True Letters from a Fictional Life (6 page)

My mom shook her head. “Sometimes I wish you boys would make some new friends.”

“Look at where we live,” I said, my arms spread. “Where are we going to find new friends?”

She stood up, cleared away our glasses.

That evening, I found Aaron's home number in our school directory. I had my end of the conversation planned and went
over it in my head as the phone rang and rang.

“You have reached the Fothterth.” It must have been his little brother's voice. “Pleathe leave uth a methage.”

“Hey, thisisJamesLiddelljustcallingtoseehowAaron'sdoingthanksbye.”

My dad always yells at me for speaking too fast on the phone. I thought about calling again, trying to leave a slow, clear message. I hadn't even mentioned my number.
I'll call him another day
, I thought, walking into my room. Suddenly, I felt like I was being watched—I froze and looked up. Aaron's alligator PEZ dispenser was looking right at me. It blinked.

I shook my head. I needed to get out of the house. Derek said he was going out with his folks. I called Hawken. No answer.

What I felt like doing was hanging out at Derek's and playing around with his telescope again. The first time he brought Saturn into focus for us, the view gave me a jolt. “That's really Saturn?” I asked. “We're really looking at Saturn?”

Hawken elbowed me away and peered into the telescope. He stood up, looking alarmed. “That's crazy. How can that be?” Hawken gazed at the fuzzy point of light Derek had pointed out. I gazed at Hawken, just his nose and his wide blue eyes peeking above the collar of his zipped up fleece. He pointed from the telescope to the planet. “It's crazy that we're looking at
that
.”

“It's kind of hard putting the two together,” I agreed.
One moment, rings and sphere. The next, tiny speck of light. You view something twice and even though it's the same thing, the two views have nothing to do with each other. That happens with people, too, I guess. You think you're seeing someone accurately and then—suddenly—it turns out you had only a fuzzy, tiny idea of the real thing. Mark arrives at your front door barefoot one night in November. Hawken comes home crying because you made fun of his reading problem. You find Aaron hysterical in the bathroom. You walk with your pal in the snow one night and he tells you—all sorts of stuff. Total clarity for a moment. And then, in a blink, the distance opens up again.

As I was trying to sleep that night, I wondered how Aaron was doing. Why had I invited him to that party, anyway? He wouldn't have gotten hit if I'd just kept my mouth shut. I had wanted to do something nice, but it was stupid of me. I knew who'd be there. Why did I think he would've had a good time? And now he might die. Would someone call here if he did? I wondered what Mark was up to—whether he was lying awake in the dark, too. What would he do if they put him in a cell? Push-ups and sit-ups? I wondered what Kevin's parents had said when the police phoned. When I closed my eyes I'd see Aaron, the yellow gloves behind his head dripping blood onto the snow.

Hawken and I had an indoor soccer game that Sunday. Our school soccer coach agreed to be our indoor coach, too, but
other than that, the team has nothing to do with school. Most of the teams are sponsored by local businesses. They pay for the uniforms and registration fees, and we walk around wearing their ads. Our team's sponsored by Henry's Towing, so every Sunday I don my blue T-shirt with a big truck on the front and Number 10 on the back. We play in a sprawling metal-sided, hangar-like building just off the highway, about thirty minutes from where we live. You're not allowed to spit because it's artificial turf, this green plastic grass with what looks like potting soil beneath it. The ball moves fast on the stuff, but if you fall or slide, you get a wicked burn that lasts a week. It's one of my favorite places on the planet. I always go into the game saying that I don't care if we win or lose, but the reality is I hate losing. My casual attitude gets left on the bench with my sweatshirt. Hawken's always reminding me to calm down, to not curse at myself or others.

That Sunday we played Done Right Plumbing. Their goalie wore bright green goggles and threw himself at people's knees. I swear he wanted someone to leave in an ambulance. Toward the end of the first half, Hawken tried to feed me a ball, but it was a few feet too far ahead of me. The goalie dived and curled over it, but I was running full speed toward the ball too, so I ended up falling, landing on top of him. For a few slapstick seconds, he was trying to stand up while I was trying to climb off him, and when we finally disentangled ourselves, he snarled, “You run like a girl.” Before I'd even thought about it, I stepped forward and pushed the
kid so hard he stumbled backward and fell, his goggles flying off. He lay there on the plastic grass, looking at me with his mouth half open, stunned.

The next thing I knew I was at the center of a cursing and jostling crowd of red and blue shirts. Someone slugged me in the back and a cleat dug into my foot. The ref grabbed my arm, yanked me out of the maelstrom, and made a big show of drawing a red card from his wallet, as though he were a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Some parents behind the glass applauded. When I reached the bench, Coach Greschner glared at me and growled, “What's wrong with you?” I didn't answer. My team played a man down the rest of the game, and the other team scored five goals in the second half. We lost 7–2. Their goalie gave me the finger as he left the field at the end of the game. Since we play every team two or three times a season, I knew I'd face him again.

Mondays at my school always
begin with an assembly in the gym. Derek and I crept in late and slumped against the wall in the back, just as Ms. Reed, the principal, updated the school on Aaron's condition. “Aaron is still in the hospital. His doctors say that he was very lucky only to have fractured his skull. It's still unclear whether his concussion will have lasting effects on his health. Some of those effects could be very serious.”

Nearly five hundred kids lined the bleachers, but at that moment, the gym might as well have been empty. The principal let the silence linger for a bit, and then went on to say that we would have shortened classes on Wednesday. Whispers
grew to shouts in seconds. We would have shortened classes on Wednesday, she repeated loudly, so that we could meet in small groups to talk about social choices. The school had invited counselors from a local agency to lead the discussions, and we'd learn more about it later.

I had English first period that morning. Mr. Breyer was sitting on his desk, nursing his coffee and staring out the window as we filed in. “No one sit at this desk, please,” he said, pointing to the center desk of the front row. When everyone was seated, he stood, nodded to the one empty spot, and said, “Let's keep that one open until Aaron's back. We'll start today with a ten-minute quick-write. You may choose your own topic, but I'll suggest a few.” DRINKING, he wrote on the board. FIGHTING. HOSPITALS. CRYING FATHERS.

He's never been one to let us off the hook.

When the time was up, he asked for volunteers to read. Three kids read about fighting
and
drinking. One kid talked about a kung fu flick he'd seen on Saturday. We all laughed a little in relief, even Breyer. I didn't read mine. It was about what a jerk I'd been to Aaron over the years.

That night after dinner, my mom insisted I try calling Aaron's mother again. “I'm sure she'd appreciate that his friends, his classmates,” she corrected herself, “are concerned about him.”

I dialed his number, hoping for his little brother's methage again. But his mom answered.

“Hey, uh, Mrs. Foster, this is James Liddell. I go to school
with Aaron, and I was just calling to see how he's doing and all.”

I didn't get the warm response my mother had led me to expect.

“Well, he's not doing great, James.” She put an edge on each word. “He's still in the hospital with a fractured skull. And they're not sure what kind of long-term damage he's going to suffer. He's really, really not good.”

“Um, I'm really sorry to hear it,” I stammered.

“James, why did you boys invite him to that party? Is that what you and your group consider fun? Making kids think they have new friends and then beating them up?”

I didn't answer for a moment. I felt sick. “No,” I managed. “No, none of this is fun. That's not how it was at all.” And then I looked at my phone and hung up. No good-bye or anything. How could she think we'd do that? That I'd do that? Is that who people thought I was? I couldn't concentrate on my homework, so I tried writing a letter to Aaron, but it didn't really make me feel any better.

I decided to go for a late run to clear my head.

“Did you to talk to Mrs. Foster?” my mother asked as I headed out the door.

“Yeah,” I replied without looking at her. “No change. She said thanks for calling.”

I caught Lisa Schultz on the way out of English the next morning. “Hey, Lisa,” I called. “You got a second?”

She stopped and looked me up and down, as if I were a total stranger on the street.

“Hey, listen,” I said, leaning against a locker. “Are you in touch with Aaron's mom at all?”

She nodded.

“Would you let her know that I gave Aaron my sweater that day because—”

“I remember,” she said. “It was nice of you.”

“Yeah, thanks. And I guess it was a bad idea inviting him to that party—I feel terrible about it now, but—”

“I get it,” Lisa said. She punched my arm. “If I see his mom, I'll tell her, Liddell.”

“Thanks,” I called as she disappeared down the hall. I'm not sure she did get it, but it was the friendliest interaction we'd ever had.

Classes went on more or less as usual until Wednesday afternoon, when we were assigned to small, mixed-grade discussion groups. Teachers led some of them, but mine was led by an outside counselor. She didn't seem much older than us, and her voice shook as she explained that we didn't have to say anything, that we could just listen to everyone else, which is what I planned to do.

It was in that group that I first heard someone other than my mom suggest that Mark had meant to hit Aaron, that he'd punched him because he was gay. There was only one kid making the claim, a kid named Noah, but he was vehement. He had a nose ring, like the kind they put on pigs to
keep them from rooting in the dirt. I'd seen him around—he's a freshman or sophomore—but I'd never spoken to him. His hair was dyed grape-green last fall. This semester, it was Bomb-Pop blue.

Hawken was in my group, too. He shook his head when Noah accused Mark of targeting Aaron, and pointed out calmly and quietly that Mark had punched him, too.

Noah was on the edge of his seat. “He didn't hit you hard enough to put you in the hospital, though,” he insisted. “He went after Aaron.”

“No, he didn't,” Hawken said evenly. “I'm not saying they're friends, but Mark doesn't hate him. And he took a swing at everyone within reach.”

“That's just your opinion,” snapped Noah.

“How is that an opinion?” I jumped in, my voice raised. “He hit Hawken, too. He wasn't throwing punches at gay kids. He was throwing punches at everyone there.”

“You're a freaking homophobe,” Noah shot back.

“You've gotta be kidding me.” I turned to the counselor, but she looked terrified.

“Boys, I need to ask you to lower your voices,” she managed, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

“This school's full of homophobic idiots,” snarled Noah, ignoring the counselor. “It's amazing that it took this long for the redneck jocks to start attacking people.”

“Redneck jocks?” I laughed, and Hawken stood up. The blue-haired boy's eyes grew wide. Hawken didn't even look
at him. Instead, he said quietly to the counselor, “This group's not helpful. You're letting that kid spread rumors.” And then he picked up his backpack and walked out.

I followed him. As the door closed, I heard the counselor pleading, “Okay, okay, I need to ask everyone to just take a deep breath and refocus.”

We walked down the hallway in silence for a few yards. “I knew this was going to happen,” Hawken said eventually. “I knew kids were going to start saying Mark had it out for Aaron.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured people would draw that conclusion, too.”

“The thing is, it matters. If the story becomes that Mark punched Aaron on purpose, he could be in even more trouble. I'm not defending what he did, but he didn't even know who he was hitting.”

“It'll be okay, dude.” I didn't know what else to say.

“He doesn't hate gay people.”

I didn't say anything.

“He talks to my brother when he's home.”

I talk to his brother when he's home. I had no idea that he was gay until Hawken told me.

“Mark's dad made him call Aaron's mom, you know. Apologize and all.”

“Whoa. How did
that
go?”

“He said it was terrible. She let him have it. He won't tell anyone this—he's never going to let down his tough-guy
image—but he
does
feel bad about what happened. He didn't mean to get that drunk. He cried when he apologized to me. He couldn't stop. He was curled on my bed with his face in his hands. It was awful.”

“Mark?”

“Yeah, Mark. Everyone thinks they have him pegged. That guy back there in the conference room? The kid with blue hair? Mark and I changed his tire in the parking lot last year because he didn't know how to do it. It's screwed up.”

Later on, Mark was walking down the hall a few yards ahead of me. Kids looked up, saw him coming, and got out of his way in a hurry. I don't think he even noticed.

Theresa and I hung out after school that day. She lives down the road from a general store that sells milk, bread, and beer to locals, and it sells postcards, maple syrup, and moose miscellanea to tourists. We walk down there when we have nothing else to do. I picked a big chunk of ice and snow from the snowbank on the roadside and threw it way up in the air. It thudded on the pavement but didn't break, so we kicked it down the road for a few yards. Theresa picked up another chunk of snow and tossed it way into the air, and this one exploded—
poof!
We stood over the aftermath. “Look at those lines shooting away from the center,” she said, and she took a photo. “Like a white-hot starburst.”

“In cold black space,” I said. “It's freezing out here.”

Theresa bought a hot chocolate. I got a small black coffee.
I'd just started drinking coffee, to my parents' chagrin. When I put the cup on the counter, Theresa grabbed a pack of gum from the candy rack. “You have to start chewing gum if you're going to start drinking coffee,” she explained. “Otherwise, your breath's going to smell like Mr. Nash's, that substitute teacher.” I nodded. You don't argue with girls about that kind of thing. I dug in my pocket for a few crumpled dollars, but Theresa beat me to it.

“No, let me get it!” I said, pushing money toward the cashier.

“Nope, I got it,” she said, patting my arm. “You deserve it for being nice and cute.”

The dude behind the counter shook his head and said, “Take it while you can, Liddell.” I didn't know his name. He'd graduated from our school a couple of years before. He probably knew my older brother.

“Soon it will be ice-cream season,” Theresa mused. “Until then, all my money goes toward hot chocolate.”

I watched the cashier look her up and down. He seemed to be looking forward to ice-cream season, too, when Theresa would stand outside the store licking vanilla cones in a tank top and shorts. He glanced at me, eyes narrowed, and I smiled. It was one of the reasons I liked hanging out with Theresa. I enjoyed other guys' jealousy.

On the way home, knives of light sliced the sky from a gold-rimmed cloud. “I've been trying to paint a sky like that,” Theresa said. “Every time I try, the painting comes out
looking like one of those posters with some kind of inspirational quote beneath it. Or a Bible verse.”

“Well, you could give it to Derek.”

“Oh, that's perfect. His parents will love it. I can paint him a whole series of clouds and sunbeams and title each one.
Inspiration . . .
”

“Righteousness,”
I hollered in my deepest tone.

“Striving,”
she boomed, shaking her fist.

“Straightness,”
I yelled.

“Straightness?” She laughed.

“I mean, like, straitlaced. Straight-ahead?” She laughed harder. “Straitjacket.”

She took my hand in hers. I didn't mind it when we were alone in the house or at the movies or something like that, but cars kept whizzing past. I let her hold my hand for fifty yards or so, and then dropped hers to reach for gum. “Wintergreen?” I offered. She shook her head.

A car pulled over. My mom. “Hey, you two!” she called. Rex was already climbing into the backseat. My mom drove us back to Theresa's, where I grabbed my stuff, and Theresa kissed me on the cheek as I left. “See you,” I said, and squeezed her arm. She looked hurt as I closed the door, but it would've been dishonest to kiss her back.

That night, I had trouble sleeping. I was thinking about how things between Theresa and me were disintegrating—
poof!
—like that chunk of snow on the asphalt, but it was happening in slow motion, and there wasn't anything beautiful
about it. It was more like Aaron's skull cracking the ice, a noise that I could hear in my head, and that made me cringe, even though I hadn't even been anywhere near it when it happened.

I started to drift off to sleep, and I could see Aaron lying there. He got up from the ground, took off my old green sweater and held it to his face, as if smelling it. Blood from the sweater's wool stained his pale cheeks.