Hero-Type
Page 21
Leah comes running behind me, much to my surprise.
"Kevin, wait!"
I turn to take my medicine, but she's just holding out the picture to me. "Here. I want you to have it."
Say what? I've been stressing over this thing for days and now she's just gonna give it back to me?
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me to have it?"
She shrugs. "I don't know. Because you want it, I guess."
"Leah, I..." I struggle with the words. "I stole it."
"Yeah, I know. But ... I don't know. I guess it's not a big deal. I was wondering where it went. I figured it blew off the mirror and got lost somewhere. Look," she says, "if you'd asked me for it, I would have been fine with it. It's OK for you to have it. Just don't, y'know, put it up on the 'net or anything."
Like I would. I reach out to take the picture, because suddenly I do want it. I don't have my tapes anymore and I have no shot with Leah, but at least I can have the picture, right? And guilt-free this time because she's offering it to me...
And how pathetic is that? We haven't said the obvious yet. We haven't said that I'm clearly, sadly in love with her and that she's not in love with me.
There, I said it: in love. Sounds really stupid, too.
"Hey," she says suddenly. "I like your bumper stickers."
I've covered up the mayor's stickers with the two I special-ordered: One is red, white, and blue and says, Support Free Speech. The other is yellow and says, Think for Yourself.
"Thanks." I mumble it. I wonder what her boyfriend would think of them and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying it.
She drops her hand to her side. "Kevin, is something wrong?"
Yeah, everything's pretty much wrong. But I'm not going to tell her that.
"Are you angry at me?" She says it with such concern and such worry that there are two things that bubble up inside me. One is How could I ever be angry at you? but the other one is—
"Why are you dating him?" And oh shit I said it out loud! What the hell?
She blinks. "I don't get it."
"You keep telling me you're on my side on this whole free speech thing, but then you go off with John and—"
"The two don't have anything to do with each other."
"How can you say that? He's like a ... a...Neanderthal." Oh, smooth, Kross—impress the girl you're crushing on by insulting her boyfriend.
"God, Kevin! I'm not marrying him. It's just high school."
"Yeah, well ... I'm not gonna stop. The free speech stuff, I mean. Crazy J sort of made people forget, but I'm not going to let them keep forgetting. I'm going to make more noise."
"That's fine. I think it's great. I really do."
"But you won't stand up to John. You won't tell him he's full of it."
"I respect you. I'm dating John. I like him. We have fun together. I'm not looking for a political ally."
Well, what do I say to that?
"I didn't know how you felt," she goes on. "You never told me, and now you come here and get all pissed at me because I never acted on something I didn't know about? Is that it? Did you think I would somehow magically know how you felt about me?"
The worst part? Yeah. Yeah, I did. God, that's pathetic.
"Did you think you could just come here and tell me how ... Hell, you never even told me anything—you just came here with the picture."
OK, now that's the worst part.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"What do you want, Kevin?"
"To be friends?" I blurt out before I'm even aware I'm going to say it.
She laughs. "Of course we're friends. You saved my life. And I think you should go on talking about what you believe in because it means a lot to you. And I believe it, too, but I guess I don't care as much as you do. I wish I did, but I don't. And that really, really makes me honored that you still want to be my friend." She smiles at me, smiles like the picture, and it's a smile for me and to me and that's just amazing.
"Now take your damn picture." She holds it up again.
I reach out for it. And I can't help myself—I'm smiling at her, matching her grin with my own, smiling even though I hate my smile, my lips peeled back, and I don't care what I look like in this moment and she doesn't care; we're just two friends.
I take the picture from her.
And something occurs to me.
"Hey, Leah?"
"What?"
"Who did you vote for?"
She freezes up. "I don't ... What do you mean?"
"After the debate. Who did you vote for?"
"What does that matter?"
"It was a secret ballot. No one would know who you voted for. So tell me."
But she doesn't need to. I know. Because if it was me, she would have told me right away. She voted for Riordon. Not even because she believes him, but just ... because. Because whatever. Because it doesn't matter to her.
And it does matter to me. A lot.
It's like a switch is flipped inside my head and my stomach. And all that obsession just ... goes away.
Fam was right.
I'm suddenly seeing Leah for the first time. As a person. Not an ideal. Not some unobtainable thing. And you know what? Leah's not perfect. She's not a goddess. I mean, duh, right? But she's just sort of ... OK.
She's even—God, I can't believe it!—sort of shallow.
Why would I want that for a girlfriend or an obsession or whatever?
It all hits me in that moment. I used to think—like, two minutes ago!—I was in love with Leah, but obsession isn't love. I know the truth now. I was just using her. Using some idea of her as a distraction from Mom and Jesse.
Yeah, I know her favorite color and where she lives and what she does for Christmas, but I didn't know her. Until now.
So, this picture ... I don't need it or want it anymore.
"You know what, Leah? It's OK. You keep it."
I hand it back to her.
"But ... But..." She looks down at it. "Just because of the debate. Is that all? Just because..."
And I smile.
I smile my real, honest smile.
"Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. Thanks for everything," I say. "Really. I had a good time at your party. I'm sorry again about the picture. That was stupid. Bye."
And then I get into my car, and I don't look back.
Tell the truth, it's the most heroic thing I've ever done.
Safety Valve
Epilogue
"CALL ME FROM EACH LAYOVER," Dad says, handing me the prepaid cell phone. "And call your mother, too."
"I know, Dad."
It's the third day of summer vacation and we're standing near the security gate at the airport. My flight leaves in an hour, but the security line is short, so I'm not worried about rushing.
"It's only got a few hours on it," he goes on, "so don't waste them calling your friends or anything."
"Jeez, Dad, I know."
So, yeah, I'm getting on a plane. Heading to California to see what I can find there, if I can find me there, or maybe just another version of me, a better version. Because we can always be better, right?
All I know is this: There's a piece of me missing. It's been missing since Mom and Jesse went out there, and I tried to fill the hole with Leah and that didn't work out so well. So now I'm opening up my own safety valve, like the pioneers did way back when. Going west. Because maybe that part of me that's missing is in California.
Anyway, like Dad said, it's one thing to run away. From Leah. From the Council. From the endless debates. There's nothing wrong with running away. The trick is running back.
"You better get in line," Dad says. He's right—the line's gotten a little bit longer while we were saying goodbye.
I give him a hug. He pats me on the back. Before I go, though, I fish around in my pocket and hand Dad the key to Brookdale.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, surprised.
He closes his fist on the key and shakes his head slowly. "Why not?"
"Because this way, I have to come back for it."
Author's Note
EVERY DAY, SOLDIERS, MARINES, AIRMEN, AND SAILORS return from overseas with injuries that take time to heal. In some cases, it takes a lifetime.
If you'd like to support them, consider donating to the Yellow Ribbon Fund. The Yellow Ribbon Fund assists the families and friends of servicemen and servicewomen so that they can visit the wounded as they recuperate at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital.
In addition, the fund also offers mentoring and internship programs to returning servicemen and servicewomen so that they can begin to reintegrate with the civilian world.
Many of those who return from combat overseas are amputees or have sustained otherwise life-altering injuries. Having their friends and families with them while recuperating is the best medicine in the world. The Yellow Ribbon Fund helps make that possible.
Visit the fund at www.yellowribbonfund.org. Even if you feel like you can't do much on your own, you can always consider organizing a fundraiser at your school, church, or community center.
And don't forget—in just about every community in the country, there are many, many residents now serving overseas. Ask around; you'll find it's easy to get names from those who live around you. Then go to your local post office and ask about sending a care package—it will be well appreciated by those serving in the field.
Acknowledgments
It is both safe and accurate to say that this book would not exist (at least not in any form worth reading) without the persistence and assistance of my agent, Kathy Anderson, and my editor, Margaret Raymo. Ladies, without you this book would have been half as long ... and nowhere near half as good. Thank you.
Thank you, too, to Lois Szymanski, who told me the story that inspired the book.
The Award for Redundancy Award goes to Robin Brande and Molly Krichten, both of whom read multiple drafts and never complained. (At least, not to me.)
Special thanks to Zac Tine and Eric Lyga for reading that first, awful draft.
Extra-special thanks to Liz Dubelman because I've never thanked her in print and she deserves it.
Last but not least, I want to thank Kenneth C. Wright Sr. His stories of his days as a Marine in Vietnam and his quiet dignity in reliving them made me understand what real support entails, not just the easy and superficial kind. Thanks for doing a thankless job.