Stand-Off

by Andrew Smith

  I walked beside Nico right up to the water’s edge, and we both pulled our pant legs up when the first frothy wave spilled over our feet. Then we walked back to the base of a sea cliff and sat down in the sand. We stared out at the waves and the rocks that stuck up above the sea along the cape.

  It was an incredible place.

  Nico said, “I thought you’d want to see this spot.”

  “It’s nice,” I said, shivering. That water stung like needles.

  “Well, the place where we stood in the water—after Joey died, we came here. We put his ashes right in that spot and we sat here and watched the tide come in and take him away. I thought you . . . I thought Joey would want me to let you know.”

  Oh.

  My stomach knotted up.

  I pulled my knees into my chest and closed my eyes, imagining what that must have been like for Nico to see his brother—for his parents to watch their boy—disappearing away from them like that, into the ocean.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “None of this was ever fair. Thank you for bringing me here, Nico.”

  “I come here a lot. If you walk down the beach that way a couple miles or so, you’ll get to my house,” Nico said.

  I looked south, in the direction Nico pointed. This place was huge and wild and quiet. It was a perfect place to let Joey go.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Go for it.”

  “Well, maybe two things.”

  “Ask whatever you want,” Nico said.

  “Do you really not like me? Because, I mean, I think we should be friends, Nico. I think we need that.”

  Nico shook his head. “It’s not a matter of liking you or not. You’re a good guy, Ryan Dean. It’s just . . . I don’t know.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know either,” I said. “Because I thought what you did back there to the Cheese Brothers was fucking awesome. And having a beer together last night, and the stuff we talked about. Friends do that kind of shit together.”

  “Joey wants me to tell you to stop fucking cussing, Ryan Dean,” Nico said.

  “Yeah. I kind of heard him saying that too. But the other thing—you know, I went back inside O-Hall by myself. It was creepier than anything, and I don’t think I’ll ever do that again. But I found a list of things Joey wanted to do. Did you know Joey made lists, like, every day, of things he had to do?”

  “Yeah. He always did that.”

  “And the last thing on his list said, in capital letters, ‘TELL RYAN DEAN.’ And I don’t know what it means, or if Joey ever did tell me what he wanted to tell me. And that’s been messing with my head. But I never had the guts to ask you about it, so I figured that since we’re not going to be friends and everything that I’d just ask you if you knew what it meant before I leave.”

  Nico looked at me like he couldn’t understand what I was saying. Then he faced the water again and was quiet for a painfully long time before he said, “I know what Joey wanted to tell you. He talked to me about it every time he’d come home. It was that he was totally in love with you, Ryan Dean. And he was too afraid to tell you.”

  No.

  What?

  I felt like I’d been punched in the gut and had my eyes gouged out with a broken bottle. Of course Joey loved me. I loved Joey too. We were best friends. But the way Nico said it meant something else entirely.

  “No way, dude. Joey had a boyfriend. We were best friends. Nothing could ever change that.”

  “No, bro. Joey did not have a boyfriend. It was kind of funny how much he was in love with you. And he was so messed up about it because he always told me how superstraight you are, and how much he liked Annie, too, so he didn’t want to do anything that would make you not be his friend.”

  I put my face down in my knees again. Shit. I actually felt something leaking from my eyelids. I also felt kind of rugged because Joey and Nico both thought I was “superstraight.”

  Nico went on, “I kept teasing him about it, telling him how could a fly half in rugby be afraid of anything?”

  “I’m afraid of a lot of things,” I said. “But I kind of wished Joey would have told me.”

  “I wish he would have done that too,” Nico said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  I THINK THE COSENTINOS MUST have been genetically predisposed to scolding Ryan Dean Wests about doing the right thing.

  Ugh.

  Because in the span of about fifteen minutes after arriving home with Nico, these were the lists of violations I had committed that now needed to be made right:

  1. Laundry. Yes, laundry. Mr. and Mrs. Cosentino insisted that Nico wash and dry the hoodie I loaned him before letting me go back to school.

  2. Dinner. They also said that I needed to stay for dinner, which was pretty awkward because I knew Nico didn’t like me.

  3. THE BIG ONE: driving without a license. If Mr. and Mrs. Cosentino were as volatile as Nico with a broken bottle, they might have threatened to gouge my eyes out over this matter, which led to Terms of Correction item number four.

  4. Sleepover. I had to give up Seanie’s key fob (and just when I was getting used to not swerving so much) and spend the night, so that Mr. Cosentino could drive Seanie’s car back to Pine Mountain in the morning while Mrs. Cosentino followed in the family minivan, which turned out not to be rented (and I silently prayed that I could ride in Seanie’s car so that nobody I knew would ever see me in a minivan).

  5. Buttermilk. Yes, buttermilk. By dinnertime, I was so terrified of Mr. and Mrs. Cosentino that when they poured me a glass of buttermilk (without asking, I might add—who ever gives someone a glass of buttermilk without asking, unless it was some form of punishment?) at dinner, I felt compelled by shame to drink it. I had never had buttermilk before, but if you blindfolded me and told me I was participating in a taste test of milk with piss in it, that’s what buttermilk tastes like.

  Nico watched me drink it with an amused look on his face. And that fucker had ice water. He knew what was going on. In the unspoken, wordless telepathy of teenage boys (who are all naturally and deeply disgusted by buttermilk) we had quite a cuss-out session over that goddamned buttermilk.

  I nearly cried with joy when I finished the glass. And then I barfed a little in the back of my throat when Mr. Cosentino asked me if I wanted some more.

  After dinner, Nico showed me the guest room where I’d spend the night. It was a far cry from Unit 113, but I actually missed being home, freezing my ass off with the Abernathy. The room was five times the size of my dorm room at Pine Mountain, with its own bathroom—a real bathroom too, not a closet with a shower in it—and a sliding door onto a balcony deck that looked out on the beach.

  “Do you think I could borrow your phone, so I can call Seanie and let him know everything’s okay and I’ll be back tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Seanie has a phone at Pine Mountain? Has that place gone entirely to hell?”

  “No. The ninja dude. Spotted John. He and Seanie . . . well, he’ll let Seanie know.”

  Nico passed his phone to me, and I scrolled through his recent calls until I found Spotted John’s number. And Nico asked if I wanted him to leave me alone, but I told him no, that he could stay. Besides, I said, I needed him to show me how to work the TV.

  I called Spotted John.

  SPOTTED JOHN: Hello?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Hey, John. It’s me, Ryan Dean West. Is Seanie around?

  I’ll admit, when I glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly ten o’clock at night, I felt embarrassed and guilty for asking that.

  SPOTTED JOHN: What’s wrong? Did you fuck up his car? (Rustling noises and the sound of Seanie saying something I couldn’t understand.)

  RYAN DEAN WEST: No, dude, I just wanted to talk to Seanie for a minute.

  SPOTTED JOHN: Okay, bud. Hang on.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Ryan Dean? Did you fuck my car up?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: No, dude. Seriously. I just wanted to tell you the Cosentinos are making me spend the night he
re, then Mr. Cosentino is going to drive your car back to PM in the morning.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Oh. Okay, Ryan Dean. They’re not letting you drive back?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Nah, man. They’re all responsible and stuff.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Oh, man. Don’t you hate that?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: I don’t know. It’s all okay. But they made me drink buttermilk. (Nico falls back on the bed, laughing at me.)

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Gross. Ryan Dean, is everything okay? You sound kind of bummed.

  RYAN DEAN WEST: About the buttermilk? No. Everything’s all right. And how about you and John?

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Really good, man. Thanks.

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Oh. Hey. Would you do me a favor?

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Sure. What do you want?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Would you check in on Snack-Pack before you go to bed. Shit! No. I mean, uh . . . before you go to sleep. When you sleep. Um. And let him know I’m okay and I’ll see him tomorrow?

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: Dude. You are soooo Ryan Dean.

  RYAN DEAN WEST: I know. Sorry.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: I’ll go down and see the kid and tell him.

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Thanks, Seanie. And, Seanie?

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: What?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: I just want you to know, you’re my friend, and I love you, dude.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: That’s a weird thing to say, Ryan Dean. Why are you telling me that?

  RYAN DEAN WEST: I don’t know. You never know when you might regret not telling that to someone.

  SEANIE FLAHERTY: I guess you’re right. No regrets. I love you too, man. But you better not have fucked up my car.

  RYAN DEAN WEST: Good night. And don’t forget to tell Sam.

  And when I handed Nico his phone, he said, “You’ve got plenty of good friends, Ryan Dean.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you want to play some video games or something?” Nico asked.

  “To be honest, I’m really sleepy. There must have been something in the buttermilk besides piss and barf. And I suck at video games, besides.”

  “Okay, bro. Well, my room is the next one over. I mean, if something happens, like, you know . . . if you get scared or shit. You know, I know how it is, and I’m just right there.”

  “Hey, thanks, Nico. I’ll be okay. But thanks for showing me where Joey is.”

  “He’s not there anymore.”

  “Yeah he is. I could tell.”

  “Okay. You’re welcome, then.”

  I said, “You got anything I can borrow to go for a run in the morning? I feel weird all day if I don’t get a run in in the morning, and the beach would be nice.”

  Nico nodded. “Sure. I got extra running stuff. Maybe I’ll tag along.”

  “If you want to.”

  After Nico said good night and left, I lay in a bed that was actually big enough that my feet didn’t overhang the end. I watched a television program about poaching flounder filets in milk and banana leaves.

  Goddamn that Sam Abernathy.

  What the fuck had happened to me?

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  NICO AND I RAN UP the beach on the hard-packed sand left behind by a very low tide.

  We didn’t say much at all, but that was fine with me because whenever I ran I had enough voices arguing with each other in my head. It’s probably why I needed running so much: It was really the only time when I could just forget about everything else and let things sort themselves out in my mind.

  And I was sure Nico knew that I intended to go back to the place he’d taken me the day before, just so I could dip my feet into the icy water at that one exact spot a final time before I’d leave and never come back.

  But Nico was wrong, or maybe he was just being a jerk or didn’t want to admit it, but there was no doubt that I could feel Joey there. Nico knew it too; it was why he came there all the time, like he told me.

  The run was windy and long and brutal; and I loved it.

  When we got back, the house smelled like bacon and maple syrup. I hoped to God the Cosentinos had run out of buttermilk, though. I thanked Nico for loaning me some shoes and running clothes, and when I asked if he thought I should stay and do laundry in exchange, he told me not to be an ass, but that I did smell pretty bad, so maybe I should consider taking a shower before having breakfast with his family.

  They were nice people, and as I sat at their table eating with them I felt kind of sad about not seeing the Cosentinos again.

  Mrs. Cosentino smiled and looked at us and said, “We never asked about the rugby game. How was it?”

  I glanced at Nico to see whether or not he was going to answer. Boy telepathy told me no.

  So I said, “It was good. We won. Barely.”

  “Ryan Dean scored a bitchin’ drop goal,” Nico added.

  I felt myself turning red.

  Mr. Cosentino said, “I love seeing a drop goal. Freaks the shit out of the other team, doesn’t it?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  Mrs. Cosentino said, “Did you have fun up there at Pine Mountain with Ryan Dean?”

  I answered before the silence could get too awkward. I knew Nico wasn’t going to say anything. Well, I thought he wouldn’t, at least. “We had a lot of fun together,” I said.

  And Nico said, “There are some good guys who go to school there.”

  He put his fork and knife down on his plate and took a drink of orange juice (thank God), then Nico said, “Mom, Dad, I think I want to go to school at Pine Mountain. I talked to Coach McAuliffe about it yesterday. He needs a winger, so I thought I should give it a try. Do you think you could call Headmaster Lavoie and tell him I’d like to start on Monday?”

  Mrs. Cosentino coughed a little bit.

  Mr. Cosentino looked as happy as a dude who was just told he’d never have to be seen driving in a minivan again.

  And I was stunned.

  NICO COSENTINO ACTUALLY PRONOUNCED THAT ASSHOLE’S NAME.

  Luh. Voy.

  Duh!

  I felt the rush of a truly religious epiphany. I wanted to stand up and sing!

  But wait. What the fuck did he actually just tell his parents?

  Mrs. Cosentino said, “What?”

  And Mr. Cosentino added, “I am so happy about this, son. What made you change your mind?”

  Nico stared at the leftover scraps of pancake on his plate and, without looking at any of us, shrugged and said, “A friend of mine goes there. I was thinking I’d like to play rugby with him this season. You know, before he graduates and goes away to college.”

  I was stunned. I wanted to jump up and high-five Nico so hard, and hug him and swing him around and cry, but I completely maintained my composure, kicked my feet beneath my chair, did a quick little excited-Sam-Abernathy TSE, and just said, “Lavoie. Lavoie. Lavoie.”

  But I did worry that saying his name three times aloud might have accidentally summoned Beelzebub.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  SO WE WENT BACK TO Pine Mountain Academy.

  Nico’s stuff was still packed up in tidy plastic totes for the start of school—his Pine Mountain uniforms, rugby equipment, school stuff, a small television, coffee maker, and sets of sheets that weren’t designed for a third grader. We loaded it all up in the minivan (gross), and Mrs. Cosentino followed behind us while Nico’s dad (who, remarkably, never swerved even one time) drove Seanie’s Land Rover.

  For some reason, the drive back didn’t take nearly as long as the drive out to Pacific City had taken us the day before, but then again, we didn’t stop to nearly get murdered at Jack Boob’s cheese stand that day. I did see Nico looking at the Boob cheese shed as we passed it, though. We both wanted to see if those Connelly boys had come back to work.

  They hadn’t.

  But on the ride back, I couldn’t help but feel a kind of lingering smile on my face. Something was fixing itself inside me finally, and although I knew I’d still have to do some work with Mrs. Dvorak, Annie, and even the Abernathy
to make that dark guy Nate disappear forever, I was finally beginning to believe I would be able to do it.

  So when we got back to Pine Mountain, the Cosentinos took Nico in to see Headmaster Dude-whose-name-I-now-knew-how-to-pronounce-which-made-me-feel-like-I-was-a-member-of-the-fucking-Illuminati. Mr. Cosentino obviously had plenty of clout with Pine Mountain’s headmaster, because normally such things as enrollments and housing assignments would never be attended to on Saturdays.

  And while they were in the office, I took Seanie’s key fob and ran back to the boys’ dorm. There were things I needed to do.

  First stop: Unit 113, and not just because I needed to pee really bad.

  When I opened the door, Sam Abernathy was sitting at his desk in his little soccer pajamas (even though it was afternoon), wearing eyeglasses and working on his Calculus homework while the television played a program about making persimmon and raw pistachio salad.

  “Hi, Ryan Dean!” he gurgled.

  I held up my hand in a stop-in-the-name-of-the-law gesture. “Wait. I really need to pee. Oh my God. You wear glasses?”

  Something about seeing the Abernathy in his jammies with glasses on made me want to tuck him in and sing him a lullaby, but I desperately needed to pee first.

  And the Abernathy turned all kinds of red and swiped the eyeglasses away from his little face.

  “I’m supposed to wear my glasses when I read, but I hate them. They’re dorky.”

  Wait. The Abernathy has dork awareness?

  Who knew?

  “Don’t talk to me. I’m about to pee my pants.”

  I squeezed myself and my bladder into our toilet coffin. When I came out, the Abernathy had hidden his glasses.

  “Stand up,” I said.

  “Why?” the Abernathy asked.

  “I want to do something.”

  “What?”

  “I want to give you a hug,” I said.

  “Did you wash your hands?”

  Shit.

  “Hang on.”

  I went back into the toilet coffin and washed up.