, several ceramic pieces, and two of Wes's smaller sculptures on display on either side of the fireplace. I'd expected it to look, well, like two teenaged guys lived there, with pizza boxes piled up on the counter and half-filled glasses cluttering every surface, but it was surprisingly neat.

"What's at issue here," Bert said as we headed down the hallway, passing a closed door and another bedroom along the way, "is dots or stripes. What do you think?"

He pushed open the door to his bedroom, going inside, but once I hit the threshold I just stood there, staring. Not at the two button-up shirts he was now holding out to me, but at the huge poster behind him, which took up the entire wall. It said, simply, ATTENTION: ARMAGEDDON and featured a graphic image of a blue earth being shattered to bits. The rest of the room was decorated the same way, with posters proclaiming the end is nearer than you think and one that said simply mega tsunami: one wave, total annihilation. The remaining wall space was taken up by shelves, all of which were packed with books featuring similar titles.

"Stripes," Bert said, shaking one shirt at me, "or dots. Stripes or dots. Which one?"

"Well," I said, still totally distracted, "I think—"

Just then the door behind me opened, and Wes emerged from the bathroom, hair wet, rubbing his face with a towel. He had on jeans and no shirt, which, frankly, was almost as distracting as the mega-tsunami. Or even more so. He started to wave hello to me, then stopped. And sniffed. Twice.

"Bert," he said, wincing, "what did I tell you about cologne?"

"I'm hardly wearing any," Bert said, as Wes put a hand over his nose, disputing this. He held up the shirts again, clearly willing to take all opinions. "Wes, which should I wear? First impressions are important, you know."

Wes's voice was muffled, through his hand. "My point exactly. Were you going for overpowering?"

Bert ignored this, turning back to me. "Macy.
Please
. Stripes or dots?"

As always, I found myself feeling a kind of affection for Bert, in his weird bedroom, wearing his nerdy undershirt, one piece of tissue still stuck to his face. "The stripes," I told him. "They're more grown-up looking."

"Thank you." He dropped the polka-dotted shirt on the bed, slipping on the other one and buttoning it quickly. Turning to face himself in the mirror, he said, "That's what I thought, too."

"Are you wearing a tie?" Wes asked him, walking back into the bathroom and tossing the towel over the shower rod.

"Should I?"

I said, "What kind of impression are you going for?"

Bert thought for a second. "Mature. Intelligent. Handsome."

"Overpowering," Wes added.

"Then yes," I told Bert, who was now scowling. "Wear a tie."

As Bert pulled open his closet door and began rummaging around, I turned to look at Wes, who'd walked into his own room and was now pulling on a gray T-shirt. Unlike Bert's, Wes's walls were bare, the only furnishings a futon against one wall, a milk crate stacked with books, and a bureau with a mirror hanging over it. There was a black-and-white picture of a girl taped to the mirror, but I couldn't make out her face.

"The thing about the Armageddon social," Bert said to me now, as I turned around to see him struggling to knot a blue tie, "is that it's the one time of the year EOWs from all over the state get together."

"EOWs?" I asked, watching him loop the tie, start a knot, and then yank it too tight before dismantling it and starting over.

"End-of-worlders," he explained, trying another knot. This time, the front came out way too long, almost hanging to his belt buckle. "It's a great opportunity to learn about new theories and trade research tips with like-minded enthusiasts." He looked down at the tie. "God! Why is this so hard? Do you know how to do this?"

"Not really," I said. My father had never been the formal type, and Jason, who wore ties often, could do one with his eyes closed, so I'd had no reason to learn.

"Kristy promised she would help me," he muttered, yanking on the tie, which only made the front go longer. His face was getting red. "She
promised
."

"Calm down," Wes said, stepping around me into the room and walking up to Bert. He untangled the tie, smoothing the ends. "Stand still." Then Bert and I both stood and watched as, with one cross, a twist, and a yank, he tied the knot perfectly.

"Wow," Bert said, looking down at it as Wes stepped back, examining his handiwork. "When did you learn that?"

"When I had to go to court," Wes told him. He reached up, plucking the piece of tissue off his brother's face, then straightened the tie again. "Do you have enough money?"

Bert snorted. "I prebought my ticket way back in March. There's a chicken dinner and dessert. It's all paid for."

Wes pulled out his wallet and slid out a twenty, tucking it into Bert's pocket. "No more cologne, okay?"

"Okay," Bert said, looking down at the tie again. The phone rang and he picked up a cordless from the bed. "Hello? Hey, Richard. Yeah, me too… Um, striped shirt. Blue tie. Poly-blend slacks. My good shoes. What about you?"

Wes stepped back into the hallway, shaking his head, and went into his room. I leaned against the doorjamb, taking another look at its sparse furnishings. "So," I said, "I see you're a minimalist."

"I'm not into clutter," he replied, opening the closet and pulling out something, "if that's what you mean. If you don't see it here, I don't need it."

I stepped inside, then walked over to his bureau, leaning in to look at the girl in the picture. I knew I was probably being nosy, but I couldn't help myself. "So, is this Becky?"

He turned around, glancing over at me. "No. Becky's skinny, angular. That's my mom."

Wish was beautiful. That's what I thought first. And in this picture, young, maybe her late teens or early twenties. I immediately recognized Bert's round face in her features, and Delia's dark curly hair and wide smile. But more than anything, she reminded me of Wes. Maybe it was the way she was not looking at the camera but instead just beyond it, half-smiling, nothing posed or forced about her. She was sitting on the edge of a fountain, her hands resting easily in her lap. You could see water glittering behind her.

"She looks like you," I said.

He came up behind me, a box in his hand, and then we were both framed in the mirror, peering in. "You think?"

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

Bert came out of his room, walking quickly, a lint roller in one hand. "I'd better go," he said. "I want to be there right when the doors open."

"You're taking the roller?" Wes asked him.

"There's always the possibility of car lint," Bert told him, sticking it in his front pocket. "So I look okay?"

"You look great," I told him, and he smiled at me, genuinely pleased.

"I'm staying at Richard's tonight, so we can recap," Bert said, pulling the door open. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Wes nodded. "Have fun."

Bert disappeared down the hallway, and seconds later I heard the front door slam. Wes grabbed his keys and wallet off the bureau, shifting the box he was carrying to his other arm, and we started toward the living room, me taking one last look at Wish before he shut the door behind us.

"I should go, too, I guess," I said, as we came into the living room. Again, I was struck by how cozy it was, unlike my house, which, with its high ceilings and huge rooms, always seemed to feel empty.

"Don't tell me," he said. "You're going to the Armageddon social, too?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Just a hunch."

I made a face. "No, I'll actually be studying. Doing laundry. I don't know, I might get really out of hand and iron some clothes. With
starch
."

"Uh-oh," he said. "Now you're talking crazy."

He pulled the door open and I stepped outside, stopping on the stairs as he locked it. "Okay, fine, Mr. Excitement. What's your plan?"

"Well," he said, holding up the box in his hand, "I have to drop by this party in Lakeview and give a friend of mine these car parts I found at the salvage yard."

"A party
and
car parts?" I said. "Don't hurt yourself, now."

"I'll try not to."

I smiled at him, digging my own keys out of my pocket.

"You want to ride along?"

I was sort of surprised that he asked me. And even more surprised how quickly I answered, no hesitation, as if this had been what I'd been planning to do all along. "Sure."

The party was big and in full swing by the time we pulled up twenty minutes later. As we walked up to the front door, dodging people grouped along the driveway and front lawn, I was, as always, aware of the fact that we were being stared at. Or that Wes was. He hardly seemed to notice, but I wondered how he'd ever gotten used to it.

Once inside, I'd barely crossed the threshold when some-one grabbed my arm. Someone in a denim miniskirt, cowboy boots, and a hot pink bustier. One guess.

"Oh, my God," Kristy hissed in my ear, yanking me sideways to the bottom of the stairs. "I
knew
it! What are you doing? Macy, you'd better start talking. Now."

Wes had stopped in the middle of the foyer and was looking around for me. When he finally spotted me and saw I was with Kristy, he mouthed he'd be right back, then disappeared down the hallway past a clump of cheerleaders, who watched him go with wistful expressions. Not that I could focus on this, as Kristy was about to break my arm.

"Will you stop?" I asked her, wrenching myself out of her grip. "I think you sprained something."

"I can't believe," she said indignantly, not even hearing this, "that you and Wes are out on a date and you didn't even tell me. What does this say about our friendship? Where is the
trust
, Macy?"