The Boy Most Likely To

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “Can you keep holding him for a sec? I gotta hit the head. Or puke. Something.”

  He unfolds himself from the couch, slowly, as if the movement hurts his stomach.

  Calvin stares at me, his barely there reddish eyebrows pulling together, half worried, half cross. All Tim. I pull one minuscule hand out of the blanket, set my finger in his palm.

  “Boy. The stork really dropped you off on the wrong doorstep,” I tell him.

  In six months, I’ll have another sister. Or brother. Nine of us. Patsy’s not even two. Where’s the new baby even going to sleep? Patsy’s still in Mom and Dad’s room. Do Andy and I get him or her bunking with us, while Tim and Calvin occupy the apartment that was going to be my getaway?

  Damn it.

  “The last thing we need around here is another kid to worry about,” I say out loud.

  I don’t notice that Tim has returned until I hear his quiet question. “Are you talking about Cal, or me?”

  I hand over the baby.

  “Figure it out. Babe.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  TIM

  Can’t face Jase, my best friend. Can’t face Samantha, my oldest friend. Can’t face me.

  Tell Nan? My folks? Right.

  Can barely look at Cal. Do all the tending-to-him stuff without meeting his eyes. It helps that he can’t focus his.

  Dom’s out on his ten-day shtick with the fishing fleet, so I call Jake. He’s at work, staying late at Hodges with the soccer team. First day of school. First day of practice. He lets me in the back door of the gym. A door I used to walk through all the time, two schools ago. Before I snuck a joint in the music closet, left in a panic, didn’t notice the spark that had jumped from my sputtering lighter to the cheap-ass choir robe fabric—and nearly burned down Hodges, crenellated buttresses and all.

  “Signed you in for backboard time,” he says. “You can use my racquet.”

  He doesn’t even wait for me to say anything, just takes the handle of the car seat out of my hands and winks at me. “I’ll handle this guy. Go get your head on straight. Head to my office when you’ve blown off enough steam. I know you know the way there. Right near detention.”

  ALICE

  Text from Brad: Ally-baby. Got carried away the other week. No hard feelings? Come for a run? I can at least train you. I will talk! LOL.

  Attached is a shot of him doing burpees at CrossFit.

  Dad has this saying: “Sometimes the best solution is no solution.”

  He means: Don’t rush into decisions you’re not ready to make.

  Not: Decide not to decide.

  I text back. Nice shirt.

  My phone dings. It looks better on the floor. :)

  Brad. No big surprises. No dark corners.

  Another of Dad’s sayings: Less drama, more dishes.

  My fingers move before I think. Brad doesn’t care if I think. What I think. Will you be too beat for the beach?

  He answers with a picture of a Scottie begging.

  I’m not some lapdog, like your Cro-Magnons.

  My thumb freezes over the phone for only an instant. Then I send him a thumbs-up emoji.

  When I reach Brad on the beach, his face breaks into a big smile, then he shuffles his feet in the sand. “I didn’t think you’d really show. I was a moron the other day, right?”

  “You were.” I flop on my back, start stretching out my hamstring. Brad wraps his hand around my ankle, inclines in a little, lengthening the stretch.

  “I thought,” he starts, then shakes his head, “you were ditching me for some other guy. Like that bud of your brother’s who’s always around now. Jealous, y’know? But I thought about it, talked to the Wall-man. Realized that wasn’t it. I mean, you barely have time for me. When would you be hanging with anyone else?”

  It’s a windy day, whitecaps curling on the water, distant buoys rocking wildly, rose hip bushes blowing in the dunes. The ocean is dark green gray. The sky dull. A puff of wind gusts sand into my face, into my mouth, and I cough.

  Brad uncaps a bottle of orange-flavored Gatorade and hands it to me with the swift efficiency of a nurse passing a scalpel.

  After a few deep swallows, I look him in the eye. “I meant it. We can’t date anymore. We are not on a break, or whatever. We’re done, that way.”

  “I heard you,” he says, after a second. “But I think you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re stubborn, Alice.” He takes a swig of Gatorade. “But you’re wrong here. I can wait until you figure it out.”

  “Look, I’m not going to lead you on—”

  “We’ll just see who’s doing the leading. I’m gonna give you a head start on the run, ’kay?”

  I squint at him, my jaw tight. “Don’t baby me.”

  Babe. Baby.

  I shake my head to let everything—boys and babies—blow out to sea in the cold, sandy wind.

  “I don’t need a head start.” I skip the rest of the stretching, use pure annoyance to power my steps and am a good distance away before I realize he gave me a head start anyhow.

  Because he thinks he knows what I need better than I do.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  TIM

  Knock. Knock. Knockknockknockknock.

  Barely light out. Before I even open the door, I know it’s Jase. Who else is up this early but enterprising teen dads like me and guys with a crazy-ass training schedule—and/or a paper route. When I whip open the door, he’s resting his forearm against the jamb, rubbing his hip.

  I’m holding a kid against my shoulder.

  One of those moments that has to be a dream because this is not my life and I want a rewind and a refund. Then Cal squirms and Jase reaches out to steady him, hand on back, eyes meeting mine.

  “Ride along?”

  This is how he knows I’m probably awake. After his dad had the accident, when Samantha broke things off for a while, we got into a habit. Once or twice a week, he’d show up early outside my parents’ house and I’d do the paper route thing with him. Toss the papers that were on my side. Half the time we didn’t even talk. When we did, it was about George’s fear of tsunamis, or the new shipment of paint at the hardware store, or how to get rid of athlete’s foot.

  He has the car seat out of my car, buckled into his in nothing flat. Pulls into Gas and Go and orders two large black coffees for me without having to ask what I want. Tosses me a sleeve of Drake’s cakes and an apple.

  “Mom worries you’re not eating enough.”

  “Yeah, gotta keep my energy up now that I’m breastfeeding.”

  He grins, turning right out of the gas station. “Jesus, Tim. Were you planning on mentioning this any time before I—or the baby—went to college?”

  We pull onto Caldicott Street and he inclines his head toward my window—my turn to throw. I wing the paper at the stoop and it skids and nearly falls off the side.

  “I was working up to it. Not because I thought you’d ream me, just—” So tired of being the fuckup.

  He’s squinting, lining up the perfect shot out the other side, a much farther toss than mine. And yes, smack, centered on the mat.

  “I could do that if you’d let me use a tennis racket, you know.”

  I hit against the backboard at Hodges last night until my arm ached so bad, the racquet was too heavy to lift. Trailed after Jake to a meeting, then went to his house and ate about ten bowls of pasta and meatballs while Jake and his partner traded Cal back and forth between them like the world’s most coveted baseball card (a 1909 Honus Wagner, apparently—Jake is a baseball fanatic).

  “No doubt.” Jase pulls the car forward to the next house, which is one Samantha, Nan, and I used to call The White Witch’s House when we were little because the whole front yard is cluttered with statues of lions and rearing horses and dudes on horseback and this fountain with a kid peeing water into it.

  We’re quiet for the next four houses. He pops some cinnamon gum. I pound the
first cup of coffee in three scalding gulps, scarf one of the coffee cakes, fiddle with the radio, flipping channels until he reaches over and punches the off button. Our little ritual.

  Jase doesn’t have a lot of nervous habits. But now he’s biting his lip, edging around in his seat like the peeling leather’s stuffed with barbed wire and hot rocks.

  “What’s doing?” I ask, staring straight ahead.

  “Wishing life were more like football.” He tosses another paper.

  “But then I’d suck at it even worse.”

  “Yeah, but . . . you know, the rules are defined.” He lets out an unconvincing laugh. “Chaos, but controlled chaos. You have some discipline, you use your head, you put the team first—it works.” He sighs. “Everything’s such a mess since Dad got hurt.”

  I grope for something wise to say.

  “Yeah, it blows.”

  Fail miserably.

  “But,” I add, “still seems like it’s working. I mean—you’re training, in the game, still showing up for stuff. The rest of the family—it’s working. Right?”

  Christ, now I’m asking him to tell me stuff is okay.

  “Dad and Mom say just to keep doing what we’re all doing. Every day I wake up and try to figure out what matters most.” He’s pushed the gas pedal a little too hard and we’ve gone past the right house. Jase reverses, moves back, and lobs the paper onto the stoop.

  Another genius throw.

  “Getting a scholarship? Samantha? The store? Grades? Trying to help keep things sane at home? What about next year—assuming I can go to college—are things gonna be on an even keel with my family by then? And if not, can I really just take off?”

  “Have you talked to your dad about this?”

  Jase hands me two copies of the paper and indicates the house nearest me. “They fight over the newspaper, the couple who lives there. Used to stand on the stoop and practically engage in hand-to-hand combat. Now I just give ’em an extra for free. Dad and Mom say to focus on school and ball. But the store is . . .”

  Out it comes in a rush—Garrett’s Hardware is circling the drain, fast. Bank loans coming due. Not enough income. Not enough to hire anyone to cover. Where Joel is. Mr. Garrett’s medical crap. Jase’s football stuff. Alice, what Alice plans to do.

  I hold up a hand halfway through this last, halting part, which Jase doesn’t even see, because he’s pulled over, talking with his head tipped back against the seat, eyes shut, like saying this all is shitty-tasting medicine he has to force down his throat.

  “I got this, Jase. I can cover the store. No problem. I mean—what the hell else do I have going on?”

  He starts laughing. “Sure. Life’s just one big party for you. Except for, oh, him.” He points a thumb toward the backseat.

  “Well, isn’t there a ‘take your kid to work’ day? He’s portable. Weighs less than your gym bag. Besides—it’s only a few weeks with him. A month, maybe. Then he’s history.” As I say this, I hear this little snuffle from the back, Cal moving around, making himself known.

  Jase studies me for a second. “A month, huh? Why wait that long? Doorsteps all over the place around here.”

  I laugh. “You’d have to do the toss—no way would I get the landing right.”

  Glance to the backseat myself. Kid’s kicked that blanket off his feet. Doesn’t like the covered-up thing. The socks will be next.

  Jase ticks off the other things I’m supposed to be doing too, meetings, GED, and I shoot them down like we’re playing that video game Andy and Duff are so crazy about, Allied Aces or whatever the hell it’s called. “And you don’t need to pay me. I’ve still got my allowance, and I’ve cut waaaaaay down on expenses, if you know what I mean.”

  Got my allowance through December, anyway. Well before the new year, Cal’ll be gone and I can forget this whole chapter. Maybe Pop will be impressed with my initiative here anyway. Singlehandedly Saved Struggling Store—that’s got to look better to him than Stayed Sober. Or Sired Son.

  “What about the other night?” Jase asks, bending down to my feet, where another stack of papers is tied up, pulling a Swiss Army knife to cut the rope.

  Yeah. That.

  “I fucked up,” I say. “But not all the way.”

  He presses his lips together, looks weirdly like Alice for a second, puts the car into gear, and rolls forward a few houses. I try to read his profile, but get served a helping of Jase Blank Face, his bland, I’m just a jock look. He throws yet another newspaper, another flawless-without-even-trying toss and, hell knows why but there’s that rage, white-bright as lightning.

  I slouch down in my seat and mutter, “Hard to explain this crap to someone who never makes mistakes. The guy who fixes everything. Text me if the plunger breaks.”

  Jase balls up one hand on the steering wheel, sets his jaw. Stares straight ahead for a second, and then finally starts in on me, his voice low and furious. “Stop it. I can’t even talk to you when you pull this crap. It’s like you climb into a time-out corner, with the I’m some poor, misbegotten creature you can’t possibly understand garbage. You know me better than that. Like everything I touch turns to gold? Jesus, Tim, I wish.”

  My face heats. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t be sorry. Be—here. Instead of in some swamp in your head.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You want mistakes? I got plenty.” Turns to me, props his elbow next to the headrest. “Apparently I should have made a collage video of my game highlights and uploaded it to YouTube months ago, so coaches could review it for the scholarship thing. Didn’t. No one told me to, and I was too dumb or preoccupied or whatever to think ahead and come up with it myself. I mean, all the colleges that might work for me aren’t going to be sending scouts to Stony Bay, Connecticut. But I didn’t plan ahead. Speaking of which, Sam and I nearly—um—” His face turns this deep, dull red color. “We were at the bonfire and—I didn’t have—”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yikes, man.”

  “Sam’s mom would love that, right? If I couldn’t get to college and the baby in the car seat was mine next time? Just what she expects from me. To stupidly blow away my future and Samantha’s too.” His voice is bitter.

  Exactly what she probably expects. He’s one of “those Garretts” to Samantha’s mom, like I’m “What now Tim” with my folks.

  Silence while I try to figure out how to say I’m sorry in a way that actually means something and Jase rolls up about ten more newspapers, snapping rubber bands around them.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he says finally. “I mean, you know her better than I do, but—”

  “You’re right. It’s prolly what she expects,” I admit. “My advice: If you’re going to mess up, score points for creativity. Do it in a way ol’ Gracie would never imagine. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  He grins, anger gone like it was never there. How does he do that?

  “This was bad. I feel guilty, Sam feels guilty. It’s been a lousy week. Plus her mom’s doing something, putting pressure on her, and I don’t know how or where or why. Every time I ask, she just changes the subject.”

  “I’m sure you have ways of getting her to talk,” I say mildly.

  Jase jiggles his leg, and then winces. “I haven’t even told her what I’ve told you. She’s got swim tryouts this week—”

  “Garrett, the spare-the-girlfriend-spare-the-boyfriend junk never works out for you two. Come on.”

  He passes me a paper and I toss it haphazardly, so it lands in a bush. I have to get out and retrieve it. The slamming car door wakes up Cal, who starts bawling.

  Jase pulls over and I drag the kid out and do the patting-the-back thing. He’d better not be hungry, because I forgot to bring a bottle or the diaper bag or anything. I put my knuckle in his mouth and he sucks on it, loud slurpy sounds.

  “All that with Dad was probably what was going on when Alice jumped all over you the other day,” Jase says, slanting me a look. Cal’s clenching and unclenching his fists i
n my shirt, and I concentrate on unbending his little fingers and freeing myself, heat rushing to my face so fast, my ears burn.

  “Uh—what?” Alice wouldn’t have said anything about the beach to Jase—would she?

  Fuck, should I? But there’s nothing to say. Me and Alice = nowhere now.

  I get Cal buckled back in and slide into the passanger seat.

  “Getting on your back about Cal.” Jase shifts gears as we head onto Shore Road, looping around by the river. “It’s not like her to play the blame game like that. Things are getting under her skin these days.”

  Not the moment to think about Alice’s skin. Anything of hers.

  He’s focused hard on the road, even though it’s pin-straight and we’re clocking two miles an hour. He clears his throat. “Maybe not the best time to—uh—start something with Alice.”

  “What, you don’t think my plan to sex it up with your sister, make another baby, and move us all into the garage apartment is flawless?”

  “Dial down the default-dick mode, Mase. I know Al well enough to know no one gets close without permission. It’s just— Forget it. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “Hey, not a big deal. But Jase, Jesus, tell Samantha what’s up. Saying nothing about real shit—that’s the Mason family way, which, trust me, is a one-way ticket through the Looking Glass to the land of up is down, wrong is right.”

  And like a show-and-tell of what I just said, I spot a figure standing on the sidewalk three houses away from us, windbreaker hood up, shoulders hunched against the river breeze, one hand twisting a lock of her hair, just a little lighter, but unmistakably similar to Cal’s. Nano. Right in front of her, slouched casually against the bed of a beat-up old dune buggy, longish hair blowing back, good old Troy Rhodes.

  I watch him tap her on the back with the hand nearer me, and I can’t see—is he slipping something into her windbreaker pocket with the other hand? Fuckketty fuck fuck.

  I duck down.

  Jase looks at me quizzically. “You planning on lying on the floorboards and asking me to gun the car? What happened to getting things out in the open?”