Sway (22 page)

Bridget started to come after me as I walked away, her voice calling me back, but Ken held her by the arm and told her to let me go.

“Night, Stan,” I said as I walked out of the bowling alley into the crisp night air.

“You must suck at bowling if you're already giving up,” Stan said as he rubbed his hands to warm them and rocked back on his heels.

“I suck at a lot of things, Stan,” I said, and he laughed though nothing I had said was really funny.

 

THIRTY

Pete wasn't speaking to me. Well, technically that was an exaggeration. I said hey to him in the hallway at school on Tuesday and he told me to fuck off. He was angry, which was understandable since I had punched him in the face, but I suppose if he truly hated me, he would have just ignored me. The best thing to do, I decided, was to give him a few days to cool down before I approached him again.

That same week, they announced the homecoming court over the PA system during first period. Named king, Ken Foster, royal douche. Queen, Theresa Mason. Excited murmurs filled the classroom until my history teacher, Mr. Smith—crotchety, old, and nails stained yellow with tobacco tar—barked for everyone to be quiet.

The halls were abuzz with gossip and speculation about Theresa's unexpected win. A win more unexpected by Theresa than anyone else. After the announcement, she stood with an entourage of cheerleaders and drill team members fawning over her in the main corridor, her smile putting the sun to shame.

I was curious what Ken's reaction would be when he heard the news, but I was in AP history during first period while he, I could only assume, was in woodshop or some remedial reading class.

It pleased me that Theresa was happy about winning homecoming queen, but really that wasn't the best part of the payout for my trouble. If I was being completely honest, it was the fact that Ken would be denied the glory of playing king, with Bridget on his arm as queen, that pleased me most of all. It brought a smile to my face every time I thought about it.

*   *   *

That evening I was asleep on the couch when the buzz of my phone woke me. The lights weren't on in the house and I fumbled for my phone in the dark. The call had gone to voice mail by the time I picked up, but it was Bridget calling so I dialed her back right away. Though I was still groggy when I placed the call, as soon as I heard the tone of her voice when she said hello, I was instantly awake and alert. “What is it?” I asked.

“Is Pete with you?”

“No,” I said as I rubbed the stiffness of sleep out of my face. “Why?”

“He didn't come home after school and he wasn't at the Siegel Center with me. He's been acting really weird the past couple of days and I just … well, I'm worried.”

My eyes shifted automatically to the clock on the DVR and saw that it was only seven o'clock, not late enough to jump to any extreme conclusions, but I knew the Smalleys followed a strict routine of dinner together as a family each night at six. I was already up and moving when she said, “He's been upset since your fight, has barely spoken to anyone since then. Have you talked to him at all?”

“No,” I said, realizing as I did that I sounded guilty about that.

“Will you? Talk to him? I don't think you understand…” She paused and I could sense that she was holding back, keeping her emotion in check, “maybe you don't realize how important your friendship is to him. You're all he had. I don't want you guys to hate each other because of me.”

“Stop worrying about him. He's doing this on purpose because he wants you to worry and be upset. Stop giving in,” I said as I snatched my keys up from the counter and pulled the kitchen door shut behind me.

“It's not that simple,” she said. “If anyone knows that, it's you. Find him, Jesse, and make this right. You make things right with him or I'll never speak to you again. Even if it kills me, I'll never speak to you again.”

“Jesus, I thought your brother was the melodramatic one,” I said, and ended the call.

*   *   *

It didn't take me long to find Pete. He wanted to be found, especially since the night was a cold one—a freezing stinging rain was blowing in from the north—and because he was mad and wanted to yell at someone. He was standing under the streetlight on the bridge, my bridge, so wet from the rain that water dripped from the end of his nose and his clothes stuck to the angles of his body.

When I left the house I was mad at Pete, pissed that he was doing it again, hurting his sister intentionally so he didn't have to be alone in his misery. By the time I reached the bridge and saw the shape he was in, my anger had abated and only impatience remained.

“What do you want?” he asked me sullenly as he watched the whitecaps on the river swirling around the rocks before passing under our feet. His eyes followed as each new whitecap formed and disintegrated into the dark current of the river.

“Your sister's upset,” I said. “Worried about you. Again. You selfish little prick.”

“And what? She sent you to find me?” He barked out a laugh. “Shit, I'm just upset. You're straight-up suicidal. Kind of ironic that she would send you to look after me.”

“That's not what ‘ironic' means,” I said. “You're probably trying to say it's antithetical.”

“Oh, please,” he said snidely. “You trying to convince me you actually studied for the SAT?”

“I didn't have to study,” I said. “I know what ‘ironic' means.”

His eyes narrowed into slits as he said, “What did you tell her?”

“I didn't tell her a thing.” I held up my hands in a gesture of innocence. “She called me, said you were missing. Your parents are worried. So is she.”

He looked back to the river as he said, “She doesn't know anything. Perfect brain, perfect body, perfect fucking life.”

I didn't argue. My plan was to let him yell himself out, then convince him to get in the car, go home with me, and get out of the rain.

“Aren't you going to call her?” he asked. “Tell her you're a fucking hero?”

“I'll call her in a little while,” I said. “Let her know you're okay.”

“I'm not okay!” He shouted, but his voice was hoarse from the cold and wet. “I'll never be okay. I have to watch every time I meet someone new, them trying to figure out what's wrong with me—get treated like I'm simple-minded because I talk funny! I'm never—” He stopped and bit off the end of his sentence. During the pause that followed I could see how much he wanted to say more, but the words were going to burn on their way out. “I'm never going to get a girl who wants me—no girl wants to be with a freak.”

“You're full of shit,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand and a shake of my head. “Those girls at the party were totally into you.”

“Because you lied,” he shot back, “told them I was someone I'm not. They wouldn't want the real me.”

“So what?” I asked hotly. “What's so great about the real you? What's so great about Pete Smalley that a girl should want you?” I didn't wait for his answer. “You think girls put out because I'm being the real me? Fuck no. They like my money, my connections, what I can do for them. They don't give a shit about me.”

“Well, maybe it doesn't matter to you, but I want someone to care about who the real me is. Maybe I don't want to be like you.”

“What the fuck is the difference?” I asked. “Everybody is putting on a show all the time. Nobody's real. Maybe you can't hide things about yourself like the way you walk or the way you talk, but everyone is lying all the time about who they are, how they feel.”

He wouldn't look at me, was still watching the river.

“I can't believe you hit me in the face,” he said after a minute.

“Oh, God,” I said wearily, “we're not going to relive that again, are we?”

“What if you had broken my nose?” he asked, like a girl with all his questions about hypotheticals that never happened, as if what might have happened mattered as much as what did.

“Oh, give me a break,” I said. “You're acting like that was the first time someone ever punched you in the face.”

“Of course it's the first time I've ever been punched in the face!” Pete's voice cracked as he shouted. “Only a psycho would hit a kid with cerebral palsy.”

“Yeah, well, you were asking for it,” I said, though not disputing the accusation of being a psycho. “You can't ask for it and then hide behind the fact that you've got cerebral palsy.”

“God, you are such an asshole. You know that?” he asked, though I took the question as rhetorical. “You have no idea what it's like to be me.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “Do you have any idea what it's like to be
me
? You know what it's like to have your mom eat enough pills to kill a horse and chase it with a bottle of whiskey, then die on her own bathroom rug? Huh? You know what it's like to know that your mom vomited and shat herself when she died and was found in a pool of her own filth?”

He turned away from me violently, like he was going to throw up. Wouldn't look at me or give me his face, so I moved in front of him to force him to meet my eye.

“Come on, Pete. I thought you were so fucking smart. Nobody but you has any reason to be upset, right? You know all about what it's like for your dad to stay in bed for a month after your mom died, trying to drink himself to death.”

He gasped and shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I didn't think so,” I said, the anger leaving my body all at once, like a balloon deflating.

He rubbed at his eyes and sniffled, still refusing to look at me.

“So, what do you want to do?” I asked as I dug my hands in my pockets and hunched my shoulders against the wind. “You want to jump in the river or you want to go get a coffee or something? Because it's fucking cold and I don't want to stand out here in this shit anymore.”

His face split suddenly into his signature lopsided grin and he shook his head. “Jesus, you're like an android or something,” he said. “No emotional programming.”

“I told you to stop talking that sci-fi shit to me,” I said as I gestured toward the car with an expectant look. “You coming or what?”

“Are you going to call Bridget?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Call her yourself. I'm not your god-damn babysitter.”

He tried to shake the excess water from his jacket before climbing into the front seat and immediately adjusted the heater to warm his hands. We ended up at the Starbucks for a hot drink and a pastry.

“I used to think you were only nice to me because you wanted to get with Bridget,” Pete said around a mouthful of Danish.

“What makes you think that's not true?” I asked.

“You've never even asked her out,” he said, sounding cocky again now that he didn't have water dripping off his face and he wasn't shivering with the cold.

“How do you know?”

“Because she told me,” he said. “She told me she liked you but you never asked her out. And I know why.”

“Do you now?” I asked absently without looking at him. I was watching the guy working as the barista. Nice-looking, downtown MILFs with their stylish rain boots and North Face jackets got the full attention of the kid behind the counter—he'd cock his head and smile sweetly at them while he took their orders, nodding with a concerned frown as he carefully wrote out their special instructions on the side of the cup. With the grungy college kids, he didn't give the same consideration—now looking bored and put out as he served a young guy in a fleece jacket with tattoos on his neck.

“Yes,” Pete said with a nod. He frowned with concentration as he lifted the hot drink to his lips, slurped loudly through the plastic lid, then carefully set the cup down. “Do you want to hear my theory?”

“Shoot.”

“You don't think you deserve her,” he said as he studied my reaction, “don't think you're good enough for her.”

“That's an interesting theory,” I said, refusing to give him my eyes.

“I know you're crazy about her. You love her. So, how come you've never asked her out?”

“Maybe because I thought it would affect my friendship with you,” I suggested.

“Really?” he asked, his look of surprise mixed with hope so pathetic, it made me laugh.

“No,” I said. “I couldn't care less what you think.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he said, but he was smiling.

We fell silent after that. I checked my messages and went for another coffee while he worked up the nerve to go home. Bridget had called twice and texted me once. I held up the phone for Pete to see the display.

“I'm calling her back,” I said.

He just rolled his eyes but didn't say anything so I took that for agreement.

“Did you find him?” Bridget asked by way of answering her phone.

“Yes. I'm looking right at him and he's one ugly son of a bitch.”

“Where are you?” she asked, ignoring my joke as Pete flipped me the bird.

“Just out for a coffee.”

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“He's fine,” I said as Pete's gaze wandered around the room, doing his best to look disinterested in my conversation. “I'll bring him home later.”

“Thank you for finding him. My parents will be really relieved.”

“Maybe not so relieved if you tell them who he's with,” I said.

“Will you call me later?” she asked, ignoring my comment. “I want to talk to you.”

Would I? I didn't want to, but not because I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't like listening to her voice on the phone, because it reminded me that I wasn't with her.

“Yes, I will,” I lied.

I dropped Pete off about an hour later. He had softened toward me a little and we seemed to have forged a truce, though he was stubborn and would have to come back on his own terms. That night at home, I thought about not calling Bridget more than I thought about calling her, which I took for a good sign of my willpower. I was back in control, which is exactly what the captain of the
Titanic
thought right before it started its final plunge.