What They Always Tell Us (11 page)

“Hi, Henry,” James finally says, softly, almost as if he’s talking to the ground.

Alex

T
his second weekend in December, on a Saturday morning, the weather is freezing. There’s hardly ever a chance of snow this far south, and there is no precipitation expected, but still, the air is so cold it makes Alex’s breath feel pinched. It is not good running weather.

“Should we cancel our run?” Alex asks when Nathen calls him on the phone that morning.

“Well, it
is
cold as balls out. But I was thinking we could go to the university rec center. My folks are members, and I can bring guests if I want, for just a few bucks. They have this indoor running track. That way we could run and not freeze our asses off.”

“Oh, wow. Sounds cool.”

“Yeah, each lap around is about an eighth of a mile. It can get repetitive, but it sure beats the treadmill.”

“Sounds like a plan, then,” Alex says.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

“Sounds good.” Alex hangs up and puts on his gym clothes—shorts and a T-shirt, and, over that, his sweats. He also packs his gym bag, putting in a change of clothes. Downstairs he grabs a strawberry-filled breakfast bar, a banana, and a glass of orange juice. Dad is reading a section of the paper at the breakfast table. Alex takes a seat across from him.

“Hey there,” he says, looking up from the paper and smiling. “How’s the marathon man?”

“Doing good,” he says. “Where’s Mom?”

“At the supermarket. You’re up and at ’em, huh?” he asks, eyeing his attire.

James, Alex figures, is still asleep. “I’m going to go running with Nathen in a little bit.”

“In this weather?” he asks, looking back down at the paper.

“We’re going to the rec. His parents belong.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s smart.”

“Yeah. Sure beats running outside.”

He folds the paper to the side. “I’m really proud of you.”

Oh, here we go again,
Alex thinks. “Thanks,” he says. It’s like, ever since the incident, Alex is a baby, and every step he takes—from doing well on a test to eating everything on his plate—is celebrated like it’s some big achievement. Mom does it, too.

Dad stares at him, like he is pondering something. “We’re
all
proud. Not just because of the cross-country. Your mom and I can tell you’ve really turned a corner.”

“I guess,” Alex says.

“It’s true. I know life is tough sometimes. Some days it seems pretty awful. I remember when I was your age. I’d get in bad moods. Depressed, even. Felt like the whole world was against me.”

Alex nods, trying not to roll his eyes. He knows his dad was popular as a kid. Alex has even seen one of his high school yearbooks, where he was named Most Handsome and Most Likely to Succeed. But Alex listens, nods, because he knows that his dad is trying to make him feel better.

“You just have to take it one day at a time,” Dad says, sounding just like Dr. Richardson during their therapy sessions.

“I know.”

“Good.” Dad nods and looks at Alex with a solemn but warm expression. “James says that Nathen says you’re a very good runner.”

“He does?”

“Yep, he sure does,” he says before picking up another section of the paper.

Alex gulps down his food and drains his juice and heads back up to his room to grab his stuff. He wonders what else Nathen has said to James. Do they talk about him much to each other? Lately, James has made weird comments about him and Nathen. Like, the other day, he’d said, “Going running
again
? You guys sure run a lot together.” He sounded like he was jealous or something, which is ridiculous. Alex and Nathen are friends now, for sure. But it’s a different type of friendship. Or it feels like it is. It’s not like he and Nathen are hanging out drinking beers, or talking about girls, or even going to parties together. Nathen still does that stuff with James and his other friends. So what’s the problem? Besides, Alex knows that James went to a party at Tyler’s house over Thanksgiving—he overheard him telling Mom; Alex may be quiet, but he can still hear things. He didn’t really care that James went, but it bothered him that he thought he needed to keep it a secret from him.

He hears a car horn, so Alex dashes downstairs and out to Nathen’s waiting Jeep, wearing a big navy blue down jacket over his sweats, carrying his duffel.

“Brrrr,” he says after shutting the door. “It’s freezing out there.” Inside the Jeep, the air from the heater washes over him.

“Thank God for the rec, right?” Nathen playfully pats Alex’s thigh, then moves his hand to the gearshift and drives ahead. “You’ll like the rec. It’s pretty cool. Plus, it’s a little too early for most of the college kids to be there. They’re all sleeping off their hangovers.”

“You do anything last night?” Alex asks.

“I studied mostly. Watched some TV. Preston wanted us to come over, but I didn’t feel like it. Pretty lame Friday night.”

“I guess that’s where James went. To Preston’s.” Alex had heard him leave around eight, and he heard him come back at midnight.

“Yeah, he tried to get me to go. I just wasn’t feeling social.”

Alex is glad to hear that Nathen’s Friday was pretty much like his own—quiet and solitary, save for his parents being at home. But Alex mostly stayed in his room—doing homework, listening to the corny radio dedications on 98.3 FM, and watching sappy Christmas movies they were already running on cable. He remembers when every Friday and Saturday was spent with his friends, hanging out, going to movies, whatever. Staying at home was never really an option. Now it’s the only option. But he doesn’t mind. He’s grown to enjoy it, to be honest. No putting on an act, no worrying about saying the right or wrong things. Tyler, in particular, used to bombard him with stinging comments, punctuated always by an empty “Just kidding, Alex.” But, deep down, Alex knew he wasn’t kidding. At home, alone, he is safe from all that.

The rec center is a huge brown brick building set on the edge of the campus, next to a big empty field and an outdoor running track, away from most of the dorms and frat houses and academic halls. The parking lot is mostly empty.

Inside, a male student (who, oddly, doesn’t look that in shape) sitting behind a large counter checks Nathen’s ID badge and charges Alex two dollars for the guest fee. He hands them each two white towels, though Alex has brought his own.

“So, here we are,” Nathen says. “Our new home away from home.” They walk down a long, high-ceilinged hallway, carpeted in crimson, Bama color. To the left is a basketball court, which is encircled above by the indoor track on the second floor. To the right, they pass the main weight room, which is gigantic and full of dumbbells and weight machines, treadmills and stationary bikes, and whose big glass windows overlook the empty field. At the end of the hall, past a few racquetball courts, are the locker rooms.

“Let’s put our shit in here,” Nathen says, opening the heavy door labeled
MEN
. Inside, it smells of sweat and soap and perfumey deodorant spray. The air is moist and warm, stuffy. The room is large, segmented into three dressing chambers, and all the walls are lined with gray plywood lockers, with small benches in front of them. Nathen walks to the farthest chamber and yanks open a locker and shoves his bag inside, then sits and peels off his shoes and sweats. Alex chooses a locker next to his and unpeels his sweats as well. A few older men—thirties, forties, fifties—are lingering about, naked or wearing towels, dressing or undressing. Alex tries not to look, but their nakedness is persistent, a bright naked pink in a field of gray. He finds that the sight of their bodies is not as embarrassing as it is unappealing and ridiculous, with their overly hairy torsos and flabby butts announcing themselves without shame.

Around a corner of the room, out of his view, Alex can hear sinks running and the hiss of the showers.

“So I thought we’d run about five miles? Maybe take it easy a bit?” Nathen says, relacing his shoes.

“Sounds good,” Alex says, though he’d hardly consider five miles taking it easy, especially at the speed Nathen runs.

Upstairs they stretch outside the track entrance. Alex’s legs feel stiff, maybe from the cold, and they almost seem to crack and snap when he bends over. Nathen stretches as well, effortlessly, his brown legs tightly muscled, dusted with black hairs.

“You ready, bud?” Nathen asks. “Let’s do it.”

The track is cushiony and surprisingly roomy, with six lanes. Below, on the basketball court, a few students play a game of two-on-two basketball, and their rubber-soled sneakers squeak insistently. A few female students walk around the track, but he and Nathen are the only runners.

It’s weird running the track, because there’s no new scenery to look at—they just run around and around, like they’re on some skating rink. Alex sweats a lot—he almost misses the cool outside air. After about the tenth lap, he starts to lose count, so he just follows Nathen, an endless loop. Finally, after who knows how many laps, Nathen slows down and starts a cool-down walk around the track.

“How far was that?” Alex asks, catching his breath.

“Five miles, exactly,” he says, smiling. “Next time we’ll go further and faster.”

“Can we come back this week?”

“Maybe. But it might be next weekend before we can come again. This is an insane week at school, with midterms and all.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me.”

“Fucking sucks.”

“But you’re smart. You’ll ace them.” Alex knows that Nathen has applied to schools up east, like NYU and Princeton and Columbia, plus some other smaller liberal arts colleges. His grades are good, almost as good as James’s are, maybe better.

“Are yours gonna be tough?” Nathen asks.

“Yeah. Well, trig will be, and chemistry. I hate math and science.”

“See, that’s what I love. It all makes sense to me.”

“Must be nice.”

“If you need any help with that stuff, let me know.”

“I will,” he says. James is good at math and science, too, but he hasn’t helped since Alex was a freshman and sophomore. Back then he always seemed annoyed to have to do it, and impatient when Alex didn’t always get what he was telling him. Now Alex flounders along by himself, though he’s doing okay—solid Bs in both classes.

“Let’s shower,” Nathen says.

The two of them make their way to the locker room. Alex’s heart should be slowing down after the run, but it doesn’t—it quickens at the thought of being naked in public, and in front of Nathen.

Luckily no one else seems to be in the locker room when they enter. Still, Alex says, “We could just shower at home.”

“Well, we’re here. We might as well do it now. I’m all sweaty and gross,” Nathen says, before yanking his shirt off. Alex tries not to look, but he can’t help taking in quick glances. Nathen’s stomach and chest are smooth and dark, though a shade lighter than his legs and arms. He is muscular, lean and fit from all of the running—his shoulders broad and rounded, his arm muscles long and ropey, the ridges of his stomach muscles barely poking out from under the skin. Nathen grabs a white towel and dries his face and chest. Then he looks over at Alex, who is just fiddling with his bag, stalling. “Don’t be shy,” he says, smiling, like it’s all a big joke.

Alex forces a laugh and says he isn’t shy. It’s not that Alex hates his body, it’s just that it’s not very toned. It’s boring, he thinks. He’s like the underdeveloped version of James, who has big calves and strong forearms and taut biceps and broad shoulders. Plus, Alex has light clumps of brown hair around his nipples, which he thinks look goofy. And his hips are too wide. His butt a little too plump—and so damn white. Ghostly white.

He finally peels off his shirt and tosses it in the locker. By now, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nathen drop his shorts to the ground, step out of them, then wrap a towel around his waist. Alex can’t—he won’t—look, even though he realizes he wants to.

“You coming?” Nathen asks, standing there, the towel barely holding on to his narrow hips.

Quickly, like he’s late for something, Alex drops his damp shorts and underwear and instantly grabs the towel to cover himself. But instead of feeling freaked out, he finds himself smiling, like he knows he is being silly.

The white tile floor is cold and damp. The showers are lined along two walls that face each other, six on each side. Each shower is covered by a crimson curtain that hangs from a rod. Thank God—Alex had almost feared one big open space of shower heads, with no privacy, like the way you always see in movies about football teams and stuff.

Alex chooses his shower and steps in, closing the curtain before removing his towel, which he then hangs on a hook just outside. When he parts the curtain to do this, he sees Nathen choose a shower across from him, then yank his towel off and hang it before even stepping inside. His butt—also paler than the rest of him, a brownish yellow—is small but round.

Alex jerks his head back and pulls the curtain tighter and starts the shower, trying to find the right water temperature. At first it’s freezing, and then too hot, but finally he gets it just right. It feels good, much more forceful than his shower at home.

He lets the water pound him for a while before he realizes he needs to wash his hair and soap his body, using the dispensers on a small shelf inside the shower. The shampoo is purple, the soap green, the conditioner pink. He takes his time. Eventually, he hears Nathen’s shower stop, the musical sound of the curtain being pulled open. He’s tempted to look, but he doesn’t dare. Why does he even want to?