Dismantling Evan (8 page)

He gives off this kind of bad boy persona that makes me more curious about him, something I only experienced with Josh briefly. The difference is Brody doesn’t look like that kind of bad boy. He doesn’t look like a boy, period. He looks older than me for sure.

“I’m Evan. Evan Phillips,” I say without pause.

He keeps his eyes focused on Gavin as he asks, “Evan? That’s your name?”

“Yeah, it’s short for Evangeline,” I quickly say. I always get that same question.

“Evan... that’s nice,” he says, more mildly now. Yeah, he made it sound hot too, which I should totally not be thinking about now.

“Ferguson,” he says, suddenly.

Lost in the fog of Brody saying my name, I stare at him blankly.

“Our last name is Ferguson. Brody and Gavin Ferguson,” he says.

“Oh,” is my brilliant response; apparent lack of oxygen to the brain. Feeling stupid now, I defer to looking at the house behind me; age has settled on it. The paint is peeling around the door frame and the porch roof above us tilts slightly, like it has shifted.

The brief silence between us is filled with the sound of cicadas and crickets. Gavin’s low humming actually calms my nervousness a little.

“I didn’t call you an idiot. I was calling myself an idiot for not watching him closer,” he says.

I look out at Gavin.
How old his he? And, why would someone his age need to be watched closely?

“Okay,” is all I say as I’m still running questions about Gavin through my head. I want to ask Brody all of them, but sitting next to him, this close, I’m kind of intimidated by how much bigger he is than me in a jock kind of way. I mean, what if I ask him and it pisses him off like the thing that happened with Darren back home?

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks as he removes his boots from the table.

Yeah, I am not about to tell Brody Ferguson THAT story.
I look down at my tightly interwoven hands and wing it. “Um, I guess it is because I’m in a new place; first night here and all.”

“Evan!” I look up at Gavin who is no longer spinning, but focused on me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his hands raised in wonder.

The way he asks me in the raspy mid-pitch voice he had earlier today, I’m not sure if I should have come over here after all. I start to rise and prepare to say good night, when Brody surprises me, gripping my wrist gently, just enough to get my attention. “It’s okay. Stay,” he says, firmly.

Gavin walks toward us in his odd stride, but in this instant it looks like he has a purpose. His eyes focus on me and his pace quickens. Brody rises just as Gavin steps up on the porch and stops in front of me. I can’t help but grip the sides of the chair, nervous by his demeanor. With furrowed brows, similar to his brother’s, Gavin looks between Brody and me. “Why are you here?” he asks

“I asked her to come over, Gavin,” says Brody as he slowly sits back down in the chair.

He looks at Brody curiously, like he has said something outlandish, then sits cross-legged on the porch in front of us.

Appearing to ignore me, he speaks to Brody. “It’s late. Why is she awake? Why is she out here?”

Why isn’t he speaking to me? Do I scare him?

Brody glances over at me and asks, with genuine concern in his tone, “Why are you awake and out here?”

I look at Gavin and speak to him. “I couldn’t sleep and I heard you talking out here from my window.”

He looks up at my house, then down at me. “I’m sorry,” he says in a milder tone, but I’m not sure what he is sorry for.

I look down at my nervous, fiddling fingers. “Sorry? For what? You didn’t do anything.”

“For today, when I met you.” Gavin says as he starts to sway side to side, just like he did earlier.
Does he do that when he gets scared?

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I told myself today when I saw you again I would apologize and that is what I am doing. I’m sorry.” He pronounces this chain of words in tight, clipped vocals.

“No, you didn’t scare me. I’m the one who should be sorry though. I shouldn’t have touched you on the shoulder,” I tell him.

Gavin stops swaying and places both of his hands on either side of his body on the concrete floor.

“She was just concerned for you, Gav,” Brody says as he leans forward a little. “That was nice of her, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was,” Gavin says as he looks from me to Brody, then back to me again.

Without warning, Gavin jumps up from his seat, plugs his earbuds back into his ears, and walks off the porch and back into the yard.

He turns back to face me now and grins widely. It reminds me of what a child might do the first time he sees Santa; full of a combination of joy and excitement.

“Thank you, Evan!” he shouts, stirring both Brody and I into a united hush.

Brody snickers. “Dude, you have to be quiet. It’s late.”

Gavin hunches his shoulders forward awkwardly and chuckles before whispering, “Sorry.”

The biggest smile is still stretched across his face as he looks down at his feet and continues on his path of wide circles in the grass.

I look back at my house once again; worried about being discovered out here; no lights, no opening door.

“They didn’t hear him. They would have been out here by now if they had,” Brody says confidently.

I look back at Brody and notice him glance at my clothes. Feeling a little naked in my pajamas suddenly, I fold my arms across my chest. I look out at Gavin again. He has stopped walking circles and is staring into my yard. I follow the pathway of his frozen stare, but I don’t see anything but trees and yard. “What is he looking at?” I ask Brody, quietly.

“Nothing,” he says, flatly.

I look back at Brody, expecting him to give me more to go on than “Nothing.”

He sits back in his chair and sighs deeply. “He gets stuck sometimes.”

Gavin’s stance is stiff but his face is slack; not the joyful, smiling boy I saw moments ago.

“He gets stuck? What does that mean exactly?” I question, still not getting it.

“There is no ‘exactly’ when it comes to Gavin.” Brody sounds agitated. He leans back in his chair and places one leg on the chair across from him. “Moment of detachment. Don’t know where he goes.” Sadness and confusion settle into his handsome face.

I’m pulled to try and bring logic to the confusion I see in him. “Maybe he doesn’t go anywhere. Maybe he is just listening,” I say.

“To what?” Brody asks as his eyes find mine.

I think of myself and how I feel when I spiral - the voice in my head within the rage of the spiral.

“Evan.” Brody’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. His questioning bronze-toned eyes await my response.

My thoughts carefully cascade into words. “Well, maybe he hears voices or something. Maybe his voice inside of his head. I’ve heard of that happening to people.”

Brody stares at me and I fully expect him to laugh, mock me even, but instead he nods and looks back at Gavin. “Yeah, maybe.”

I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I wonder why they are out here so late. “Hey, do your parents know you two are out here?”

Brody looks at me sideways and smirks. “Yes, my mommy knows I’m out here.”

I roll my eyes and brush a pesky fly out of my face. I knew the smart ass jock-bad boy would come out again sooner than later. “Ha Ha,” I utter under my breath.

“Just messing with you,” he says slyly, then clears his throat. “Mom is sleeping because she gets up for work at six. Dad? Well, dad isn’t here.”

I want to ask where his dad is, but I hesitate, worried I might be crossing some kind of line with him.

Silence falls between us and I look back out at Gavin, walking circles again, bouncing his head in time to the music coming from his earbuds.

“So, Evan, where did you move from?” Brody asks.

“San Francisco, California. My dad got a new job.”

“What year are you?” His question is odd.

“Year?” I ask.

“Sophomore, Junior?” he probes.

I scoff, feeling the minor insult of looking any younger than a senior. “Do I look that young?”

He doesn’t respond, only smiles and waits for my answer.

“Senior,” I say and take my turn at finding out what year he is in college. He has to be in college. “You?”

“Senior.”

No way he’s a senior in college!
“In high school?” I clarify.

He nods.

The way he carries himself, the way his body looks, the way he talks with confidence and maturity, I was sure he was in college. But, now that I know he isn’t and he is my age... I nod and look away to hide the giddy smile pulling at my lips. Brody Ferguson isn’t completely out of reach on the age scale, even if he is out of reach on the good looks scale. Quickly, I think of something else to ask. “What about Gavin? What year is he?”

“Sophomore,” Brody says.

“Cool.” I say evenly, then think back to Gavin reciting Hamlet earlier today. “Is he like in advanced classes or something?” I ask and Brody looks at me oddly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well he was reciting Hamlet this morning. Then the girl across the street...”

“Nikki,” he adds.

“Yeah. So she told me...”

He cuts me off. “She talked to you?”

His question seems displaced, but I respond anyway. “Yeah. She said he always recited Shakespeare or The Lord of the Rings books.”

Seeming to think about Gavin reciting, Brody grins and says, “Yeah, those are his favorites. He is just...”

Brody’s grin falters a little as he seems to focus on what he is going to say next. “He is just different, Evan.”

Yeah, Gavin is different.
He fascinates me, not in an ogling a caged-animal kind of way, but the kind of fascination that makes me want to know more about him. It is what I felt when I watched Gavin earlier and it is what I feel now as he stands out in the darkened yard, walking wide circles in the grass, listening to...

“What is he listening to?” I ask

Brody eyes me then Gavin. “Hendrix. He likes Jimmy and the Beatles.”

Two of my favorites.
“Cool.”

Surprisingly, Gavin rushes to the porch, pulls the earbuds from his ears, and asks, “Do you like Shakespeare?”

I am a little taken aback by the forcefulness of his question, like it is something of great importance and he must know now!

“Uh, yeah. I haven’t read Hamlet though,” I say.

He stares at me blankly.

Feeling the need to fill the emptiness between us I add, “I have read the Lord of the Rings.”

His eyes instantly light up and he lets out a cackling laugh. “She’s a smart one, Brody!”

Brody smiles. “Yep, Gav, she is smart.”

All of a sudden, Gavin yawns and walks toward the porch door. He doesn’t say anything. He just goes inside, shuts off the porch light, and leaves Brody and I sitting there in the dark. As my eyes adjust, Brody’s silhouette comes into view.

“Uh, good night Gav,” he says with a chuckle.

I laugh too, at the absurdity of Gavin leaving us out there in the dark.

“Well, I better be going,” I say, rising from the chair.

“Sorry about that,” he says, uneasily.

I don’t want him feeling bad about Gavin’s behavior. “There is nothing to be sorry about,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Thank you for explaining what happened earlier when we first met and everything,”

His face is invisible and I can’t see his expression when he says, “Thanks for coming over and listening. Most people would be freaked out.”

If he only knew I’m not most people and I have been the freak. He won’t know that though.

“I’m not most people, Brody,” I say just as I turn to leave.

“Watch your step off the porch,” he tells me.

I smile lightly as I step down. I guess Brody’s tenderness does reach beyond his brother.

I say, Good night, once more before I slip through the Fergusons’ gate then ours, and back into my house undetected. I crawl into bed, feeling the tiredness settle into my body and knowing the insomnia will not win tonight.

THE AROMA OF FRYING BACON, mixed with freshly brewing coffee, wake me. Mom and Dad’s muffled talking and the sound of clanking pots and pans pass through my closed door. I sit up slowly, feeling heavy with sleep still, and pluck my phone from the charger on the night stand. I count the hours of sleep - seven hours! I’m kind of proud of myself for sleeping so well, but shoot my hopes down quickly, remembering I am making up for no sleep from the two nights before.

Walking down the stairs, I hear Mom and Dad, planning a shopping expedition around town.

“Good morning!” they say in unison.

Dad adds,”Wow! I think that is a record, Evan!”

“I’m so glad you got a good night’s sleep, honey. I know you didn’t sleep a wink the two nights in the hotel,” mom says, drawing out the event of my sleep habits.

I don’t validate or protest either of their comments as I open the refrigerator and let the cold air hit my face.

Mom comes to my side and rummages through her purse. I hear the jingling of pills hitting the sides of a plastic bottle. Like Pavlov’s dog, I react to the sound with repulsion. I take a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. As soon as I turn around, she is standing there with a white and blue capsule in the palm of her hand. I glare at her as I pluck the pill from her palm and maneuver around her to find a glass for my juice.

“We saved you some bacon and eggs,” she says.

I pop the pill in my mouth and wash it down with a gulp of orange juice.

Mom places the orange plastic pill bottle on the counter next to me and speaks as if we are doing some kind of secret exchange of pharmaceuticals or something. “You can put these in your room in your bathroom. Just let me know when you are getting low and I will call in the refill, okay?”

I want to laugh at the show she is putting on, but I hold it in. I surprise myself that I am not spurred to start a confrontation this morning. “Okay,” I say, taking the bottle in my hand as I sip my juice.

“Want me to make you a small plate?” Dad asks.

I put the carton back in the refrigerator as mom continues to lean against the kitchen counter. “Can’t miss any doses, Evan,” she warns.

I knew she would say something like that.

“Yeah, I know,” I comment as I walk away from her to the kitchen table.

“We know you know, kiddo,” Dad says, smiling as he sets down the plate he has made up for me. Dad is always able to deflate the tension between Mom and I, just before things get heated.

Mom sits with us at the table as I eat and Dad reads the paper. Her voice buzzes about the stores we should visit for the desk and chair. They both try recalling which stores from their youth are still in existence and where they were. Mom asks me when I could be ready and I weasel out of it the best I can. “I trust your design skills. I know you will pick something perfect for my room,” I say, mainly to my mom because she is the one that needs her ego stroked from this shopping spree.

“Really? Aww, honey, you really think so?” she asks.

I furrow my brow a bit and nod at her. “Yeah, I do. You are good at your job.”

That makes her smile from ear to ear and soften her tone. “Thank you baby.”

It isn’t a lie; I really do think she has talent with decorating, but my intention is multi-purposed; I want out of the shopping expedition.

“It would be nice for you and Dad to have a lunch date before he goes back to work tomorrow. Plus, I want to get my room ready for Grandma and Grandpa. They are coming tonight, right?” I ask

“Yes, they are,” Mom says, nodding.

“I think it is a great idea. Remember that Italian restaurant we loved to eat at in South Austin? We should go there?” Dad says, smiling at mom.

“If it is still open, it would be nice,” Mom says, hesitantly.

After teetering back and forth about eating lunch, my going with them, or my staying home, during which I eat the remains of my eggs and bacon, they come to a decision. I’m able to stay home and not go through the shopping torture. However, Mom is adamant that tomorrow we are going shopping for a new backpack and school supplies. Before they walk out the door she says, “I will check on you to make sure everything is all right while we are out. Have your phone with you, okay?”

I bob my head and roll my eyes a little. “Okay.”

Low and behold, ten minutes after they leave the driveway, I’m in my bathroom getting ready to shower when Mom sends a text:

Mom:
Stopping at grocery store on the way home. Need anything?

Me:
No, I am good.

The six other texts that come in waves over the next three hours aren’t as easily justifiable. Through all the “are you okay?” texts I manage to straighten my room, take all the empty boxes out into the garage, and put all the trash in the garbage cans at the side of the house.

The desk Mom and Dad pick out is a deep mahogany with a hutch stacked atop it. Brightly colored, eclectic knob handles adorn the drawers and cabinet. The frame looks antique but the pop of color from the knobs give the piece a splash of modern. The arm chair matches perfectly: bright tangerine and indigo blue spiral through the fabric. I sit in it and look up at Mom and Dad. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Opening my drawers and cabinets, I plan where I will store my camera, film, and all the other desk items I have scattered on my dresser. “It is so nice to see you smile, Evan,” Mom comments. I must have let a smile surface without realizing it.

Mom’s eyes glisten with tears and I feel uncomfortable seeing her so emotional.

“Hey Lucy, let’s give Evan some space to organize her desk,” Dad says, seeming to react to her tears too. He takes her by the shoulders and leads her out the door. Before he closes it behind him he says softly, “It really is good to see you smile, kiddo.”

Once the door is shut, I wonder if Mom is standing just outside on the landing with Dad holding her in his arms, happily and softly weeping about something as simple as a smile. I am both sad for them and frustrated for me that my state of mind has given them such a small expectation for glimmers of hope, and that a smile is a huge milestone.

My grandma, Ann, and Grandpa, Bob, arrive later that evening, bringing cherry pie for dessert.

I finish organizing my desk only moments before Dad calls for me. As I walk down the stairs, my parents and grandparents are talking in the living room. Hearing my grandpa’s voice, I am immediately taken back five years to the last time I saw him and I feel lighter on my feet. They came out to San Francisco to visit and I felt a warm connection with them. The visits haven’t been frequent over the years, but last one was meaningful because Grandma Ann and I worked on a jigsaw puzzle together, her hobby. Dad and Grandpa took me fishing during their visit. I think it was Lake Merced. I remember Grandpa and Dad arguing over which fishing lure to use at that time of year and I kept thinking why the hell does it matter, if they are hungry, they will bite. I announced this piece of logic out loud and instantly, my grandpa and I had this inside connection. He told me, “That’s my girl. Tells it like it is.”

I come up behind them and Grandma catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye. “There she is!”

Even if I tried not to smile now, I don’t think I could. Hearing her voice makes me feel like pre-high-school me, pre-medicated me.

I have never seen them talk about old times, laugh heartily, and remember their youth as they do tonight at the dinner table. It is contagious and I fall victim to it, sneaking a smile here and there. “Remember that weekend I went with Ellen Channing to the out of town football game?” Mom asks Grandma, animatedly.

Grandma nods, giving Dad a sideways glance. “Yes, the weekend you met Aaron.”

Mom smiles and looks at Dad, taking his hand in hers.

Grandma continues, “The two love birds; inseparable for the next three years of college. I have to tell you sweetie, after your high school years, we didn’t know what college would bring. It seems like things turned around though.”

Mom’s full smile falters a little as she shakes her head. “Mom, it wasn’t bad,” she says, pulling her hand away from Dad’s.

“What happened in high school? “ I ask.

Mom lifts her glass of wine from the table and takes a perfectly timed sip in order to dodge my question.

I look at Grandma for an answer, but she is eyeing Mom for a signal that it is okay to discuss the subject.

“C’mon, don’t keep us in suspense. What is it?” Dad asks, between bites of chicken fried steak.

Mom places her glass down and raises her eyebrows while fixing her downcast eyes on her plate. “Nothing really. It was just high school drama with a few friends,” she says.

“High school drama is putting it lightly.” Grandma Ann dispenses an added dose of curiosity into the room.

Mom’s steely eyes come off as a warning as she speaks directly to Grandma. “Mom, it is the past. I would like to keep it there,” she says.

Noticing my watchfulness, Mom softens her voice. “It truly was pointless teen age drama.”

“Teen girl drama is the worst. Glad to be done with it,” Grandpa says.

“I hear you Bob,” Dad says, seeming to take the whole conversation with a grain of salt as he continues to eat.

“You are starting school soon, Evan. Senior, right?” Grandpa asks.

His attempt to change the subject with his grandpa-charm, animated croaky voice and his crinkled skin around his eyes does the trick. I swallow the bite of food I just took. “Yes, I am.”

“Good, good. Still doing the picture taking thing? Your momma’s camera, right? It is in an old one.”

“Yes,” I nod and pick at my vegetables.

“We were going to buy her a digital camera last year...” Dad starts to explain, but Grandpa interrupts swatting his hand lightly in the air. “Nah, you don’t need that digital crap. Digital takes the art out of it.”

I smirk at Grandpa’s use of the word crap. It sounds just like me.

Mom interjects reminiscently, “I loved developing the film in the darkroom. Mom, remember my using the storage shed out back for the darkroom?”

Grandma’s smile is porous. Is she still considering the conversation about Mom’s teenage drama? Grandma looks at me oddly, like I have spied her concern and quickly brightens up. “It was a perfect darkroom. Your mother would go out there for hours, then bring in her works of art,” Grandma says.

“Do you still have those pictures?” I ask Mom.

“Yes, somewhere. I’m sure it is in one of the many boxes in the garage,” Mom says, swallowing a bite of food.

“It would be great for you to have a little area like your mother did for your photography Evan,” Dad suggests.

“Yeah, that would be cool.”

“Maybe Grandpa and I can work on it for you.” Dad looks up at Grandpa. “Bob, what do you think?”

Grandpa’s crinkled eyes widen. “She said it would be cool. We should do it!” he says, enthusiastically.

“Hold on, we can’t do anything yet,” Mom interrupts.

“Why not?” Dad and Grandpa ask in unison.

“We are just renting now. We can’t make structural changes like that!” 

“Well, what if you decide to write an offer?” Grandma asks, pointedly.

“That is an option Lucy. It is a really great house,” Dad suggests as he looks around him, taking in the room.

I chime in before I take another bite of my mashed potatoes. “I love my room and the backyard.”

Everyone looks at me and both Dad and Grandpa smile widely. Grandpa looks at Mom with a clever look in his eyes and says, “Looks like ya’ll need to write up an offer.”

He looks to dad and rubs his hands together, like he is ready to feast on their idea. “Looks like we have a project in the fall, Aaron.”

After Grandma and Grandpa leave, Mom and I clean up the kitchen in silence. I want to ask her about the dinner conversation revolving around the high school drama, but she doesn’t seem approachable. She focuses on clean up then quickly pecks me on the cheek before heading up stairs to her room. “Remember Evan, we are going school supply shopping tomorrow,” she says as she ascends the stairs.

“Goodnight,” I say as I wipe down the countertop once more.