Both Can Be True

by Jules Machias

  “It’s perfect.” Dad holds his hand out. She hands over the bag with his change. He puts the change in the console, then takes a wrapped burger from the bag and tries to hand it to me.

  “No thanks.”

  He pauses like he’s annoyed. But then he gives me a sympathetic look that surprises me. He hands the burger to Ash. “Want fries?” he asks her.

  “Yes, please.”

  He gives them to her and starts the car. “Buckle up, kids.”

  We buckle our belts. “What’s the plan?” Ash murmurs to me.

  “He’s gonna drive us back to my house.”

  Her expression turns relieved and she nods. “Thank you for driving us home, Mr. Sanders. My butt was killing me.”

  Dad laughs, but it sounds fake. “That’s a long ride even if you’re used to long rides.”

  “Which I’m not. I’m usually a runner.”

  “Usually?”

  Regret crosses her face. “I ran cross-country at my old school.”

  “When did you move here?”

  “Just a few weeks ago.” They talk about the differences between Ash’s old school and Oakmont for a minute, and then an awkward silence settles in.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been calling you Ashley,” I tell her. “I just assumed.”

  “It’s fine.”

  We’re quiet the rest of the way back to Dad’s. I keep looking at the back of Ash’s head while she looks out the window. When I was a kid, Mom said to Dad at the dinner table once that watching me and Mitchell felt like seeing her heart walking around outside her body. I didn’t understand what she meant, but her words stayed with me because the visual was so gory and intense and funny. That was before things with her and Dad got cold and quiet. Before me and Mitch grew out of Legos and getting along. Before Frankie died and Cole ditched me and I figured out that life can seriously short out your fuses sometimes.

  Now I get what Mom meant: Love is wildly dangerous. But you can’t help it. Your heart says yes, this and that’s that.

  My heart has said yes, this to Chewbarka.

  I’m afraid it’s starting to say it to Ash too. I feel so much better when she’s around.

  Back at Dad’s apartment, we unlock our bikes and spend ten minutes collapsing the trailer and folding down car seats and finagling Vlad and Sir Reginald Bevis into the back of the car. I tell Ash to take the front seat so she’ll be comfortable, but she squeezes in the back so she’s sitting on top of a folded-down seat with her feet resting on the frame of my bike.

  Nobody talks on the car ride. About five minutes in, my phone pings with a text from Ash: I was thinking, it seems weird a grown dude would name his dog Chewbarka. I looked up the name the shelter lady gave you. Chewbarka has a family and one of the kids goes to Oakmont Middle. Her name’s Bella McBrenner. Do you know her?

  Doesn’t sound familiar, I write.

  I found her Insta. Ash sends the link.

  I uninstalled the app, sorry.

  A few minutes go by, then Ash sends a bunch of screen grabs. I don’t know the blonde girl in the selfies, but it’s clear she loves her dog. Chewbarka is in every one of them.

  Do you think we should talk to her? Ash asks. Tell her we have her dog?

  No way. What if she tells her dad? Chewy would be killed and Tina would get fired. I’ve blown so much stuff lately. I don’t need to blow this.

  “Are you two texting each other?” Dad asks. “You’re sitting two feet apart.”

  Ash giggles. Another text comes in: Maybe Bella wouldn’t tell her dad. She sends a screen grab of a post from eight days ago. It’s a Chewbarka collage, from her puppyhood all the way through her face starting to go gray and her eyes cloudy. Can’t believe she’s gone, the caption says. RIP baby girl xoxoxo your so loved.

  Guilt goes through me. I didn’t post about Frankie before I deleted Insta. I was too sad.

  Looks like Bella got Chewy when she was two, Ash writes. Most of C’s teeth were pulled a few years ago. That’s why her tongue doesn’t stay in her mouth. Her eyes are cloudy b/c she has cataracts. She limps and she’s scared of other dogs b/c a stray attacked her and Bella’s dad didn’t want to pay for surgery to fix her torn ACL. And he got mad when Chewy had an accident in a hotel a year ago and C. wasn’t allowed on family vacations after that. There’s a pause, then Ash writes, I think it’s safe to say Bella’s obsessed with her dog.

  I wrap my body around Chewbarka. It sounds like Bella felt she had to protect Chewy from her dad. Maybe telling Bella would be a bad idea, because if her dad found out . . .

  Ugh. Chewbarka must miss Bella so much. It’s obvious from the photos that she’s Chewbarka’s person, the way I was Frankie’s person. He belonged to our whole family, but I was his. He slept with me every night. I fed him and gave him his medicine. I carried him outside and pulled him around in our old wagon when he got so old and feeble he could barely walk.

  I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if I found out he was still alive.

  I know he’s not. Putting Frankie to sleep was the last thing our family did together before Dad moved out. I felt Frankie’s heart stop under my palm. I’ve worried for two months that my complete sobbing hysterics afterward are the reason Dad hasn’t come home, the reason Mom’s been extra hard on me about being so emotional.

  But what if Mom or Dad had taken Frankie to that vet appointment without me or Mitchell? What if it turned out Frankie just needed a new kind of medicine or something, and someone else had him, and I found out he was still alive?

  I asked Griffey if he knows Bella, Ash texts. They’re in jazz band together. He says she’s in seventh grade and she plays clarinet like a boss but can’t read sheet music to save her life.

  I nestle my nose into the back of Chewbarka’s neck. I don’t know what to do.

  17

  Fold It Up, Shove It Down

  Ash

  Daniel asks Mr. Sanders to drop us off at my apartment building. He doesn’t look thrilled, but he glances at his Apple Watch and says okay. Maybe he wants to invite Grace back over for dinner later.

  After we extract everything from the car in my parking lot, Mr. Sanders looks at Daniel on the curb holding Chewbarka. “You okay, Danny?”

  Daniel nods. “Thanks for the ride. It was . . .” He bites his lip. “It was good to see you.”

  Mr. Sanders grabs him in a sudden hug. “I miss you, kid.”

  I can’t see Daniel’s face. His shoulders go stiff like he wants to lean in, but he’s not letting himself.

  I get it. Part of me still craves Dad’s approval.

  After Daniel’s dad leaves, Daniel gets Chewbarka settled into the trailer. “Thank you for coming with me today,” he says. “It meant a lot.”

  “It seems like more is bothering you than the dog situation.” I stick my hand in and ruffle Chewbarka’s fuzzy ears before snapping the last part of the trailer’s screen in place.

  “I just . . . I can’t believe my dad’s seeing . . .” His voice is tight and he sits down hard on the curb. “I can’t tell Mom. She’ll know I biked to Dad’s, which she’ll freak out about, and she’ll want to know why I went and then she’ll find out about Chewbarka. But I don’t even want to tell her about Dad because what if it means my parents are really, actually gonna get divorced?” He gives Chewbarka a longing glance like he wants to pick her up and hug her. “If I tell her about Grace and they split up, it’ll be my fault. What if I get so freaked out that as soon as I see Mom I cry and tell her everything? It’s totally something I’d do.”

  I sit next to him and scrape my shoe over the concrete. The shape it makes has a satisfying texture, like granite. I want Daniel to trust me. But that means being honest with him, which means, maybe, losing this. Whatever this is. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know what it feels like to be the reason your parents split.”

  Daniel looks at me sideways. Like he wants to know but he’s too shy to ask.

  I stand up. “It’s survivable. And it was nice that
your dad had your photos on his wall.”

  “What?”

  “In the living room. You didn’t see?”

  “No.” Daniel looks like his heart’s breaking. “He did?”

  “Yeah, like six or seven at least. Framed.”

  “Oh.” His eyes are still aimed at my face, but I don’t think he’s seeing me.

  “Um . . . do you want any water before you bike home?”

  He blinks, then takes a second to fold up what he feels so it’ll stop leaking out his face. “Yeah, actually. Chewy’s probably thirsty too.”

  I hop up. “Sit. Stay. Good boy! I’ll get some water.” I head for our building’s door. I tuck my helmet under the steps so Mom won’t know I was out biking.

  “How goes the Minecraft tournament?” she asks when I go into our apartment. She’s at the kitchen table flipping through her old Moosewood cookbook.

  “Done. Just grabbing a book Griff wants to borrow.”

  “Hungarian bean soup for dinner? With sausage?”

  “Sound good and gassy.” I fill a water bottle at the tap, then grab a book from my room. “Be right back.” Hopefully she won’t look out the window.

  Outside, I hand Daniel the water bottle. He thanks me for everything I’ve done. I ask if he’s going to talk to Bella. He puts on his helmet without answering.

  “I mean . . . maybe she knows someone who could help. A friend, or someone else in her family. Like an aunt or cousin or something.”

  He rubs his forehead like his dad did. “I need to think.”

  I take his other hand. “Daniel . . .” My stomach dips when he looks into my eyes. “I love how much you care about Chewbarka. It’s really sweet.”

  He laughs like he’s embarrassed. “It’s not convenient.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I mean it matters, but . . . the fact that you’re doing so much for her . . . well.” I lean in to kiss him, angling so I don’t bump his helmet.

  He turns his face at the last second and I get his cheek.

  I let go of his hand and step back. “Sorry,” I mumble. My face is flaming. I must look like an overboiled hot dog.

  “Don’t be. I’m just like . . . this thing with Dad and Grace . . . it’s a lot. You know?” He takes my hands again. “But I can’t imagine how much harder it would be without you.”

  A rush of warmth hits me. “Well. It’s important to have somebody to talk to. I talked Griffey’s ear off while my folks were splitting. Not that yours will!” I say quickly when his face sinks. “It always seems like there’s a ton of crap we can’t control, ’cause we’re kids. But having someone who knows what’s going on in your life can help.” Aaaand there goes my mouth.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Daniel looks at his feet, then at me. “It’s hard to screw up a hug, though, right? I probably wouldn’t, the way I’d screw it up if—”

  “You ain’t screwed nothin’ up.” I fling myself at him and wrap my arms around him tight, like I can squeeze all the sadness out. I hook my chin over his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay,” I say, even though I have no idea if it will be okay, even though there’s a big honking chance it’s not gonna be okay. Whatever “okay” even looks like. A non-dead dog, for starters, and a Daniel who isn’t stressed out and exhausted.

  “I hope you’re right,” he says like he’s scared I’m wrong.

  After Daniel leaves, I go back upstairs. Before I enter our apartment, I tuck the book I grabbed under my shirt. This whole dog situation is turning me into a liar. I feel gross about it.

  But not gross enough to come clean.

  While Mom does a cross-stitch and watches Netflix, I work out more of the punk song I started writing after the Tyrannosaurus Rocks practice last night. It’s so good to think I can help them with Girls Who Rock the Future. To know they trust me after one jam session. I’m going to get this song right. It has to be simple enough that they can play it, and it definitely has to be about girl power in some way.

  But not so girl power that I’ll feel wrong singing it.

  It’s a weird balance. Punk is dude music to me. Even though there are tons of good girl punk bands. I just never listen to punk when I’m a girl.

  I want to be part of Tyrannosaurus Rocks so bad my teeth hurt. That feeling I got when we were all playing and the sounds were lining up was just so . . . big. So good and real and right.

  I want Daniel and me to feel that way with each other too.

  18

  Happy Fun Sunshine Time

  Daniel

  Back at the tent, while I’m getting Chewbarka settled and filling her dishes, my phone pings. I reach for it, hoping it’s Ash. Wanting that sense of calm I felt when she hugged me.

  But it’s Fiona: I thought you were cool. WOW, WRONG.

  I’m sorry, I answer. Mitch made me do it or he was gonna bust me for something.

  I am NOT a bargaining chip in some STUPID FIGHT you have with your JERK brother who KNOWS I HAVE A BOYFRIEND. She sends three of the angry-face emoji with the profanity over the mouth.

  I know, I write. I really am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.

  How about take the heat for whatever you did! How about NOT pulling me into it!

  You’re right. You are. I’m so sorry.

  She doesn’t answer.

  At home, Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway yet, which is a relief. I guess it’s good Dad drove us home. I put Vlad the Rapid and the trailer in the shed and go inside. Mitch’s door is closed and everything feels cold and hollow and wrong.

  I miss my family. Even my stupid self-absorbed brother, who under all his dumb ideas and bad plans just wants the girl he likes to like him back. Wants his dad to come home.

  I open the fridge. I’m not hungry, but maybe I’ll feel better if I eat. Or at least less . . . empty. The only thing that doesn’t require cooking is my leftover Thai from the other night.

  Mitch comes in while I’m microwaving it. He sits at the table and crosses his arms, his face stormy. “She hates me now.”

  “She’s mad at me too.” The microwave beeps and I take my food out.

  He kicks the table leg. “Why’d you let me do that?”

  “Let you? Do you even remember how that conversation went?”

  “I looked so stupid! She right away was like, ‘Is this some dumb white-boy twin-swap crap?’ and I was like, ‘No, it’s me giving you this,’ and I handed her the music box and she—”

  “I don’t need the details.” It’s too pathetic to even think about.

  He drops his head to the table. “I am such. An. Idiot.” He thumps his head on the oak surface with each word.

  I’m not gonna argue with that. I poke my rice with a fork. I should eat, but . . . ugh. To the infinite power.

  I check the weather on my phone. Tonight’s forecast has changed. It’s supposed to get colder sooner, and now it’s going to rain too.

  Mitch sits up and eyes my screen. “What the flip is up with your weather obsession?”

  “None of your business.” I shove the phone in my pocket and leave the kitchen.

  Mom comes home from volunteering at the food bank in a quiet mood, like she usually does after so much socializing, so Mitch and I are spared her all-up-in-your-business game. She just reminds us to get our weekend homework done and make our lunches, and then she spends the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with a book. The cover has a woman in yoga pants sitting cross-legged in a photoshopped flower.

  I bring my homework to the living room and settle into the chair by the window. Mitchell’s angst is leaking through my bedroom wall. I can’t deal with his vibe.

  My English assignment is straightforward, a worksheet that’ll be the basis for an essay, but I keep yawning and sneaking glances at Mom. She looks so . . . unbothered, reading with her legs tucked under her. Not like someone whose husband moved out so he could see another woman. Not like the parent of one kid who doesn’t get girls’ boundaries and another kid who’s been sneaking out every
night and lying and is always two seconds from breakdown.

  Her chill would be so crashed if she knew about Dad. They’d get divorced, probably sell the house. We might live in an apartment, which I’ve never done. Maybe there would be a custody battle. Or maybe not, because Dad doesn’t seem like he wants us. It’s not like he tried that hard to connect today. He just dodged the dog problem and drove us home.

  I wonder how I didn’t notice my photos on his wall.

  Well. Grace.

  I read the last question on the worksheet for the hundredth time and fail to answer it. Again. I can’t stop thinking about Chewbarka all alone in that stinky tent. It’s killing me.

  Mitchell tells Mom his homework is done and asks if he can go to Zach’s house. She says to be back by six thirty for dinner. I’m exhausted after the ride, so I bluff my way through the last question and go collapse in a sorry heap on my bed. The next thing I know, I’m waking up groggy and confused to the sound of Mom calling me for dinner.

  I check the forecast again: still cold and rainy. Still no reply from the last Tina Martin.

  Apparently while I was asleep, Mom looked at GradeFolder, because she’s back to grilling me and Mitch about homework. Trying to manage us like we’re projects at her job. I tell her what she wants to hear while I stare at Dad’s empty chair and think about him having dinner with Grace. Drinking wine. Smiling. Playing footsie under the table.

  It’s hard to eat.

  I blunder through my math homework after, then pretend to get ready for bed. Mom comes in while I’m climbing under the covers and says she’s glad I took a nap, that I look more rested than I have and that she hopes I had a good weekend.

  “I hope you did too,” I say. “How was volunteering?”

  She talks for a while about a family who just lost their apartment because of a rent raise and another where the single mom lost her job. It’s depressing. I listen to the rain on the roof, to the wind picking up. It’s hard to focus on her words while I’m thinking of Chewbarka. What if she’s scared of rain and thunderstorms like Frankie was? What if she’s trying to claw her way out of the tent? What if she does claw out?