Sway (23 page)

 

THIRTY-ONE

Pete and I didn't start hanging out again after the night I found him in the rain. We would nod at each other around school or at parties and exchanged a couple of texts, but things were still strained between us. He owned me now, owned my secrets, and unlike his sister, would understand that it conveyed power. Pete could be spiteful and liked to abuse the people around him, but I knew he would never hold this over me. I trusted him at least that much.

The following Tuesday I didn't see Pete in school so I decided to go looking for him. He wasn't at the Siegel Center but Bridget was there with her crew of misfits. Bridget ignored me, pretended like I wasn't even there, so I just stood in Pete's favorite wallflower spot waiting for her to finish.

After a while she got the kids to help her pick up the hula hoops and other gear they were using for today's bastardized form of organized outdoor sport. Cynthia, whose name Pete had told me so I would have an alternative to Flipper Girl, came to stand before me and said, “Bridget told me to tell you that she's not speaking to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “Why's that?”

“I don't know,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. “I guess you did something to make her mad.”

“How am I supposed to know what I did to make her mad if she won't speak to me?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Cynthia said again.

“You go tell her that just because she's the prettiest girl in school doesn't mean she gets to treat people any way she wants.” Cynthia's eyes were wide with uncertainty but she turned to walk toward Bridget when I called her back, saying, “And hey, tell her that I don't appreciate being treated like a pawn in her ongoing war with her kid brother.” Cynthia started to walk away again when I called her back a second time and said, “And tell her that I didn't come to talk to her anyway. I'm looking for her brother.”

Cynthia looked more uncertain than ever but left to deliver my message. I watched as she tried to relay the entire content of my monologue to Bridget, who was now looking daggers in my direction. After another eternity Cynthia returned, a small smile on her face.

“Bridget says she's mad at you because you said you would call her and you didn't. And she said that you called her melodramatic and hung up on her so she doesn't have anything else to say to you until you apologize. Do you want me to tell her you're sorry?”

“Absolutely not,” I said with an emphatic shake of my head.

“If I were you, I would apologize,” Cynthia said. “She's super mad.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eleven.”

“Well, you're not too young to learn this now. Apologizing is never a good idea. It's a show of weakness. Remember that.”

“Even if you're wrong?” she asked.

“Right or wrong is completely subjective,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest. “There is no good or bad, only thinking makes it so.”

“You're really weird,” she said, which was kind of a mean thing to say, but I let it go since she had a flipper and all. Then she freaked me out by lifting the flipper and giving me a friendly pat. “I'm sure Bridget will forgive you. She's the nicest person ever.”

One of the staff people was calling her, so Cynthia hurried to grab her backpack. She waved good-bye and I waved back to her as Bridget came over to talk to me.

“Where's Pete?” I asked.

“That's it?” she asked. “That's all you have to say to me? Where's Pete?”

“I thought you weren't speaking to me.”

“You don't even know why I'm mad, do you?” she asked with a shake of her head.

“If you just tell me where Pete is, then you don't have to talk to me at all. I'll leave immediately.”

“He's at the doctor with my parents,” she said as she moved to retrieve her backpack but I beat her to it and lifted it onto my shoulder. We started walking toward the exit together. “They went into the city to see a specialist.”

“Everything okay?” I asked, maybe too quickly.

“He's fine,” she said as her eyes searched my face. “It's just his leg. It's been bothering him. You know, walking the way he does, it puts a lot of strain on his joints.”

“He never mentioned it,” I said.

She shrugged. “Normalcy is very important to Pete. He wouldn't want to draw attention to his disability by complaining about it.”

“I haven't seen him much lately,” I said. “He's still pissed at me.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm pissed at you too. You said you were going to call me back the other night and you didn't.”

“You want to walk and get a coffee or something?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Sure,” she said as she tucked her hair under a knit cap. I held the door and nodded for her to go ahead of me.

We walked slowly, taking our time, down Congress Street in the historic district where iron benches and ornamental trees lined the street in orderly rows. It was just starting to get dark and the trees were filled with tiny white Christmas bulbs—the black branches were covered in a fine layer of ice, and the refraction of light created a dazzling display. When we reached the coffee shop the front window was smoky with condensation, the interior full of people on laptops and huddled around small tables. In silent agreement we kept walking, neither of us wanting to be among a crowd.

“Pete's birthday is this weekend,” she said, breaking the silence between us.

“I know,” I said. “I got him a bottle of raspberry vodka and a stripper for Saturday night.”

“Can you be serious for two minutes?”

“This is me being super serious,” I said, drawing my face into a somber mask.

“Anyway,” Bridget went on, “he said he didn't really want a party so we thought we'd just take him out to dinner. It'll just be my parents and me, and Ken's planning to come.”

Sure, I thought, just what Pete wanted for his birthday, to hang out with his parents and a douche.

“I know Pete would love it if you could come,” Bridget said.

“I wouldn't be too sure about that. Do your parents know you're inviting me?” I asked.

“Yes,” Bridget huffed impatiently. I seemed to be the only person who had that effect on her. It was strangely flattering. “And they promised me they'll be on their best behavior.”

“What time is dinner?” I asked.

“We have reservations for seven. Please say you'll come,” Bridget said, and I knew that there was no way I could say no to her, even though Pete would be furious.

“Sure, I'll be there.”

“So, are we going to talk about what the hell that was all about the other night at the bowling alley?” Bridget asked with an expectant look. “I can't believe you punched Pete in the face.”

I thought about making up some bullshit answer, but I was tired of lying to Bridget. There were so many lies to keep up with at this point, every conversation I had with her was full of land mines. “I didn't like him talking to you like that,” I said, frustrated by this truth. “He should learn to treat you with a little more respect.”

“My hero,” she said with her trademark nonsarcastic sarcasm, but I could tell she wasn't really mad at me. “You're supposed to be looking out for him. Not punching him in the face.”

“Look, I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but you babying him all the time doesn't help him. It makes him worse. He thinks he can treat people any way he wants and no one ever calls him out for acting like a prick.”

“Yeah?” she asked wryly. “Well, you're like a prick role model.”

I grabbed my chest as if shot by an arrow and grimaced. “Ow, my heart. Don't hurt me, Bridget.” She laughed. Couldn't help herself. “I'm just trying to give him some space for a while,” I said. “He'll be fine.”

“I just wish he would talk to me. He never confides in me anymore. Maybe if he did … well … I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.”

“It's not about you,” I said. “He's got to figure things out for himself. You smother him.”

“Do I?” she asked absently.

I shrugged one shoulder. “It's understandable. You're just doing what you think is best for him.”

“I've always worried that he would be lonely—that people wouldn't be able to see what a good person he is, that all they'd see were his disabilities.”

“The way you treat him,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I think you make it hard for people to see anything else.”

She took a minute to digest my words as we strolled along. “I saw you kiss Heather the other night at the bowling alley,” she said after a minute, her voice casual. “Are you dating her again?”

“Who wants to know?” I asked, savoring the jealousy I detected in her voice. I was curious where this line of conversation was going.

“I don't really think she's good for you,” Bridget said. “For you to date, I mean.”

“Are we giving each other advice about dating now?” I asked.

“I'm not giving you advice,” she said with impatience. “I'm just saying I don't think Heather is good for you—that you need someone who cares about more than just lip gloss and celebrity gossip.”

“You're very specific for someone who isn't giving out advice,” I observed.

“Fine,” she said with a toss of her hair. “I can tell you're going to be difficult, but you know what I mean.”

“Why should you care about what I do, anyway?” I asked, nudging her with my elbow.

“We're friends. Of course I care.”

We strolled along in silence for another minute but Bridget wasn't finished, saying, “What about you and Joey? I always see you with her.”

“We're friends. That's it. Is it so hard for you to believe a guy and girl can be friends without it being something else?”

“With you?” she asked. “Yes, I definitely have a hard time believing that a girl would only want to be your friend. But, you're not in love with Joey?”

“No.” I didn't ask her if she was in love with Ken. I didn't want to know.

She was silent for a while after that but when she finally spoke, I knew she had been thinking about Ken because she said, “Pete doesn't like Ken. Doesn't think he's genuine. I know it seems like all Ken cares about is partying and playing football, but he's got a really sensitive side. I ran into him at an exhibit at the campus gallery one day and we went out for coffee. He was really sweet, had such nice manners.” My hands were clenched in fists in my jacket pockets as I resisted the urge to tell her to shut up. I didn't want to listen to this.

“He'd asked me out a few times before and I always said no, because I didn't really think we had anything in common. That day I asked him if he could have one superpower for a day, what would it be? Do you know what he said?”

“That he wished he could throw a football a hundred yards?” I hazarded a guess.

She nudged me with her elbow to quiet me. “He said if he could have one superpower, it would be to heal people with a touch. I thought that was really cool.”

“Sure. Cool,” I said.

“And the way he talks about his cousin Jamie, it's really sweet. He's been such a great help at the Siegel Center. The kids love him.”

Hoo boy.
This is your own doing, I told myself. I was the one who had set her up to fall for him. I tried to imagine the look on Bridget's face if I confessed and told her everything, told her she had ended up with a douche bag because I had given him all the right lines to use on her—had sold her for two hundred dollars like some moderately priced whore. I took a deep breath as I thought about how I should launch into my confession, prepared to tell her everything.

“You know,” she said before I could get a word out, “my family won't be back until late, will probably stop for dinner on their way home. Do you want to go get something to eat?”

“You trying to get me killed?” I asked conversationally as I suppressed a sigh of relief. God help me, I had almost told her everything. “You know Ken would pound my face if he saw us together.”

“I've told Ken that he and I are too young to just date one person. He's free to go out with anyone he wants to, and so am I.” The way she said this reminded me that her good nature was tempered with a stubborn streak, the one thing she and Pete had in common. Pete. The thought of him made me want to pull away from her.

“Sure, you're free to date other people,” I said, “but I'll bet other guys won't even get within fifty feet of you. They're all too afraid of getting pounded by Ken. Am I right?”

“Every guy except for you,” she said.

“Well, I figure you're worth a couple of beatings.”

She stopped walking so suddenly, I had to take a step back to recover my arm, which she held now by the crook of the elbow. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Don't say it. Don't say it.

I clamped my jaws tight so no words could escape. I couldn't trust myself around her. My hand involuntarily lifted to tuck a lock of stray hair back under her hat. As I let my fingers trail down her cheek, she put her hand over mine and hers was surprisingly warm.

She took a deep breath before saying, “I get so screwed up when I'm around you.” She laughed suddenly. “You punch my kid brother in the nose and I don't know whether to be furious at you or get all gushy because you punched him to protect my feelings. Why does everything you touch get so complicated?”

I took my hand away and put it in my jacket pocket, but she kept her hand on my forearm, squeezing it.

“There's nothing complicated about the way I feel about you, Bridget,” I said.

“Don't,” she said, giving my arm a shake. “You can't do this. You can't tell me that you care about me and then keep me at arm's length. You can't make me feel something for you and then constantly push me away. I get that it's difficult for you right now,” she said, wading into the murky waters. “You know, I think that you're letting what happened with your mom prevent you from doing what you want. Like right now. I think you would kiss me if you would let yourself care about other people again. You can't go the rest of your life feeling nothing.”