Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe … we can start over.”

  His eyes search my face. “Fine.” He puts out a hand like a businessman. “Rob Lachlan. Non-slacker.”

  “Maegan Day.” I shake his hand. Most boys at school shake hands with the passivity of a trained cocker spaniel, but Rob’s fingers close around mine securely. I can feel the strength in his grip. I have to swallow. “Overly judgmental.”

  His eyes flinch a little, and he lets go. “It’s not all your fault. I’m not easy to get along with lately.”

  I glance at the coffee bar beside the staircase. “Want to get some coffee?”

  He hesitates. “Okay.”

  At the counter, I order a white chocolate mocha and pay for myself. Dad hates overpriced coffee drinks, but Mom loves them, so I slap down five dollars without thinking about it. Then I step aside and watch Rob survey the menu board on the wall.

  After a moment he says, “I’ll have a small coffee.”

  It costs him a dollar. There are three ones in his wallet. No credit cards that I can see. I don’t know why this feels significant, but it does.

  Maybe because he slips out a dollar like he’s extracting a kidney from his abdomen.

  My heart kicks with adrenaline, but I’m not sure which kind.

  “It’s on me,” I say quickly, jerking my wallet back out of my backpack. “I owe you, after what I said.”

  He goes still. His fingers tighten on the currency. “You don’t have to do that.”

  The cashier glances between us. We both have a dollar in hand.

  I thrust mine forward. “Here.”

  After a moment, Rob shoves his back in his wallet. His jaw is set. He says nothing.

  The girl hands him a cup to fill from one of the dozen carafes lining the wall, and he turns away. He chooses the Christmas blend—Snickerdoodle—and pours two inches of cream into the top of it, then dumps in a ton of sugar. Every motion is slow and controlled.

  “Miss? Your drink …?”

  I turn and realize the barista has been trying to get my attention.

  Rob is waiting when I turn, cup in hand.

  “Do you want to go back upstairs?” I say.

  “I’m not sure I trust you on stairs with a hot drink.”

  His voice is low, and it takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke.

  Before I can react, he says, “We can sit down here. It doesn’t matter.”

  So we sit in the nook under the stairs. There are two armchairs with a low table between them. We drop into them.

  Tension continues to hang between us, but it’s a different tension from before. It’s not antagonistic anymore, more like we’ve both been scraped a bit raw, and our wounds are more exposed to the air.

  Once we’re seated, he doesn’t touch his backpack. His hands wrap around his coffee cup, and he sits there inhaling the steam.

  I couldn’t keep sitting around the house.

  “You don’t really want to work on math, do you?” I say quietly.

  His gaze doesn’t lift. “No.” That seems to spur him into action, though, because he tugs at the zipper of his backpack. “But we can.”

  “No! No. It’s fine.” I hesitate. “I really don’t have a lot of time anyway. I kind of had to sneak out of the house.”

  That startles him. His eyes finally meet mine. “You snuck out of the house to meet me?”

  When he says it like that, it sounds like a tryst. Like I’m crushing on him. I remember Connor Tunstall’s dismissive glance at the front of the school, and my cheeks burn. “No! I mean—yes. I mean—I snuck out of the house to do calculus.”

  Yeah, that’s better. Go me.

  He’s looking at me like I need a psych evaluation. “You really didn’t have to come out.”

  “It’s fine. I was up.” I pause. “I snuck out because I didn’t want a lot of questions. My dad’s weird about us being out late. He’s a cop.”

  A breath of time passes, and then Rob says, “I know who your father is.”

  Oh. Right. I knew that. And I know why I knew it.

  Rob’s voice turns dry again, but there’s no real humor in it. “I’m sure you know who mine is, too.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

  I bite at my lip. “Yeah.”

  This is so awkward. I have no idea how we’re going to do a whole project together. I said we don’t need to work on it, but now I wish I could pull out my textbook.

  Between dinner with Samantha and coffee with Rob, my evening has been one long stretch of weird revelations, bad judgment calls, and awkward silences.

  “Why didn’t you want to be at home?” I ask him, trying to imagine what his home life must be like. I know he doesn’t have any siblings, so it would have to just be him and his mom, right? I wonder if he gets along with her. I can’t build an idea of what kind of woman would be married to someone who stole millions of dollars. I can’t imagine what kind of mother she would be. Everything my brain conjures is some kind of cartoon caricature of a buxom woman in a bikini swimming in a jacuzzi filled with diamonds, cackling while sipping from a glass of champagne.

  Rob’s expression tightens. “Rough night with my dad.” A pause. “Trust me, you don’t want details.”

  Wait.

  “With your dad? But—but your dad—” I jerk my words to a stop.

  Rob’s eyes bore into mine now. “Tried to kill himself? I know. I was there.” A pause. “He missed.”

  “I know.” I choke like I’m swallowing my tongue and stumble over my words. “I mean—I thought—I thought he was in a nursing home. Or something.”

  He looks back at his coffee again. Takes a sip. “He’s not.”

  I had no idea. No idea.

  I wonder if anyone else knows. I never see Rob talk to anyone anymore, so maybe it’s a really well-kept secret that’s not a secret at all. It’s not like the Lachlan family is a constant source of gossip—not anymore, anyway—but I feel like this is a detail that’s escaped most people’s notice.

  I want to ask what happened tonight. At the same time, I’m afraid to wade into waters where I’m not welcome.

  That veil of tension still hangs between us.

  “Why were you so eager to get out of the house?” Rob asks me.

  I hesitate. “What?”

  “Well, I know you don’t have the highest opinion of me.” He says this as if it’s not a surprise. “What were you sneaking away from?”

  “There’s—” I swallow. I should play it cool, like I sneak out all the time. He’d probably believe it. The only problem with that is that I’m not actually a rebel. Not at all. “There’s a lot going on with my sister. She’s home from school for a few days.”

  “Oh.” He nods and takes another sip of coffee, but then his eyes light with interest and he focuses back on me. “Wait, didn’t your sister sign for some big lacrosse scholarship?”

  “Duke,” I say hollowly. “Full ride.”

  He smiles and whistles through his teeth. “Nice. Connor and I thought we might have a shot at money from a Division I school, but then …” His voice trails off. The light in his eyes dies. It’s like watching a plane crash. He shrugs. “Well.”

  “You don’t play lacrosse anymore?”

  His eyes settle on mine, and his expression is tense, like he thinks I’m messing with him. But I’m not, and he must see that, because his face smooths over. “No. I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He runs a hand across the back of his neck. “You writing a book?”

  “What?” Then I get it, and I suck back into my chair. “No. I’m sorry.”

  For the first time, his voice finds an edge. “You want to talk about whatever’s going on with your sister?”

  “No.”

  He lifts one shoulder in that half shrug again. “Well then.”

  I can’t decide if I’m irritated or not. “You want to sit here in silence and drink our coffee?”

  “Yeah, I kind of do.”

 
I’m startled by his answer—but he doesn’t say it with any attitude. Like in the school hallway or the cafeteria, it’s a genuine response to my question. Rob’s a straight shooter.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He sinks back in his chair and sips at his coffee. The fluorescent lights overhead are almost too bright for this time of night, but in this nook under the staircase, it’s not too bad. This could be a quaint little coffeeshop, not a café carved into the side of a mega-supermarket.

  After a moment, I sink into my own. I turn his comments over in my head.

  Connor and I thought we might have a shot at money.

  Then his voice fell off a cliff. He doesn’t hang out with Connor anymore. Rob’s regular absence from the quad is proof enough of that. I wonder what the history is there.

  I watch him surreptitiously, from under my eyelashes, while sipping my coffee. His angled cheekbones are shadowed beneath the staircase, and even stationary, he carries himself like an athlete. Like he’s very aware of the space he takes up in the world.

  Rachel will never believe this moment. Rob Lachlan flies under the radar for the most part, but he used to be a bit of a walking legend. I’m shocked to hear he doesn’t play lacrosse anymore. I don’t follow sports much beyond Samantha’s teams and stats, but I remember seeing his name at the top of the rosters when I’d look for hers. He was an attacker, like she is.

  I consider the way Samantha was standing out back, throwing shots at the rebounder.

  I wonder if he misses it.

  I inhale to ask him.

  Just as I do, he crumples the now-empty cup in his hand and pushes to his feet. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I did that.”

  I stare up at him, unsure what that means. “Anytime.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  I really need to stop saying anytime. “Um. Okay.”

  “We can meet earlier so you don’t have to sneak out. Seven?”

  “Sure.”

  He hoists his backpack onto his shoulder, then hesitates. “You want me to walk you to your car? Or are you going to hang out for a while?”

  Where does all this chivalry come from? It must be his mother. I can’t imagine a man stealing from half the people in the community taking the time to teach his son to walk a girl to her car.

  Or maybe he would. Maybe that’s all part of the illusion. Maybe that’s how he got away with it for so long.

  Flustered, I say, “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I need—I said I’d pick something up.”

  “See you tomorrow.” He turns on his heel and walks out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rob

  I go for a run at five a.m. It’s so dark that I feel invisible. My lungs burn with cold, and it’s been long enough since I last hit the pavement that I’m hating it. Especially since I didn’t go to sleep until after midnight.

  I push through anyway.

  You can always push a little harder, Robby. My father’s words throb in my head. If there’s something you want, you have to be able to push past whatever is stopping you.

  He didn’t seem to have much trouble pushing past his morals. If he ever had any to begin with.

  Music pours into my headphones, and the air tastes like snow. Each time my feet slap the asphalt, it’s like a smack, reminding me of what a freak I was last night.

  Are you high or something?

  Did I look that out of it? Do I?

  I liked that Maegan was willing to sit in the quiet. It took me by surprise, because she didn’t strike me as the type. It was nice to sit with someone who doesn’t share my DNA and doesn’t want to rag on me about my father’s misdeeds. It was nice to go somewhere. To do something.

  My life has collapsed to the point where a ninety-nine-cent cup of coffee with a stranger is meaningful.

  This run is killing me. Damn, it’s cold. My calves are burning. I push my legs forward.

  She surprised me when she thought Dad was in a nursing home. I wonder if a lot of people think that. I wonder if everyone thinks that.

  Not like it matters. The only thing worse than all the accusatory glances would be pitiful ones.

  A whistle sounds in my ears, loud over the music. My running app. I can walk now. Thirty minutes, done. I ran three miles. My legs are going to hate me tomorrow. They’ll probably hate me later this morning when I help Mom heave Dad out of bed.

  Suddenly, I wish I had another thirty minutes of running in me. I wish I could keep running forever. Away from here.

  I can’t. And I can’t leave my mother.

  I turn the music down and head for home.

  At school, I reach Mrs. Quick’s classroom before Maegan does. Before most of the class does, really. No one ever holds me up in the hallway, so I have nothing to distract me on the way to the classroom. When I walk through the door, most of the seats are empty.

  The ones in the back.

  And the ones in the front.

  I stand there, deliberating.

  “Forget where you sit?” Maegan asks from behind me.

  My defenses snap into place like a vault door swinging closed. Now I’ve lost my chance to choose. I don’t look at her. “No.”

  She moves past me, toward the desks. To my surprise, she walks beyond the front row and heads all the way to the back. Right beside the chair I used yesterday.

  Like an idiot, I stand there staring at her.

  We’ve also garnered the attention of the three other kids who’ve already taken their seats.

  Maegan’s cheeks turn faintly pink. “You moved up front yesterday. Seemed fair.”

  Okay. I force my feet to move. I shuffle down the aisle and drop into my regular seat. No one ever sits back here. Other kids are filing in to fill the room now, but we’re alone in this corner. It’s weird to have company, especially first thing in the morning.

  It never used to be weird.

  She’s pulling her things out of her backpack, and she hasn’t really looked at me. She wears glasses, and her hair is piled into one of those loose ponytail buns, with strands escaping to frame her face. A thin gray scarf with random pink threads winds around her neck.

  I never really noticed before, but she’s very pretty. In an understated way.

  Her head swivels to look at me. “Okay. What?”

  I jump. “What?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  I jerk my eyes back to my desk. I was staring. It’s like I’ve lost any grip on social conventions.

  But then I turn back to look at her. “Sorry. I was surprised. That you wanted to sit back here.”

  Maegan shrugs. “Like I said. Seemed fair. Maybe we can swap on and off.”

  Mrs. Quick comes into the room, and everyone shuts up to pay attention.

  Except me. I can’t pay attention to anything at all.

  I’m too stuck on the fact that, for the first time in months, someone treated me like me, and not like the son of my father.

  It has to mean something. I feel like I’m missing something important.

  But we don’t work on our group activity at all. We barely exchange three words.

  When the bell rings, she disappears into the hallway, as much of a mystery as she was before.

  By lunch, isolation is back with full force. I only share one class with Maegan. There’s a part of me that wants to trail after her like a beaten dog looking for a pat on the head, but there’s a bigger part of me that tells the first part to sit down and shut up. I remembered my bottle of water this morning, so I cling to my usual table in the back part of the cafeteria. I have a roast beef sandwich, an orange, a bag of grapes, and a plastic bag of pretzels.

  And a big empty table. Today’s novel hits the plastic surface with a thunk. I’m close to the end. I’m going to need to swing by the library again.

  I’ve read three pages before I realize someone is standing in front of me.

  My eyes lift. It’s Owen Goettler. He’s got a full tray—and when I say full, I mean
there’s enough food for six people. Oranges and bananas and bags of chips and pretzels, along with boxes of dry cereal and granola bars.

  Something about his stance seems confrontational. I want to ask if he’s asking for donations, because it kind of looks like he is, but considering what I know of him, that feels immeasurably cruel.

  I can’t believe I threw that ten-dollar bill at him. In retrospect, that was probably cruel, too. Dismissive.

  I put a finger in my book and close the cover. “What’s up?”

  “If I keep this stuff, are you going to screw over my mother?”

  I stiffen. “I don’t even know your mother.”

  “Yeah you do.”

  I don’t, actually, but that’s not a hill I’m going to die on. “Well, I’m not going to screw her over. Do what you want. Enjoy your six bags of Goldfish.” I flip my book open again.

  He slams his tray down, then shoves the cover of my book closed. “Is there some weird thing about me taking something from you that’s going to screw up the lawsuit? Because—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  And then I realize his face is red. His hands are trembling at the edge of the tray. He’s either ready to cry or ready to punch me in the face. “My mom said we have to be careful. So if you’re trying to trip me up …”

  I have to look away. “I’m not doing anything to you, Owen. The money wasn’t even mine.”

  He jerks back. His hands let go of the tray.

  I can hear the words almost before he says them. You stole it?

  “I didn’t steal it,” I say, before he can speak. My voice is rough. “Connor Tunstall dropped it in the line, and he wouldn’t take it back from me. It was floor money. I didn’t want it. The end.”

  He stands there breathing. He doesn’t touch the tray.

  I flip my book open again and shuffle through the pages. This dickhead lost my page.

  After a minute, he slides onto the bench across from me. He breaks open a banana.

  I refuse to lift my eyes from the book, but I go still. “What are you doing?”

  “Eating lunch.” He bites off a chunk of banana. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.” But now I can’t focus on the words on the page.