What They Always Tell Us (22 page)

He turns around and walks back toward the cafeteria, which he can hear and smell before he can see. Today, he decides to make a change. He won’t isolate himself anymore. He won’t hide. So he pushes through the door and heads to the food service area. He doesn’t look around—not yet. He focuses instead on deciding what to eat. It’s all disgusting—squares of greasy pizza, mystery-meat hamburgers, overcooked and overbuttered greens and other vegetables. He decides on a prepackaged salad and an apple and also some Little Debbie oatmeal cookies. Nothing that anyone had to cook. He pays at a register and then steps back out into the seating area. Now, he realizes, he has to look around, has to find a table. He almost regrets his decision—almost feels like dumping his entire tray into the trash and bee-lining it to the door, back to the safety of the library—when he sees two of his teammates at one end of a long table: Jake Blume and Pete Hong. The guys on the team call them Bloomie and Hong Kong.

He makes his way toward them and Jake seems to brighten when he sees him. “Oh, hey, Alex.” Alex sits down next to him, on one of the uncomfortable, round little built-in seats. Jake has curly dark brown hair and big blue eyes and is short, the shortest guy on the team, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down—he may have a shorter stride, but he is quick as a cat.

“I didn’t know you had lunch this period,” Pete says.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “We haven’t seen you in here.”

“I usually do homework in the library,” he says, surprising himself by admitting this. “But, I don’t know, today I didn’t want to do that.”

“Yeah, man, you shouldn’t skip out on lunch,” Pete says. Pete is tall, with a head that is almost completely shaved, revealing his lean and long skull under a sprinkling of black hair. His serious face belies the fact that he is the team jokester. He’s the one who gives everyone nicknames, the one who tosses off sarcastic jokes and insults. He’s a junior, too, and so is Jake, but before Alex joined the team he didn’t know them very well. Neither of them really belongs to a group. They are just normal guys who happen to be athletes, which seems to suit them just fine. “It’s essential that you get your daily nutrition, man.” Pete holds up a soggy piece of pizza and smiles before biting off a chunk.

“I bring my lunch,” Jake says, holding up his sandwich. “It’s healthier.” Alex sees a plastic bag of carrots, too, and a carton of apple juice.

“Bloomie thinks he’s better than us, man,” Pete says, “because he brings his lunch.”

“Of course I’m better,” he says, smiling. “Not to mention faster.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Pete says. “Anyway, why are you always hiding out in the library?”

“I dunno. I wasn’t really sure I’d have anyone to sit with in here,” he says, shrugging it off.

“Well, now you do,” Jake says.

“Yeah, Rookie,” Pete says. “Now you’re
stuck
with us.”

Alex smiles. Apparently he has a nickname now.

For the rest of the lunch period, they talk about cross-country and practice and the big meet this weekend. Alex doesn’t even look around to see if any of his old friends notice him. But he knows where they are—behind him, closer to the windows, a small group of strangers.

When the bell rings, Jake says, “See you at practice, Alex.” He and Pete dash off together, to their pre-calc class.

Alex gathers his stuff and walks to the big garbage can by the door. Someone brushes by him, as if intentionally knocking into him, and when Alex looks to see who it is, he isn’t surprised that it’s Tyler, walking next to Lang, the two of them chuckling. But, oddly, this doesn’t bother him. He is moving on, but Tyler, for some reason, can’t let go.

All through his next class, Alex is distracted by how relieved he feels. Or maybe not relieved. More like content. He certainly doesn’t feel his usual postlunch gloom after hiding out in the library. Now he feels different, more a part of things. Like just another high schooler, and not the freak roaming the halls.

This feeling carries him to cross-country practice. As he changes in the locker room with the rest of the team, he feels light and strong, like he is ready to run a marathon.

Jed Callahan, tall and freckly with dark red hair (his nickname is Red), is doing some groin stretches on the ground. “Hey, you guys hear about Alice Hudson?” he asks.

At the mention of the name Alex’s belly turns a flip-flop and then tightens. He looks over at Nathen, who is busy lacing his sneakers.

“You mean the girl who smashed her car up over break?” Joseph asks.

“Yeah, her,” Jed says. “She drove right into a telephone pole or something.”

Alex sits down on the bench. He puts on one of his shoes, but his hands are shaking, so he leaves it untied for now. “Is she okay?” Alex asks.

“I guess so. She’s out of the hospital, with a broken arm and nose or something. She got lucky.”

“This just proves that girls are shitty drivers,” Pete says.

Alex bends down and works on his shoes. He wonders if James knows what has happened. Alice is his ex-girlfriend, after all. Alex remembers the day he saw Alice, when she had nearly run into him in the hallway. Before, she had kind of scared him—her aggressiveness, her forthright attitude—but that day she seemed pitiful, vulnerable. He wants to know more about the accident, but now his teammates are making their way outside, leaving Alex alone with Nathen. He wonders how Alice managed to drive her car right into a telephone pole. Was she drunk? Were the roads slick?

“You ready?” Nathen says.

Alex nods, even though he
isn’t
really ready to practice. Not now anyway. Not anymore. He feels heavy, like his feet have weights on them.

“That’s awful about Alice, huh?” Nathen says. Alex manages to stand and they exit the locker room. Nathen drapes an arm over his shoulder.

“Coach is gonna work us to death today, isn’t he?” Alex says, eager to get his mind focused on something else, hoping his legs regain their life. He hears Coach Runyon shouting for them to hurry up, which they do, pulling apart and breaking into a light jog.

It is a warm day, the first true day of spring, and the afternoon sun is bright, causing Alex to squint and shade his eyes to see. The inside part of the track field shows signs of greenery now—grass and small darker weeds, a few random yellow blossoms—and Alex can hear birds chirping in the park beyond the track. It is a beautiful day. Deceptively beautiful, like a Venus flytrap. It is a day that would suggest that nothing bad could ever happen to anyone.

After practice Nathen stays late to chat with Coach, since he is one of the cocaptains, along with Joseph. So Alex walks toward the tennis courts to find James. Not that he knows what to say to James if he does find him. But when he gets there, the team is gone, the courts empty, and James isn’t at home when he gets there, either.

Alex eats an apple and sits at the kitchen table and waits. James probably just stopped to get gas or something. He’ll be home soon. There is no sign of life at Henry’s house, either—no car in the garage or driveway, no Henry on the porch, no odd cars parked in front, nothing. Alex waits, eating his apple down to the core.

Maybe Alice is just a bad driver. Maybe it was a mistake, an accident. Maybe she did get lucky. He barely knows Alice, but he doesn’t want what he’s thinking to be true—that Alice wrecked her car on purpose. Maybe he’s making too much of the day he saw her, but he recognized that look in her eyes. The eyes of someone who is tired of being alone, tired of feeling like shit, tired of feeling trapped. He knows that when it piles up, you get blinded. Blinded to everything that’s
not
wrong with the world. Alex wouldn’t wish those feelings on anyone.

Finally he hears James drive up. He sees him get out of his Jeep, still dressed in his tennis clothes. Alex stays where he is, and when James comes in through the kitchen door, he stands.

“I heard about Alice,” he says, not even giving James a second to set his stuff down.

“Yeah, well, the whole school heard,” James says.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” He sets his bags down and goes to the fridge, which he opens and peers into, deciding what to nab.

Alex has an incredible urge to go up to James and punch him in the shoulder. He wants to tell him that it’s okay to care about someone. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be a fucking human being sometimes. But he just says, “I don’t know. You’re always okay, I guess.”

With that he heads upstairs. He goes into his bathroom, peels off his track clothes, and showers, appreciating the warm water as it rains down on him, washing all the filth of the day off.

When he turns off the water and gets out, he hears someone in his room—the sound of his blinds being lifted. He wraps himself in his towel and opens the bathroom door. James is standing by his window, staring out.

“What do you want?” Alex says, knowing he sounds short.

“Jack Pembroke is out there again, with Henry’s mother.”

“Who?” Alex joins James at the window and peers out. He recognizes the older man, who is wearing a suit and talking by his Mercedes with Mrs. Burns.

“I saw him leaving their house a few weeks ago, too,” James says.

“You did?”

“Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No.”

“I meant to. It was really weird. Henry was outside, and Pembroke was inside talking to his mother, and then he stormed out.”

“How could you forget to tell me that?” Alex says.

“Well, that was the day I found out about Duke. Guess I forgot.”

Outside, Jack Pembroke pats Mrs. Burns on the shoulder and then gets in his car and leaves. She stands in the driveway and waves as he drives away.

“What do you think is going on?” James asks.

“I don’t know.” But then Alex remembers the Christmas party, and the two women gossiping about Mr. Pembroke and his wife. “Do you think they’re having an affair?”

“Gross,” James says. “He’s like a million years older than she is.”

“So. There are lots of older men with young wives and girlfriends. Like Mr. Kirkland? And Dr. Sheldon?”

“I guess you’re right.”

But Alex doubts this explanation, even if he suggested it. The way they said good-bye didn’t seem, well, lovey-dovey. It almost looked paternal. “I don’t know. I mean,
something
is going on between them.” He clasps his arms over his chest because he feels cold. He wishes James would leave so he could get dressed.

James nods and then says in a drawn-out whisper, “Wait.”

“What?”

James looks at him. “What if Mr. Pembroke is Henry’s father?”

Alex glances out the window again, but Mrs. Burns is gone. “No way,” he says.

“It’s possible. It might explain a few things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like how they afford to live in that house. And why they moved here in the first place.”

“And it
would
explain why she’s so secretive about telling Henry anything about his dad,” Alex says.

“Yeah, I mean, he’s an important man. He’s married and has kids. If anyone knew about this—”

“His reputation would be in the toilet,” Alex says.

Reputations. They are so damn important, Alex thinks, especially in this town, where people’s secrets are like well-guarded jewels. No one wants to be known as an adulterer or a crook or a mental case. Or a homo, for that matter.

“So, why would they move away, then?” James asks. They both continue to stare out the window, like if they look long enough, the answers to all their questions will drop out of the sky.

Just then, Alex sees Henry wandering up the street, his bright blond head shimmering in the afternoon sun, a red backpack hanging from his shoulder. He’s kicking the ground, and his lips are moving, so he’s probably singing or talking to himself. Alex has an incredible urge to open the window and shout for Henry to come over. It’s like he wants to warn him, to protect him. But from what?

Alex stands there with James, frozen, until Henry disappears inside his house.

“Poor kid,” James says.

The next day at school Alex tries to pick up more information about Alice’s wreck. But most of the information he gathers—from overheard snippets, mostly, but also from Jake and Pete at lunch—isn’t really new: she’s injured after her car accident but at home now, resting, taking pain medication. One girl in chemistry class claims some west-side gang members drove her off the road, and someone else says she fell asleep at the wheel. But no, that’s not true, some other guy claims: she was drunk.

Listening to all this rumor and speculation, Alex wonders, briefly, what kinds of things were said about
him
after his incident. God only knows. Do people just pluck ideas from thin air?

Outside, the weather is gloomy—overcast and windy. It starts pouring rain during Spanish class, the drops pelting the windows like tossed pebbles. All day, the gloominess outside has slowly seeped inside Alex, and it’s still with him as he walks to his locker to grab his track clothes. He’s not sure what they will do during practice, since the weather sucks. Running would be nice, to get his endorphins running, to clear his head, but with the rain this seems unlikely.

When he yanks open his locker, he sees a yellow sheet of paper, folded into fourths. Someone must have stuck it in through the grates. He looks around before he peels it open. The black-ink handwriting is familiar, but blocky and precise, like maybe someone is trying to disguise his usual messy penmanship.

The note says: “I know you’re a FAG!”

Alex folds the note back into fourths and shoves it in his pocket. His heart is pounding, and he can feel his face reddening. He shuts his locker and locks it, but then realizes he has forgotten to even take out his track stuff.
Don’t panic,
he tells himself.
Someone’s just playing a joke.

He glances down the hall and sees Tyler. He is just standing there by the bathroom door, holding his tennis bag and smiling at him. It’s the grin of someone who thinks he knows something. The grin of someone who
used
to be your friend.

James

W
hen the bell rings to end the day, it is still raining out, but not as heavily as it has been most of the afternoon. Since there was no tennis practice today, James’s Jeep is still parked in the back lot. He makes his way out there, not bothering to open his umbrella, letting the cool droplets land on his face. He passes Nathen’s car and notices that he is sitting inside and that someone is in there with him. James stops and taps on the window and then sees Alex in the passenger seat. Nathen lowers the window.

“Hey, buddy,” he says.

James peers over at Alex, who looks all serious-faced. “What’s up?” James asks both of them.

“We’re just chatting,” Nathen says, acting all offhand about it.

Something is off here, James thinks. He knows how Alex looks when he’s upset about something—he clenches his lips and his eyes look dewy and wide, like by keeping them open he can prevent tears from welling.

“Having a serious powwow?” James says, managing a phony smile.

“Not really,” Nathen says.

“I’m just a little nervous about the meet on Saturday,” Alex says.

“Yeah. I’m just giving him a little pep talk.”

Meanwhile, the rain picks up again and James is getting wetter and wetter. “Okay, well, call me later.” Then he dashes off to his own car. Once inside, he sits and watches the shadowy shapes of Nathen and Alex through the wet glass and rain.
Pep talk, my ass,
he thinks. But what is it? What were they chatting about, looking so grave?

He feels jealous on two counts, he hates to admit to himself. On the one hand, why is his own brother clearly confiding in Nathen and not him? Sure, maybe James isn’t the easiest guy to talk to. But they’ve been getting along fine lately, haven’t they? Plus, he’s family. He’s the big brother, for Pete’s sake.

And, then, why is one of his supposed best friends becoming better friends with his little brother? At first he didn’t mind their friendship because it seemed like a good thing for Alex, something he needed. Plus, he figured Nathen was humoring Alex, maybe even taking pity on him. But now the closeness seems to be growing and growing. James feels like he’s being pushed aside.

Instead of fretting about it anymore, James cranks his car and speeds off. He turns on the radio and blasts the volume and cracks the windows ever so slightly, despite the rain. He has to remind himself not to worry about Alex and Nathen and whatever the hell is going on between them. Why should these things bother him? He’s graduating soon, and he will be a Duke freshman in the fall. It’s enough to make him break into a smile as he cruises down Fifteenth Street, feeling lucky as he runs a string of yellow lights.

Up in his room he sits down at his desk to get some homework done. It still piles up—French paragraphs to translate, AP reading galore, and on and on. Greer and Preston are always talking about how they don’t give a shit about schoolwork anymore, and it’s true that they have been blowing off a lot of their assignments. Not that they were ever scholars or anything. But James can’t bring himself to quit caring completely. Good study habits are in his nature. And he’ll need to maintain them for college.

When his phone rings, he thinks it might be Nathen, calling to tell him what was up earlier. Instead, it is Clare.

“How you feeling?” she asks, her voice full of sweet concern.

“Fine. Why?”

“I thought you might be a little upset. You know, about Alice.”

Here we go again.
Ever since he found out about Alice, people act like he’s still her boyfriend or something. Like he has some special claim on her. “Not really,” he says. “It’s not like she died.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Yep,” he says.

“Have you called her?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” Clare says in a leading tone that suggests she
does
know.

“You think it’s my fault?” James blurts.

“What?” she asks.

“You think it’s my fault, don’t you? You think Alice did this on purpose.”

“Of course I don’t think that! You’re being ridiculous.”

There is silence for a while, then Clare says, “Anyway, I didn’t call to argue.”

“Okay. Sorry.” When he and Clare dated, they fought a lot, and it was James—always James—who did the apologizing. Clare had a way of making him feel at fault for things, even when he wasn’t.

Clare says, “I called because I wanted to ask you to do something with me. But now I’m not so sure.”

“What?”

“Well, I made Alice some cookies and got her a get-well card. I thought I’d get some people to sign it and then bring it to her. To her house.”

Cookies and a card, like she is recovering from chicken pox. “And what? You want me to go with you?” he says.

“Well, yeah. I was hoping.”

He sighs. “When?”

“Tomorrow. After school?”

“But what if she doesn’t want company? What if her mother tells us to get lost?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess we’ll leave, then. But I want to try.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you after tennis practice, by the courts. Coach may keep us late, so don’t expect me to leave right at three.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thanks. It means a lot to me.”

When he hangs up, he almost feels like screaming. Instead, he just rubs his forehead like he has a headache or something. Outside, the rain picks up again and the wind pushes against his windows.

He hears Alex now, climbing the stairs. He sits still, thinking maybe Alex will knock. Thinking maybe Alex will come in and spill his guts. But no, he hears Alex shut his door, sealing himself inside his own room.

Later, at dinner, Alex is still quiet and barely responds when their parents ask him questions. They eat baked chicken and mashed potatoes and store-bought rolls and a limp salad.

“Big weekend coming up for you two,” Dad says, eating the chicken like it tastes a lot better than it does. Their dad works his ass off at the firm, but he always manages to catch James’s tennis matches. Mom, too. But Saturday, James has a match in town—versus Walker High—and Alex has a cross-country meet in Anniston, which is over two hours away. So they are splitting duties this weekend. Mom will stay and watch his tennis match, and Dad will make the drive to Anniston—the team is going up the day before. “You excited?”

“I guess so,” James says. “Walker usually stinks, though.”

“Don’t get cocky now,” Mom says.

“I’m not being cocky, just being honest. They have, like, two good players.”

“Alex?” his Dad says.

“Uh-huh?”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just feeling a little tired.”

“That coach has been working you too hard,” Mom says.

“Not really.”

“Well, you better get a lot of rest before then. We don’t want you to be sick for your big debut,” Mom says. “And eat up. You need fuel.”

James looks over at him, almost willing Alex to look his way, but he doesn’t.

“Has Coach Whitley decided on your doubles partner yet?” Dad asks James.

“Uh, yeah. It’s Tyler,” he says. He’s not very happy about this, even though they play well together. Tyler annoys him with his puppy-doggish chatter and stupid need to always high-five after hitting good shots.

“Tyler?” his mother says, and then makes a little noise under her breath.

James looks at Alex, to see if he’s changed his expression at all. But he hasn’t. He still sits there quietly, eyeing and picking at his food.

The next day is overcast but dry, so the tennis team practices with a vengeance—backhand and forehand drills and practice games and sprints up and down the court length. Coach keeps them late, and James can see Clare sitting in her car, waiting for him to finish.

“I think you guys are closer to being ready for this weekend,” Coach says when he gathers them at the fence after practice ends. “We’ll stay late tomorrow, too, weather permitting.”

James exits the courts after saying his good-byes and walks to Clare’s car. She unrolls the window. “You ready?” she says.

“I guess, but I’m all sweaty. Maybe I should shower before we go.” He hates showering at school, but he thinks it might be rude to show up at Alice’s in his tennis clothes.

“Okay, but hurry,” Clare says, sounding annoyed.

He thinks the locker room may be free and clear—it’s a small one used only by the tennis team and golf team—but he finds Tyler inside, undressing. “Oh, hey,” he says.

“Oh, hey, James.”

Tyler, instead of undressing quietly like a normal person, starts jabbering to James about tennis practice and the match Saturday. “I can’t wait to kick Walker’s ass. Bunch of dumb hillbillies.”

To discourage him, James barely replies. Plus, he doesn’t care to see Tyler standing there in his underwear. James has stripped down to his underwear and just an undershirt, but he refuses to get totally naked when he has an audience. Tyler, finally getting a clue, grabs his towel and saunters off to the showers before him. James isn’t even sure why Tyler is here, why he isn’t showering at home. He figures Tyler is wondering the same thing about him.

The showers are kind of gross, the floor cold and wet and mildewed. The shampoo dispenser is empty, so he washes his hair with the green liquid body soap, which makes his hair feel clean but gritty. He towels off inside the shower. He can still hear Tyler’s shower running, so he gets out and hopes he can make an exit before Tyler finishes. But no, he hears Tyler turn off the water and yank his shower curtain open.

James pulls on his jeans and sits on the bench with his shirt off. He dries his feet and puts on his socks. Tyler comes into the main room from the showers. James glances up briefly and sees Tyler smiling at him, looking goofy. He is flat-chested and scrawny, with freckled arms and pale, slumpy shoulders. Not that James wants to look at his body—it’s just there, in front of him. He averts his eyes and starts putting on his shoes.

“You wanna grab a burger or something?” Tyler says.

“Can’t,” James says, not looking up. “Got some stuff to do.”

“Okay, no worries.”

James hears Tyler fiddling with his duffel bag, and when he looks up to grab his shirt from his own bag, he sees that Tyler is buck naked. Not only that, but he is still smiling and staring at James.

“Dude, put some clothes on,” James says, turning away so that he faces the other direction.

“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling like he is so funny, such a clever joker.

James finishes dressing in a hurry. “See you tomorrow,” he says, barging out of the locker room, not waiting to hear Tyler’s response.

What was that all about? he thinks.

Clare is outside her car now, clearly ready to get going. More than anything, James wishes he could just go home. Even homework would be more fun. But he knows he’s stuck doing this, so he braces himself.

“Here, sign the card,” Clare says, handing it to him, along with a black ink pen. It is a simple card—nothing cutesy or humorous—that says “Get Well Soon” in florid gold lettering. Inside, James sees a number of signatures, some with personal notes like “Hurry back” or “Feel better!” A lot of these signatures are from people Alice despises, or people who never gave her the time of day before. What a bunch of phonies, he thinks. It takes a car wreck for people to stop being assholes. James signs his name to this gathering, and is glad there is no room left to write out a message.

They take separate cars, with James leading the way. He knows how to get there. Not that he spent much time at Alice’s house while they dated—while they dated
briefly,
he is always careful to remind everyone. But he did pick her up a few times, and one time her mother had him in for dessert and for an informal chat. Nothing serious. Alice’s mother—Mrs. Tidwell, because she had remarried—was not one of those hovering and nervous types, the kind who quizzes you or glares at you as if she is trying to read your dirty thoughts about her daughter. James remembers her as very chatty, with a raspy smoker’s voice. As Alice always reminded him, James was different from other boys she’d dated. “A good guy,” she said once. “A smarty pants.” So he was probably a welcome change of pace for Mrs. Tidwell. But he’s not so sure what she might think of him now.

Alice’s parents divorced when she was little and she barely knows her father, who moved away. (At least she knows who he is, James thinks, unlike poor Henry.) Her stepfather, Mr. Tidwell, works long hours at the JVC factory, and James has never met him.

Alice’s house is in a modest but not shabby neighborhood not far from the high school. The evenly plotted streets are dotted with small ranch houses that have small front yards and small fenced-in backyards, with carports that are not walled in on all sides. Alice’s house is set downslope from the street, gray brick with black trim and a beige-tiled roof.

He parks on the street, and Clare pulls up right behind him. He takes a deep breath before leaving the car.

He and Clare walk down the slope to the front door, and Clare rings the doorbell. He hears the doorbell as it echoes inside, then the shrill barks of a dog. The barks get closer and closer until he can tell that the dog is right by the door, scratching, eager to see who is there, ready to jump up on them. He remembers the dog—a pug-faced, black Boston terrier who looked mean but was really sweet as pie.