Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I can’t shake this feeling, though. I’m eating my sandwich, with an orange and a bag of cheese curls waiting, while he’s picking at a bag of chips like they’re being rationed.

  “It’s really bothering you, isn’t it?” says Owen.

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  I set down my sandwich. “Look, what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to admit that you want to know what I did with the money so you can judge me for it.”

  “Fine.”

  “You admit it?”

  “Yes.” I do not like this feeling at all. I shove the sandwich into my mouth and take a bite so I don’t have to say anything else.

  He shrugs. “Okay. I gave it to Sharona Fains. She sits next to me in history.”

  I rack my brain but can’t come up with any idea of who this girl is—or why he’d give her money. I wait for more of an explanation, but he just keeps eating his chips.

  “Why?” I finally say.

  He shrugs. “She was crying to a friend that she needed forty dollars, and I happened to have forty dollars, so I gave it to her.”

  “She didn’t ask you where you got it?”

  “I’m a poor kid. She probably assumed I stole it.”

  I stare at him. He puts another chip in his mouth.

  I sigh, then rip my paper bag in two, then give him half the sandwich.

  “Thanks. What is this, egg salad? Do you live in a nursing home?”

  “Shut up. Why did she need the money?”

  “I have no idea. But she was crying, so it seemed important.”

  I’m trying to picture this interaction and coming up with nothing. “But now you don’t have money to buy lunch.”

  “And how is that different from any other day?”

  I open my mouth. Close it. I have no idea what to say. My brain is spinning with thoughts of Lexi Miter and her credit card number—offered to kids who really didn’t need it. Or the lunch lady who wouldn’t let Owen get a cheese sandwich because she disagreed with how he spent the first money I gave him.

  “I have never before witnessed an existential crisis,” says Owen. “I feel like I should take your picture right now.”

  “Would you shut up?”

  “Look.” Owen puts down the sandwich and sucks mayonnaise off his thumb. “The first day, when you gave me the money. You said you felt bad, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before your life blew up, did you know who I was?”

  I did, though only in a passing way. Some of the girls from our group used to call him “Cheese Sammich,” but never to his face. I heard a guy once mutter that he was sick of Owen holding up the cafeteria line. None of these memories are ones I want invading my brain. “A little. I guess.”

  “I’m guessing you occasionally had ten bucks in your wallet, then, huh?”

  Yeah. I did. I don’t know what to say.

  I wish I were still staring at Maegan across the cafeteria. I cut a glance her way. She’s still alone, eating by herself at a table near the far wall.

  I wonder what happened with her friends. I’m the cause of it, I’m sure. Did they cut her out? Or did she cut herself away from them? Owen’s words aren’t sitting well with me. I knew what Maegan did, of course, but I’ve never considered how that would affect her social standing, just like my father’s actions affected mine. If I moved across the cafeteria to go sit with her, would that make things better or worse?

  “You going to answer me or what?” says Owen.

  I shift my eyes back to him. “Yeah. I occasionally had ten bucks in my wallet.” I pause, and an edge enters my voice against my will. “Do you want an apology?”

  “Nope.” His eyes flick up and past me. “Prick alert. Twelve o’clock.”

  I’m quicker on the uptake today, and I swivel my head around to see Connor striding toward us. I expect him to smack me on the back of the head or something equally moronic, but instead, he’s glaring at Owen. “What did you just say?”

  Owen snaps his eyes back to his sandwich and doesn’t say anything.

  Connor moves closer. He’s never been a bully, but he has a pretty short fuse for people jerking him around. It’s because he can’t do anything about how often his father does it.

  He’s all but looming over Owen. “I asked you a question. What did you just say?”

  “Leave him alone,” I say.

  Connor ignores me. “Did you call me a prick?”

  Owen’s gone still, the sandwich suspended between the table and his mouth. His eyes seem fixed on the bread, the yellow-and-white line of egg salad. It reminds me of the way bunnies go still when they sense a predator. Like a complete lack of motion will render him invisible.

  “Leave him alone, Connor.”

  “New boyfriend, Lachlan?”

  “Why? Jealous?”

  That gets his attention. He swings his head around in my direction. “Are you trying to start something?”

  “You’re the one who came over here.”

  He puts his hands on the table and leans down. I’m sure he expects me to back off and wither like Owen is doing, but something has changed since Mr. London’s office this morning. Maybe it’s knowing I have nothing more to lose. Maybe it’s realizing I’m not the only one with problems. I have no idea.

  I do know I’m sick of hiding from Connor and his friends, like I did something wrong.

  I hold his eyes. Keep my voice even. “How’s your dad?”

  He jerks back. It sounds like an innocuous question, but it’s a low blow, because I know more about Connor’s relationship with his father than anyone else, including Lexi Miter.

  Emotion flickers in Connor’s eyes, some combination of rage and regret. “Go to hell, Rob.”

  “Tell him I said hi.”

  Connor draws himself up. For an instant, I think he’s going to shove me off the bench and slam me into the ground.

  Mr. Kipple must notice us, because his voice calls out from forty feet away. “Mr. Tunstall. Mr. Lachlan. Is there a problem?”

  Connor’s hands are curled into fists at his sides. If we were in a cartoon, steam would be coming out of his ears. “No problem,” he calls back tightly. He looks back at me. “Tell him yourself.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  He gives me a cynical look and takes a step back. “Yeah, sure. Come on over. Big party Saturday night.” Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh wait. You can’t. Don’t you have to chew your dad’s food or wipe his ass or—”

  “Stop. Rob. Stop.” Owen’s voice, a low rush across the table. He’s grabbed hold of my forearm.

  I’m halfway out of my seat, and I didn’t even realize it. My jaw is clenched so hard it hurts. All I see is red.

  Connor laughs and walks away.

  “Sit,” says Owen. His eyes are as big as saucers. “Kipple is still looking over here.”

  I ease back onto the bench of the cafeteria table. I know better than to provoke Connor. I might know how to push his buttons, but he knows all of mine, too.

  I pick up my sandwich. “Sorry.” My voice sounds like I’ve been eating gravel. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We eat in silence for a while.

  Eventually, Owen lets out a nervous laugh. “I thought he was going to break my jaw for calling him a prick.”

  “Nah, Connor’s usually all talk.” It’s so weird to discuss my former best friend like this. Like he’s a specimen I once studied, not a guy I grew up with like a brother. “It would take more than that.”

  “Why did he get mad when you brought up his dad?”

  I hesitate.

  Owen picks up on it. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, it’s—it’s fine.” I don’t owe Connor anything. In fact, a dark, angry part of me wants to spill all his secrets on the floor of this cafeteria so our classmates can see who they’re idolizing. “He and his dad don’t get along. He used to try to pit us against each other.
‘Why can’t you be more like Rob?’ That kind of thing. It used to make Connor nuts.”

  “Oh.”

  I can tell from his voice that it doesn’t sound like enough. I hesitate again. “It’s not just that. Connor’s dad is … hard on him.”

  “What, like he knocks him around?”

  “No, it’s not like that. He …” I rack my brain, trying to think of a suitable example. “Last year, Connor got a C on a midterm and his dad locked him out of the house all night.”

  “Oh.”

  “In January. In the freezing rain.” He made him go to school the next day, too. Connor texted me and asked me to drive him to school, and I remember thinking it was weird because he had his own car. He climbed in the passenger seat and shivered the whole way to school, then came down with the flu the next day.

  His dad made him take Motrin and go to school anyway. Made him play lacrosse, too. The coach benched him when Connor puked in the middle of the field.

  Owen picks up a chip. “I’m having a hard time drumming up sympathy.”

  “Maybe because he wasn’t crying over forty dollars.”

  Owen doesn’t take the bait. “You going to go to his party?”

  “What? No.”

  “Don’t you miss your friends?”

  “What, are we six? No. It’s fine.” But I’m lying. I don’t miss all of them, but I do miss some of them. I miss the camaraderie.

  It feels like a weakness to admit that. I give him a look. “Why? Want to go?”

  “No offense, but you’re not my type.”

  Wait. “I’m not—”

  He gives me a look right back. “I know. I’m kidding.”

  I can’t tell if we’re fighting or bickering or messing with each other. Owen is the last kid I thought I’d ever share lunch with, but I suddenly can’t stand the thought of losing …

  Losing what? A friend?

  I reach out and steal one of Owen’s chips. “Don’t worry. I know you’re holding out for Zach Poco.”

  He looks startled, then smiles. “Seriously, there’s no contest.” He hesitates. “What do you do after school?”

  I look back at my food, but my appetite dries up in a heartbeat. “Didn’t you hear Connor?”

  Owen freezes. “Oh.” Another hesitation, heavier this time. I wonder what he’s thinking. At the same time, I avoid his eyes because I don’t want to know.

  I breathe. Swirl the water in my bottle. Listen as the weight of the silence around me settles in.

  Then Owen says, “Do you have to do that every day?”

  I shrug. My brain supplies the repetitive image of me going through the front door of the house. Being greeted by the sound of soap operas, which the nurse watches with my dad in the afternoons. If he’s aware of what he’s watching, I guarantee he hates it.

  “My mom works late on Thursdays,” Owen says. His voice falters. “If you want to come over and play Xbox or something. Or not. If you’re busy. Don’t worry. Forget it.”

  “Did you just invite me and uninvite me in the same sentence?”

  He looks abashed. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t have to be home until five, really.” That’s when the nurse leaves, and we know from experience that they’ll leave at five on the nose, regardless of whether anyone has come home. Once Mom asked me to stop at the store and I didn’t make it back until ten after. I walked into a pitch-dark house, my father sitting in the middle of the living room, alone. It should have been sad, but it was actually creepy as hell.

  I hate when these memories invade my thoughts. “Well. If it was a real invitation …” Now I sound as faltering as he did. I tell myself to knock it off. “I could play some Xbox.”

  Owen lives in a two-story duplex south of the school. He says he usually walks, but it’s windy and freezing and I don’t want to leave my car, so I drive us over there. If he’s surprised about the car, he doesn’t say anything. I’m surprised that someone who can’t buy lunch has an Xbox, but I can return the courtesy, so I keep my mouth shut.

  His fridge is mostly empty, but a whole shelf is bowing from the weight of three cases of generic diet soda. He offers me one, and I take it. “My mom loves them,” he says. “Her weakness. Come on, we can crash on the sofa.”

  His living room is small, with older furniture, but it’s tidy. Owen fires up the television and suddenly we’re killing Nazis in Call of Duty. I’ve never been huge into gaming—lacrosse and school took up too much time. But I can hold my own.

  Or, I thought I could. Owen is kicking my ass.

  “I can run the tutorial for you if you want,” he says.

  “Shut up.”

  I want to ask if he has any friends. The invitation to come over here took me by surprise every bit as much as the invitation to come play lacrosse with Maegan’s sister.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  He swerves with the controller like an opponent on screen is actually attacking him. “Sure.”

  I stop pressing buttons and study him. “Why did you invite me over here?”

  “What, did you think my mom was going to be waiting in the kitchen with a revolver?”

  “Um. No. Not until you said that.”

  He taps a button and the screen goes still, then he looks at me. “The same reason you gave me the ten bucks on Monday.”

  Because I felt bad. That’s what I said when he asked me.

  My cheeks feel warm. I stare back at the controller in my hands.

  “And you seem like an all-right guy,” Owen says. He’s unpaused the game, and his arms swerve again. “Honestly I always kind of thought you were the asshole and Connor was the nice one.”

  “Wow, Owen, don’t hold back.”

  He grins. “I guess you can be wrong about people.”

  “I guess you can.”

  “I used to hang out with Javon Marshal. Do you know him?”

  I search my memory banks and come up with nothing. My expression must give it away, because Owen says, “He graduated last year, so he kind of left me on my own. He lived down the street.”

  “Did he go away to college?”

  Owen hesitates. “No. He enlisted. Army. His mom says he might not be able to come home for Thanksgiving, but maybe Christmas.”

  I can’t read anything in his voice. I wonder if Owen plans to enlist after he graduates.

  I wonder what I’m going to do after I graduate. I remember being hopeful about lacrosse scholarships, because I definitely have the grades to back it up. I could possibly look at academic scholarships, but I’m not sure if I could leave Mom. Besides, even if I could get a scholarship, there are other expenses to consider. Housing. Food.

  “Are you going to join the Army?” I ask.

  Owen hesitates, then shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s a guaranteed job and free tuition, so …”

  A key rattles in the lock of the front door, and Owen swings his head around. “Crap. She’s home early.”

  I draw back, startled by his sudden change. “Are you not allowed to have people over?”

  “No, it’s fine. Just …” He winces. “Don’t tell her who you are. Okay?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  The lock finally gives, and Owen’s mom bursts through, bringing a gust of cold air with her. She looks to be in her forties, with tired eyes and streaks of gray threading her dark hair. It’s pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s wearing nursing scrubs with lollipops all over them, the kind you’d wear if you worked in a pediatrician’s office. She’s fighting to get her key back out of the lock.

  “Hi, Mom,” Owen calls. “Why are you home early?”

  “Oh, it’s so stupid. The whole bottom of my shoe came off. It’s a safety hazard, so—” She stops short when she sees me. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t know you had a friend over.”

  Her voice puts the tiniest bit of weight on the word friend. I stand. I almost hold out a hand to shake hers. Old habits die hard. “Hi.” I hesitate. “I’m Rob.”

  She s
miles. Her eyes flick to Owen and back to me. “Rob. Hello.”

  Ms. Goettler is completely getting the wrong idea here.

  And what am I supposed to say? Oh, yeah, no, I’m Rob Lachlan. My dad stole your money. I’m not macking on your son. Thanks for the soda.

  Owen saves me. “He’s just a friend, Ma. Don’t start printing wedding invitations.”

  I cough. “I should probably go.”

  “You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” she says.

  “No, I promised my mom I’d be home by five.”

  “Ah, so you’re a good son.” She comes over to the couch and ruffles Owen’s hair. “Maybe you could give Owen some lessons.”

  You’re a good son. I almost flinch.

  He shoves her hand away, then rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m home by five, too. Come on, Rob. I’ll walk you out.”

  “Take my shoes by the door and toss them in the dumpster,” she calls after us. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to find a hundred dollars to replace those—”

  The door swings closed, cutting her off, leaving us with cold silence between us.

  “You didn’t have to walk me out,” I say to Owen.

  “Nah, it’s fine. I like to keep her guessing.”

  “Hilarious.”

  We stop by my Jeep. Owen’s got her shoes in his hand. They’re white clogs. Some kind of nursing shoes, I guess. They look like they’ve been beat to hell, and one is completely falling apart.

  “Are those really going to cost her a hundred bucks to replace?”

  “Probably. They’re special shoes. She works in the hospital. They’re really strict.”

  I think about the forty dollars he gave away. I wonder if he’s thinking about the same thing.

  I remember when a hundred dollars was a drop in the bucket. I had lacrosse cleats that cost twice that much, and my mother never batted an eye.

  I know what a hundred dollars would mean to my mother right this moment. Hell, what it would mean to me.

  I think about Lexi Miter’s credit card, the number sitting unused but still saved in my phone.

  I swallow.

  “What’s wrong?” says Owen. “You look like someone kicked your dog again.”

  I take a breath. This is more than forty dollars from a cash box. Stealing from the athletic department’s fund-raiser isn’t different from stealing from another student, but it feels different just the same.