Five Minutes More (15 page)

I manage to get all but the last equation solved by the time the bell rings. I head back to my locker the long way so I can walk past Seth's. He isn't there, and I don't see him in the halls or on the stairs anywhere.

“Hey, D'Arcy,” Jaron says as he pushes past me, taking the stairs two at a time. I give him a wave as the back of his varsity jacket disappears around the corner. And then I remember: Today's the day they posted the results of the track team tryouts.

I think about Seth running up the hill, and the way his foot splayed out with every other step. Maybe that's why he missed class. Maybe he was pissed or depressed or something because he hadn't made the team.

After any kind of team tryouts, they always post the results on the bulletin board just outside the gym doors where everyone can see them. That way the people who made the team get to make the people who didn't feel like losers.

I head down the breezeway to the gym. There's a red sheet of paper tacked to the bulletin board. I scan down the list of names and, one up from the bottom, there it is: Seth Thomas. He made the team.

“D'Arcy?”

I turn around. Brendan, already wearing his red practice jersey and baggy gray shorts, wraps me in a hug.
I remember too late to hold my breath. Brendan only washes his lucky jersey when the season's over.

“Hey, you came to watch practice.”

“Hi, umm...” Crap. Now what?

Brendan tilts my chin up and kisses me. “Mmm, I'm glad you're here, but you can't stay. It's a closed practice.”

“Oh. How come?”

Brendan rolls his eyes. “Coach is going to ream us out for something.”

I run my hand along his arm and make myself smile at him. “Then you better not be late.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta go.” He pulls me against him again with his free hand and kisses me again. Then he lets go and takes off down the hall. “I'll call you later,” he says over his shoulder.

I cruise past Seth's locker again. He isn't there. He isn't anywhere on that floor. Mr. Kelly is at the board, working on a string of equations with a couple of guys from our class, but neither one is Seth.

I walk back to my locker, put my books away and get my stuff. I go out the bottom door and head up the sidewalk, half expecting to find Seth sitting on the wall juggling. He isn't.

He isn't at the track either. I watch the runners for a minute. They all have such long legs and smooth, elegant strides in their black spandex runner's pants. There's no one with Seth's old gray sweatshirt and spazzy way of running.

It had seemed like such a big deal to Seth to make the team, so why wasn't he out there with the rest of them, running and freezing and sweating at the same time, pounding around
the loop? I still didn't get why he would want to be a jock when he could play the piano that way.

The piano.

I go back into the school through the doors closest to the breezeway and head for the auditorium. There's no music this time, but still I want to check inside.

The door's locked. I twist the knob and push my shoulder against the wood, hoping it will somehow just pop open. It doesn't. He probably isn't even in there but...

I eye the doorknob. Brendan and Jaron used Brendan's bank card once to get the door to Jaron's parents' cottage open. They ended up breaking the card in half, but they got in.

I rummage in my backpack and find my library card. No teachers in the hall. I slip the card between the doorframe and the edge of the door. Nothing happens. It won't slide up or down. I can't move it from side to side and it won't go in any farther. This isn't going to work. I yank at the card, and for a second I think maybe it'll break too, but then I get it out.

Great. How come this door wasn't like the balcony doors to the auditorium, which didn't close all the way half the time? For a second I don't move. The balcony doors. What's the matter with me? I head upstairs again.

The left-hand side of the double doors opens as soon as I turn the knob and lean against it. I stand by the top row of seats and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

The piano is still at center stage. But there's no Seth. I'm about to go when I see something move at the edge of the stage, a bit left of center. I ease my way down to the balcony railing, holding on to the end chair of each row. Someone is
sitting on the top step to the stage, throwing something from hand to hand, up and over in a perfect arc.

I feel my way along the railing to the wall and find the stairs down to the main floor of the auditorium. I'm not even certain it is Seth until I'm almost to the stage.

He's cut his hair, not buzzed like the guys on the track team, but a lot shorter than it was. And he's wearing a suit. Well, part of one. The jacket and tie are on the back of a chair in the first row.

I stop at the end of the aisle because...because I'm not even sure I should be there. “Hi,” I say.

Seth looks up. “You spending all your time in here now?” he says.

“I was looking for you.”

He shrugs. “Well, you found me. Guess I didn't hide very well.”

“Is that what you're doing?” I ask. “Hiding?”

“I'm just sitting, that's all. I like it in here. It's quiet.” Back and forth. Back and forth. His hands never stop moving, never stop tossing whatever that thing in his hand is back and forth. I think maybe I could get hypnotized if I keep watching it.

There's something at the back of my throat that I can't seem to get down no matter how many times I swallow. “You weren't in math class,” I say.

“No, I wasn't,” Seth says.

He doesn't look right. He doesn't sound right. I feel a finger of fear crawl up my back. “You made the track team,” I say. I try to make my voice happy as though maybe somehow Seth will catch the feeling.

He snatches the whatever-it-is he's been throwing right out of the air. “Whoopee,” he says in a flat, bored voice. “Wow.” He looks over at me for a second and then looks away.

“Yeah, whoopee,” I say, anger sharpening my words. “Because you worked hard to make the team. You were out running all the time when it was, like, one hundred below. And you did it. And now you don't care?” I let out a breath. “I don't get it. What's wrong with you?”

Seth laughs. It isn't funny. The sound echoes around the auditorium, harsh and mean. “What's wrong with me? Me!” He slaps his chest with one hand. “Don't you get it, D'Arcy? I'm me. That's all I can ever be. That's what's wrong.”

My legs are wobbling. I feel behind me and grab on to the arm of a chair. “I don't understand,” I say.

He just stares. Not at me, at something out in the dark somewhere—something only he sees. The silence winds around us. “Go away,” he says finally.

The metal edge of the armrest is cutting into my hand, but if I let go I think I might fall. “Maybe if you tell me what's—”

“Go away.”

“I just...I just want to help.” It's hard to breathe. The air has changed all of a sudden.

Seth shifts his eyes to me. “Get the fuck out of my face,” he spits.

I take a step back, as though the words pushed me. Tears fill my eyes. I feel my way back a row and then another row. Then I turn away, arms tight against my chest, and I go.

What am I doing here? I think I'm stuck in some kind of hiccup in time. Brendan is squeezed in next to me on the sofa again. Any second he's going to offer me a drink of his beer. Again. The place reeks of smoke and it's too hot. Again. Jaron's wearing that stupid cowboy hat he always wears when they win a game. What does a cowboy hat have to do with basketball?

Don't Jaron's parents ever notice that their cottage smells like an ashtray? Don't they ever come out here?

I hate these parties.

I start to stand up. Brendan grabs my arm. “Hey, where are you going?”

“I'm just going to the washroom,” I say, pushing his hand away.

“Hurry back,” he says.

The only bathroom at Jaron's parents' cottage is off the kitchen. And somebody's already in it. I lean on the wall by the door, waiting. There are beer bottles all over the place and pizza boxes and empty chip bags. Whoever's in the bathroom has left their drink on the table. I pick up the paper cup and sniff what's inside. Lemonade?

I try a sip. It's not lemonade. It's some other kind of cooler. I take another couple of quick sips and put the cup back on the table before someone comes in and catches me with it. I've ragged on Brendan about his drinking a bunch of times. How would I explain this?

The table's dirty. This place is a hole. How can Jaron's
parents not know what's going on? What do the guys do? Come out here every Saturday and clean?

I get an image of Jaron and Brendan and the rest of those guys in aprons and hairnets, washing the counters and scrubbing the floors. Right.

“Hi, D'Arcy.” Becca Jensen squeezes her way around the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. She lifts the lids of a couple of the pizza boxes, I'm guessing she's looking for something to eat that hasn't been here since last Friday night.

“Hi,” I say, but she isn't paying any attention. She's checking out the room, and I can't tell if she's looking for food or for someone to hook up with.

Whoever's in the bathroom is taking forever.

Ric and Dylan come in from the deck. They're laughing about something. “Okay, okay,” Ric says. “My turn.” He stops, swallows and lets out a long loud burp.

“Christ! How do you do that?” Dylan asks, shaking his head and fanning in front of his face. “That was foul.”

Ric pats his stomach and smirks. “Talent, my man. Talent.” He notices me then. “Hey, D'Arcy. Where's Brendan?”

“Living room.” I point.

Ric drops on the corner of the table and pulls one of the open pizza boxes over. He grabs a slice, pinches it in half and crams most of it in his mouth. “Your brother gonna run track?” he says to Dylan, talking and chewing at the same time.

I lean over and bang on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute,” a voice calls.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, “it's pretty much the same team as last year. Except, do you remember that Thomas guy who used to run for St. Vincent's?”

A rushing sound fills my ears, like water is running somewhere close by.

“Yeah,” Ric says. There's a string of cheese dangling off his bottom lip. “That's the guy who offed himself, right? About this time last year?” He snaps the pizza crust in half and shoves it in his mouth.

“Right. Well, his brother made our team. Pity vote. Matt says he can't even run. He's some kind of math geek.”

I pound on the door again and this time it opens. “Jeez, D'Arcy, what're you in such a rush about?” Lindsey Waters asks. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek braid and her makeup looks perfect. Was that what she was doing in there?

I mumble, “Excuse me,” move past her and push the door shut with my shoulder. The rushing sound fills my head. I stand in the middle of the tiny bathroom with one hand on the wall and the other on the rim of the sink and wonder if I'm going to pass out.

Seth's brother killed himself? Was that why—I lower myself to the edge of the old bathtub. Did Seth know about my dad?

Suddenly the room is too hot and too small. I open the door and work my way back to Brendan. He's talking to Ric, his hands flying all over the place.

“Brendan, I need to go,” I say.

“We just got here,” he says, not even turning to look at me.

“I feel sick.”

He looks at me then, and I guess I look bad because he stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You didn't eat that pizza did you?”

I shake my head and almost fall over. Brendan grabs me. “Okay, we're gone,” he says.

I let him walk me to the car and do my seatbelt. Mostly I try not to think, because right now I don't know what to think. Brendan offers to come in with me when we get home, but he doesn't push it when I say no. Sick people scare him.

My mother isn't home. I don't know where she is, but I'm just as glad she isn't here. I throw my smoky clothes in the laundry hamper and get in the shower to wash the smell out of my hair. I keep all my thoughts about Seth pushed down as the water beats on my head. After, I pull on a sweatshirt and pajama pants and curl up in the rocking chair. Finally I let myself think about what Ric and Dylan said.

Seth had a brother who killed himself? Did he know about my father? How could he know? Did everyone know? Was he just being friends because he figured we were some kind of freak brigade? Why didn't he tell me? Is it all just a coincidence? It can't be. But why didn't he tell me?

Why?

“What's this about, anyway?” someone behind me asks as we file into the auditorium. “Who cares,” says Kevin Mitchell from one row up. “Gets me out of English class.”