What They Always Tell Us (8 page)

“Yeah, I guess so. Mom says just ignore him. She said, ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you.’”

“Yeah, that’s what they always tell us.”

“But it’s not really true, is it?”

“Not really. Lots of things they tell us aren’t true. A lot of what they tell us is garbage.”

“Then why do they tell us stuff like that?”

Alex says, “I don’t know.” Maybe he could think of a few reasons, but he still feels wrapped in his little bubble of happiness, and none of the ugly things can get to him now. He feels happy and light, as if at any moment the cool breeze of this November night will lift him high into the air.

James

I
t is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving holiday, and James doesn’t see much point in practicing, but that’s what Coach Whitley makes them do for the last school hour before the four-day reprieve. Coach is not usually such a hard-ass, but he’s in a grumpy mood for some reason and seems to be taking it out on the team. The girls’ team members got to sneak home early, because their coach, Ms. Bettany, is cool. They all honked their horns as they drove off, rubbing it in.

“Well, they’re not defending regional tennis champs,” Coach Whitley says, before pairing the boys up in six groups of two. Like being regional tennis champs in this region is some big achievement.

James is paired with Tyler today. Tyler plays the number five position in singles, versus James’s number three. Ron Hogue and George Thirkell, both seniors like James, play numbers one and two, and they are (and always have been, since freshman year) doubles partners. Rudy Skyler, a sophomore prodigy, plays number four, and Dewayne Jackson, the fourth senior, rounds out the varsity singles team at number six. Lurking just out of varsity spots are two juniors, Mac Freeman and Paul Hansford, and then the rest of the team is sophomores and freshmen—guys whose varsity days lie ahead of them. It’s a solid team, and for the most part everyone likes each other.

Tyler and James take the last court on the first row—as far away from Coach Whitley as possible.

“What an asshole,” Tyler says, bouncing a ball with his racquet as he waits while James does some perfunctory stretches.

“Seriously. We should be on our way home.”

But, truth be told, what would James do at home besides take a nap or watch TV or avoid writing his advanced placement English paper? His mom would be home from work early, cooking her sweet potatoes and green bean casserole and baking cheese biscuits. This year, like every year, they are celebrating Thanksgiving with the Ashfords and the Watsons, family friends. (Their relatives—aunts, uncles, cousins, and their two living grandparents—live all over the place, so large family holiday gatherings have mostly stopped because geography makes it a pain in the ass for everyone.) Tomorrow, they’ll walk down the street to the Watsons’ house—it is their turn to host. It is a tradition, this trifamily celebration, dating back to when all the kids were in elementary or middle school. Now they are all in high school or college, respectively: Clare Ashford, a fellow senior and James’s onetime girlfriend; Steven and Michelle Watson, freshman and junior at college; and he and Alex. They are all grown up but still get stuck at the kids’ table.

“You got big plans?” Tyler shouts, feeding him a ball, beginning their endless warm-up rally.

“Nah, just eating and writing a damn paper. Watching the Bama game.” Alabama is playing Auburn on Saturday, always a huge deal. James gets into it, but not insanely into it, like the entire fucking city. If Alabama loses, some people in town and all over the state—grown adults—will be sent into a long period of depression and resentment. Ridiculous.

“We should hang out,” Tyler says.

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” James says, more as a reflex. They’ve never really hung out much before, outside of the tennis gang. Of course, he used to see Tyler all the time, when Tyler was best friends with Alex, before everything changed.

“My folks are heading to my grandparents’ place in Savannah on Friday, and they’re taking my little sister, so I’ll be home alone,” Tyler says.

“Cool.”

“I’m gonna have a small party after the game is over. Nothing big. I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” he says. But it all feels weird, wrong even. Wouldn’t it be, well, disloyal to hang out with Tyler, a guy who has openly shunned his brother? Not that James blamed him at the time—and, besides, Alex didn’t act much like he even wanted friends anymore, after the incident. Still, this promised invitation from Tyler makes him feel squeamish. Obviously, Alex isn’t invited.

They rally back and forth, then play a few practice games, which James takes handily. Tyler is a big hitter, with a big serve, but so far he lacks patience and consistency. All James has to do is keep the ball in play. The weather is cool, so he barely builds up a sweat.

Finally, Coach Whitley blows his whistle, calling them in for the day.

“Okay, boys, have a good holiday. I’ll see you Monday.”

James says his good-byes, and he overhears Tyler talking up his party to Ron and George. This makes him less squeamish—if he’s mostly inviting the team, it will remain a tennis-only sort of thing. And excluding Alex would be natural.

He piles his racquets and book bag into the backseat of his Jeep. Before taking off, he glances toward the front of the school. Most students with cars leave through the back parking lot. But during sixth period the tennis team gets to park in the side lot, right by the tennis courts. Today he sees Alice out in front of the school, clutching a few books against her chest. She’s wearing tight jeans, as usual, and a peach-colored sweater, no jacket. He wonders why she is there—she has a car, after all, a dark blue Taurus. Then he sees a metallic gray Camaro pull up to the curb in front of her. She leans over and looks through the passenger window. He can’t really make out her face from this far away, but he can tell she is probably smiling, flirting. Then she gets in and the driver zooms off. He gets into his car, feeling a mixture of jealousy and flat-out relief.

On the way home, he stops at Buddy’s, the local convenience store, for a Gatorade and maybe a candy bar. Inside, in the candy aisle, he sees the redheaded kid, Henry, perusing packets of gum, a rainbow of choices.

James stares at the candy bars, trying to decide which one to get. He likes the crunchiness of Twix, the flaky buttery richness of Butterfinger. Hell, there aren’t many candy bars he doesn’t like. Except the ones with coconut in them. He decides on a Twix and then turns and sees Henry pick up a packet of Bubble Yum and shove it in the pocket of his baggy pants, then jam another one in the other pocket. Then Henry looks over at him. “Oh, hey,” Henry says, acting as if he has done nothing wrong. “You’re Alex’s brother, right?”

“Yep.”

In a lower voice, he says, “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

“Nah. I did that kinda stuff when I was your age.”

“You did?” The kid stares at him with an odd intensity that makes him nervous.

“A few times.” James stares back at the candy bar selection. Really, he remembers, it happened only once, at Food World while in the checkout line, and mainly he did it because he was mad at his mother.

“I’m not a thief, I promise. I just don’t have any money.”

James looks back at him. “I can buy those for you if you want.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I can pay you back. Once Mom gives me my allowance. She gets her check next week.”

“It’s only two packs of gum,” James says, wondering what kind of check the mother gets. Surely not welfare, not in their neighborhood. But he
has
noticed that she doesn’t really work, either. Henry and his mother are weirdos, like puzzle pieces that don’t fit.

Henry pulls the gum from his pockets and hands it over and follows James while he chooses a bottle of orange Gatorade, then hovers to the side as James pays up front. The cashier is a sweet-faced middle-aged man, always friendly and chatty, like he’s trying to be the actual buddy of the store’s name. Would he have caught Henry? And if so, what would have happened? Do people call the cops on a little kid?

Outside, James hands the gum to Henry.

“Thanks.”

“You need a ride home?”

“Okay,” he says.

In the car, they are both quiet until James pulls into the entrance of their neighborhood. Henry says, “You’re nice, just like Alex.”

“Thanks, I guess.” James knows he
can
be nice, but it’s never a quality he’d use to describe himself. Sometimes he feels downright mean.

“I think it would be great to have a brother.”

“It’s okay.” He wants to say that it must be nice to be an only child, but he’s not sure if he means it.

“All I have is Mom.”

James hesitates, then asks, “Where’s your father?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do.”

“Well, I guess so. But Mom always says I don’t. And she doesn’t like it when I ask about it. So I don’t. That’s what I told Alex. I guess it makes Mom sound bad. But she’s not, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

James shakes his head. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“I mean, I’m not dumb,” he says. “I know I have to have a father. But he’s not around for some reason.”

James pulls into the driveway, happy to be home so this conversation can end. He thinks Henry is probably one of those usually quiet kids who, once he has someone to talk to, can never shut up.

“Well, thanks for the gum and stuff. Happy Thanksgiving,” Henry says, jumping out of the passenger seat and slamming the door. James watches in the rearview mirror as he dashes across the street, his bright red head bobbing up and down till he disappears inside the house.

“Nothing from Duke,” his mother says before he can even ask. She is kneading dough for biscuits, and the kitchen smells of roasting vegetables.

James has applied for early admission at Duke, so he should hear something soon. Each day he checks the mailbox, half hoping for and half dreading an envelope. Some of his classmates are still taking the SAT, filling out applications, but his work is mostly done. He took the SAT once, was pleased with his score—1480—and has been able to relax. Well, not relax. He still has to hear from Duke. He has about six backup universities, and those applications have been sent in as well. He’s on top of things. He didn’t apply to the University of Alabama, where he figures most of his classmates will end up. He can’t imagine wanting to stay in Tuscaloosa, like Preston and Greer. Their parents could afford to send them to most places, even though their grades aren’t terrific. But it’s like they think Bama is the greatest and only worthy college on earth. Nathen, meanwhile, is deciding between a few schools up north. Greer has taken to calling them both Yankees, even though North Carolina is part of the South.

“Oh, well,” James says. “Maybe next week.”

“Hope so,” she says. She’s told him a million times that early admission is great, but even if they say no, it doesn’t mean he won’t eventually get in. “You have to be patient,” she always tells him.

“Dinner’s just going to be sandwiches tonight, okay?” she says.

“Fine with me.” He heads upstairs to his room with his Twix and Gatorade. He passes by Alex’s room, sees that he’s not there, and then wonders where he is. Probably running with Nathen again. Or staying after school, practicing. James is happy about this new thing—running cross-country—in Alex’s life.

He knows he should do some homework or start work on his paper. But he doesn’t feel like doing anything right now. He just lies on his bed and tries to doze off. His eyes start to feel heavy, but he never falls into a nap. Instead, he wonders who Alice was with. And why he even fucking cares.

The next day is Thanksgiving, and that morning his mother does some last-minute baking while his father reads a book in front of the TV. The Macy’s parade is on. James sits with his cereal and watches the gigantic, inflated cartoon characters glide down the New York streets as a pop singer he hates belts out some holiday tune on top of a float. Mom always used to talk about how she wanted to go up to New York for Thanksgiving one year, but they always stay here, always dining with the Watsons and the Ashfords. Which is fine with James. He’s not so sure about New York.

Alex, of course, is out running. “I have to get in a jog before we eat,” he said in defense of dashing off on this fairly chilly November morning. James feels lazy in comparison, but it’s a holiday, for Christ’s sake, you’re
supposed
to be lazy.

“I like Nathen,” his father says, without any logical lead-up. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, he is.” The pop singer finally finishes her damn song, and everyone claps as if it’s the best performance ever.

“Alex is really taking this jogging seriously. And I think it’s all Nathen’s doing. Well, a lot of it. It’s good for him.”

James, his father, and his mother have rarely chatted about the incident. Afterward, of course, they grilled him about whether he knew Alex was depressed and stuff like that.
No more than anyone else,
he’d wanted to say, but hadn’t. They all knew Alex had started acting like a loner, shutting himself in his room. But it’s not like he had started wearing all black or cutting himself or anything like that.

Since those initial weeks, the subject has been the elephant in the room, looming large but not spoken of. He sometimes hears his parents whispering behind their bedroom door, or talking in low voices, but they leave him out of it. Besides, Alex is seeing that shrink each Wednesday.

“Alex could use a friend,” his father says.

James hasn’t really thought about Nathen as Alex’s friend before this. Nathen is
his
friend. Nathen is a senior, not a junior like Alex. And besides the running, what do they have in common?