It hits me again what his friends said earlier, about him not having people over. He’ll probably run inside and run right back out. I’m not actually going to his house.
I tell him yes, and on the way back to my car, I text my parents that he’s coming. Then I pepper Neil with more questions about the books. He’s an Excavated expert, recalling details like the name of Riley’s pet gerbil (Megalosaurus), the location of her first dig in book one (a small town just south of Santa Cruz, where her family was vacationing), and what she found there (a Pliocene-era sand dollar). Consider me impressed.
“You’re going to have to give me directions,” I say as I turn the key in the ignition.
“Turn left after the Forty-Fifth Street exit.” He buckles his seat belt. “This is weird, huh? You going to my house, and then the two of us having dinner with your parents?”
I let out a laugh that’s a little more high-pitched than usual. “Yeah. It is.”
“And just so you know, we might be having dinner together, but this isn’t a date,” Neil says, completely straight-faced. “I just don’t want you to get too excited. I mean, your parents are going to be there, so it would be really awkward if you were fawning over me the whole time.”
NEIL MCNAIR’S PERSONAL LIFE: WHAT I KNOW
- He lives somewhere north of Lake Union but south of Whole Foods.
- He has a closet full of suits.
- He’s Jewish.
- He has a sister. Maybe more than one? Maybe a brother, too?
- He had some kind of emergency earlier today.
- um
5:33 p.m.
NEIL UNBUCKLES HIS seat belt. When I don’t budge, he asks, “Are you coming?”
“Oh—I didn’t think—okay,” I say, unable to decide which sentence to finish.
“We’ll be fast,” he assures me. But I don’t ask the question I so desperately want to: Why? Neil McNair wants me in his house, or he’s not even thinking about it, or…?
Before he opens the door, he pauses. “It might—” he starts, and then breaks off. He rakes a hand through his hair, and my fingers itch to smooth the strands back into place. Neil McNair is not Neil McNair if every piece of him isn’t in perfect order. “It might be messy,” he finally settles on, turning the key and letting me into the McLair for the very first time.
Neil’s house is in an older part of Wallingford. The houses on this block are all single-story, yards overgrown with weeds. Neil’s is a bit tidier than the others, but the lawn still looks like it could use an hour with a mower. Inside, it’s clean—and cold. Sparsely decorated, but nothing out of the ordinary. I’m completely mystified by his warning.
“I hope you’re okay with dogs,” Neil says as a golden retriever jumps on me, tail wagging.
“I love them,” I say, scratching the golden behind the ears. My dad’s allergic, but I used to beg for one for Hanukkah every year. “Golden retrievers always look so happy.”
“She seems to be. She’s going blind, but she’s a good old girl,” he says, kneeling down so she can lick his face. “Aren’t you, Lucy?”
“Lucy,” I echo, continuing to pet her. “You’re so beautiful.”
“She’s going to shed all over you.”
“Have you seen my dress today?”
He gets to his feet, and Lucy follows him. He must notice I’m clutching my arms because he says, “We don’t turn the heat on in the summer. Even when our summers are, well, like this.”
“That’s good,” I say quickly. “Smart. To, um, save money and everything.”
My family is comfortably upper-middle-class. There’s some poverty in Seattle, but the neighborhoods surrounding Westview are generally middle- to upper-middle-class, with a few clusters of mega-wealth.
I never realized money was an issue for Neil’s family.
A girl with wild red hair bounds out of a room down the hall. “I thought you weren’t coming home until later.” She looks eleven or twelve, and she’s adorable: high ponytail, a lavender skirt over black leggings, freckles dotted across her face.
“I’m just stopping here for a second,” Neil says. “Don’t worry. I’m not crashing your sleepover.”
“That’s disappointing. We had so much fun giving you a makeover last time,” she says, and he groans. There’s something about the idea of kids giving Neil McNair a makeover that’s too precious for words. She turns to me. “I’m Natalie, and if he’s told you anything about me, it’s a complete lie. Wait, are you Rowan?” she asks, and all of Neil’s exposed skin goes red. “I love your dress.”
“I am,” I say. “Thank you. I like your skirt.”
Neil puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Are you… okay?” he asks in a low voice, as though he doesn’t want me to hear. “About earlier?”
She touches a Band-Aid on her knuckle. “I’m fine.”
Family emergency. Oh God—did someone hurt her?
I shrink back a few steps, suddenly very, very wary of what I’ve walked into.
“If they ever bother you about him again, you swear you’ll tell me? You won’t use your fists?”
“But they’re so effective,” she says, and Neil shakes his head. “Fine, fine. I promise.”
“Neil, baby, is that you?” a voice calls from the kitchen.
Baby? I mouth at him, and if possible, he flushes an even deeper crimson.
“Yeah, Mom,” he says. “I’m just grabbing something.”
Lucy follows us into the small kitchen. Neil’s mom is sitting at the table, huddled over a laptop. Her short hair is a darker auburn than Neil’s, and she’s wearing what I assume are her work clothes: gray slacks, black blazer, sensible shoes.
“I’m Rowan,” I say, and somehow feel the need to explain why I’m here. “I’m helping Neil with a—a project.”
“Rowan!” she says warmly, springing to her feet to shake my hand. “Of course. It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Joelle.”
“Finally?” I echo, glancing at Neil, grinning at him. “Horrified” doesn’t even begin to describe his expression. Oh my God, this is too good. He talks about me to his family. I decide to torture him some more. “It’s great to finally meet you, too! Neil talks about you all the time. It’s so nice when guys aren’t embarrassed to talk about their moms, you know?”
“That’s very sweet. You’ve made these past few years challenging for Neil in the best possible way.” She places a hand on his shoulder. He quietly disintegrates beneath it. “He loves a good challenge. He told us you’re going to Boston for school next year?”
This is all kinds of amazing.
“Emerson, yes. It’s a small liberal arts school in Boston.”
“Are you going to be okay handling Natalie and her friends tonight?” Neil asks, finally joining the conversation. His face is a charming shade of scarlet.
“She’s a breeze. Christopher’s coming over later, anyway.”
“Tell him I’m sorry I missed him.”
I decide to point out the obvious: “You’re all redheads.”
“We’re part of less than two percent of the world’s population with red hair,” Joelle says. “I tell them they’re special when they complain about it.” She bumps Neil’s shoulder. “Baby, don’t forget your manners. You know how to treat a guest.”
The puddle of embarrassment formerly known as Neil McNair mutters, “Uh, do you want anything to drink?”
“I’m good. Do you want to get those books?” I ask, to save him from human combustion. He nods.
“Before you go—did you find out today?” his mom asks. “About valedictorian?”
“Oh”—Neil’s gaze darts to the floor—“yeah. I, um, I got it.”
“I am so proud of you,” she says, drawing him in for a hug.
And all of a sudden, I don’t feel like making fun of him anymore.
His mom releases him, and I hear him murmur a thank-you.
* * *
I follow him down the brown-carpeted hall to his r
oom. Once we’re inside, he shuts the door and leans against it, closing his eyes. It’s clear he needs a moment to decompress, though I don’t fully understand why. Truthfully, it puts me a little on edge. His mom is a sweetheart. His sister is cute.… I’m inclined to think his homelife is pretty normal.
Still, I take this opportunity to examine his room. The paint is peeling off the walls in some places. There’s a Star Wars poster, one of the new ones, I think, and a Free Puppies! concert flyer. Above his desk is the framed Torah portion from his bar mitzvah. His bookshelf is filled with titles like Learn Japanese the Easy Way and So You Want to Speak Modern Hebrew. His desk is cluttered with calligraphy pens, and off to one side, two eight-pound dumbbells. One McMystery solved. I try to picture it, McNair lifting weights while reciting the Hebrew alphabet.
And there’s his bed, a blanket haphazardly thrown across it. I assumed it would be perfectly neat. His suits, peeking out of the closet, are the nicest thing in this room. Being in his room feels too personal—like reading someone’s journal when you’re not supposed to.
“Sorry about all that,” he says when he opens his eyes.
“It’s cool. You talk to your family about me. I’m flattered.” Now that his eyes are on me, I’m suddenly not sure where to look. Clearly, looking at him is the safest. I don’t want him to think I’m staring at the weights on his desk or, God forbid, his bed. “Is everything okay with your sister?”
“It will be,” he says, and then waits a long, long time before speaking again. “My dad… is in prison.”
Oh. My heart drops to the floor.
That is not even remotely within the realm of what I was expecting, but now that he’s said it, I have no idea what I expected to hear. Prison. It sounds cold and distant and terrifying. I can barely wrap my mind around it, barely force words out.
“Neil, I—I’m so sorry.” It’s not nearly enough, but my voice has turned to chalk.
His shoulders tighten. “Don’t be sorry. He fucked up. That’s on him. He fucked up his life, and he fucked up ours, and that’s all on him.”
I’ve never seen him like this. There’s an intensity in his gaze that makes me back up a few paces. I have so many questions—what did he do and when did it happen and how is Neil dealing with it, because I don’t know how I would. And his sister, and his mom, and… holy shit. Neil’s dad is in prison. This is a lot.
“I had no idea” is what I say instead.
“I don’t talk to anyone about it. Ever. I don’t really have people over, either, because it’s easier not to answer questions about it.” He stares at the floor. “It happened in sixth grade. The fall of sixth grade, after I started middle school. Money’s always been tight. My dad owned a hardware store in Ballard, but it wasn’t doing great, and he had some anger issues. One night he caught a couple kids stealing. He was so furious… he beat one of them unconscious. The kid—he was in a coma for a month.”
I’m struck silent. Because truly—what can you say to that? Nothing I could say would make it okay.
When he speaks, his voice is scratchy. “I didn’t know he was capable of something like that. Of that kind of violence. My father… he nearly killed someone.”
“Neil,” I say quietly, but he’s not finished.
“I was old enough to understand what was happening, lucky me, but Natalie wasn’t. All she knew was that our dad was gone,” he says. “Kids in middle school found out, and it was horrible. The jokes, the insults, people trying to pick fights with me. To see if I’d lash out like he did. Most days, I didn’t even want to go to school. We couldn’t afford private school, and because of zoning, I couldn’t switch schools, so I came up with my own plan. I distracted everyone by doing the opposite of what I wanted to do, which was disappear. I threw myself into school, became consumed by being the best. If I could have that label, I figured, then I could shake the ‘dad in prison’ label. And… it worked. If anyone at Westview even remembers, they don’t say anything about it.
“Some kids at Natalie’s school found out and were bullying her about it, so she fought back. Despite how many times I tell her that’s not okay, that we don’t want to turn into our father…”
“That’s not going to happen,” I insist. I can’t imagine that sweet girl being violent.
“So that was the family emergency you were asking about. I had to pick her up from school before Howl started.” His shoulders sag. “At least she’s having her friends over tonight. That’ll be good.”
All these years, he’s been wearing armor. His plan to hide so many pieces of himself clearly worked, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“It will. Thank you… for telling me this.” I hope I’m not saying all the wrong things. I hope he knows I’ll keep this as safe as if it were my own secret. No—safer.
“I—I haven’t told anyone in a while,” he says. “Please don’t act weird around me now. That’s why I stopped talking to people about it. Of course my friends know, and I used to talk to Sean about it all the time… but not as much anymore. Everyone would act like they wanted to ask questions but didn’t know a tactful way to go about it. So. If you have questions, go ahead and ask them.”
God, I have a million, but I manage to pick one. “Do you visit him?”
“Natalie and my mom do, but I haven’t seen him since I was sixteen. That was when my mom said I could decide for myself whether I wanted to see him, and I just… don’t. That’s why I want to change my name, too.” He continues messing with the blanket. “But it costs money, and it was a legal mess when my mom looked into it for Natalie and me. There was always something else that felt more important.
“I hate having his name sometimes. Even when he was here, we were never really close. It was clear I didn’t exactly fit his description of what a man should be. In his mind, there were ‘boy hobbies’ and there were ‘girl hobbies,’ and most of what I liked fit into the latter category. It was a crime that I wasn’t interested in sports, and if he knew I was getting emotional about this—” He breaks off, as though the weight of it all is just too heavy. He tries to take a deep breath, but all he gets is a shallow little puff.
I despise Neil’s father with every fiber of my being.
“You have every right to be emotional. About anything.”
He sits on the edge of his bed, gripping the blanket. His shoulders rise and fall with his labored breaths, and all I want is to sit down next to him, drape an arm around him, something.
“It’s okay,” I tell him in what I hope is a soothing voice. I hope that’s something I’m capable of when talking to Neil McNair. But it’s not okay. What his dad did was horrendous.
“That’s why I wanted to win so badly,” he says, voice breaking. “He—he wants to see me before I go to college, but the prison is on the other side of the state, and I’d have to stay overnight, and my mom’s already working overtime, and… I won’t be coming home that much in the next four years, and when I do, my mom and Natalie will be my priority. So… I almost feel like I need to say goodbye and close the book on that whole situation. And—and if I won the money, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about dipping into what I’ve saved for school.”
This is what breaks my heart most of all: that he thinks he needs to use the prize money for someone who’s been so awful to him.
He’s crying. Not full-on sobs, just soft little hiccups that make the bandanna on his arm bob up and down. Neil McNair is crying.
And that’s what does it. The bed creaks as I sit down next to him, a good several inches of space between us. Still, I can feel the heat from his body.
Slowly, I lift one hand and place it on his shoulder, waiting for his reaction. It’s an odd boundary to cross. I’m even more aware of his breaths, their erratic rhythm. But then he relaxes into my touch, as though it feels good, and it’s such a huge relief that I haven’t misstepped, that I’ve reacted to this like a friend would. So I run my palm back and forth across the fabric of his T-shi
rt, his skin warm underneath. Then it’s not just my palm, but my fingertips, too, my thumb tracing circles on his shoulder. A hug would have been too much, too out of character, but this—this, I can do.
The entire time, I’m radically aware I am sitting on Neil McNair’s bed. This is where he sleeps, where he dreams, where he texts me every morning.
Texted me every morning.
This close, I can tell his freckles aren’t just one color, but a whole spectrum of reddish brown. Long lashes brush the lenses of his glasses. They’re a shade lighter than his hair, and I’m mesmerized by them for a moment—how delicate they are, a hundred tiny crescent moons.
When his eyes flick open to meet mine, I immediately drop my hand from his shoulder, as though I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be. Something my fourteen-year-old self with “destroy Neil McNair” as her ultimate goal would be very, very disappointed by.
Besides, an average amount of shoulder-comforting time has passed.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and we’ve been quiet for so long that his words jolt me. He has nothing to apologize for. I should stand up. It’s strange sitting on his bed like this, but even though I’m no longer touching him, I can’t seem to make myself move. “I didn’t know I was still so messed up about this. My parents, they got divorced a couple years ago,” he continues, swiping at the tear tracks on his face. “We’ve all been in therapy, which has helped a lot. And my mom’s started dating again. Christopher, that’s her boyfriend. It’s extremely weird that my mom has a boyfriend, but I’m happy for her. And I’m not ashamed of not having money,” he adds. “I’m ashamed of what he did to us.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I say again. Softly. “Truly.”
“It’s the last day,” he says. “It’s not anything you can use against me now.” He gives what sounds like a forced laugh. “Or the crying.”
“Never,” I say emphatically. I want him to know it is okay to cry around me, that it’s not a sign of weakness. “I swear. I wouldn’t have. Even if we were going to school on Monday.” I wait for him to meet my eyes again. “Neil. You have to believe I’d never have done something like that.”
Today Tonight Tomorrow Page 13
