Things You Can't Say

by Jenn Bishop

  Talking about Dad like he’s still around is starting to seriously weird me out, so I switch subjects real fast. “What grade are you going into?”

  “Seventh.”

  “Me too. You going to school in town?”

  “I’m on the waiting list for Moses Brown.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a private school.” Audrey reaches for her earbuds.

  I know it doesn’t entirely make sense, but for some reason I still want to talk to her. It would be nice to get along with the person I’m going to be spending all my summer weekdays with. “Hey, what were you listening to?” I ask.

  “Puccini,” she says, rubbing one of the earbuds between her fingers.

  “Is that some new band?”

  Audrey snorts. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m going to go with no?”

  “Puccini is opera, Drew.”

  Opera? What seventh grader listens to opera?

  And just like that, Audrey pops her earbuds back in and pretends I don’t exist. I try to do the same, but if I’m going to be totally honest, it doesn’t work. Whether I like it or not, I have a feeling I’m stuck with Audrey for the rest of the summer.

  2

  THWUMP. THE BALL FILIPE PASSES hits me square in the chest, then bounces down the driveway. Wiping sweat off my forehead, I scramble after it, snagging it just as it reaches the rhododendron bush by his front door.

  “What—you thinking about some girl? Willa again? I told you, no way is she going to be interested in either of us. Time to give it up, Drew.”

  I dribble the ball a little bit and go in for a layup. The ball swishes through the net and I catch it in my other hand.

  “No …” I laugh and bounce-pass back to my friend so he can take a shot. “Not Willa.”

  “Someone else?” Filipe’s eyebrows shoot up as he dribbles the ball in place.

  “Not like that. Trust me. Just—there’s this new girl at the library. Audrey. She—” It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly it is about Audrey that drives me nuts. It’s everything about her. How she clearly doesn’t want to be there—thinks she’s too good to work at the library—yet at the same time she’s totally kissing Mrs. Eisenberg’s butt with all the techie stuff. “She’s just … the worst. I asked her what she was listening to, right? And it was opera. Opera!”

  “Well, she does hang out at the library. What’d you expect?”

  I shoot Filipe a look. He’s been making little jabs at my library gig since school let out.

  The thing is, the library is supposed to be my place. That first summer after Dad died, Mom signed me up for summer camp at the Rec. Same one Filipe and I had been going to since we were in kindergarten. But every day, I barely made it through the first half hour before I lost it—I’d puke—and Mom had to come pick me up.

  It wasn’t that I was actually sick. It was more like after what happened with Dad, I couldn’t handle being away from my mom. Didn’t really trust anyone anymore. How could I? Camp was eight hours long, but those eight hours felt like eight years. I’d done story hour with Mrs. Eisenberg when I was little and she told Mom she didn’t mind watching me. There were plenty of other kids whose parents “took advantage” of her already, and I wasn’t half as much trouble as they were.

  Mom probably thought it’d just be for a week. That after a few days with an old lady like Mrs. Eisenberg, I’d be dying to be back at camp with all the other kids my age.

  But I wasn’t. I loved hanging out down there, helping with the little kids, knowing that Mom was just upstairs. For the first time since Dad died, I felt safe. A few days turned into a week, turned into three summers now. Mrs. Eisenberg says she can start paying me next summer as part of the page-in-training program.

  But now, out of nowhere, I’ve got this Audrey girl all up in my space. What if Mrs. Eisenberg thinks her STEM program is more exciting than my zombie story hour? She wouldn’t take that away from me … would she?

  “Drew! You think I can make this one?” Filipe is halfway up a tree at the edge of his yard, but somehow he still has the basketball in one hand. How does he do it?

  “Um … no.”

  This is how it’s always been. Filipe thinking he can do ridiculous stuff, and then falling on his face. But ever since he made the U13 soccer team earlier this year, it’s like he’s got superpowers. At least when it comes to sports.

  How’d he suddenly get so strong and so … good?

  “Let’s see!” Filipe shouts down at me.

  He won’t have enough momentum. No way. Not with his legs clinging to the tree. He thrusts the ball toward the net, but it dips too low too fast and bounces on the pavement, heading for the open garage.

  I’ve just snagged it from beneath Mr. Nunes’s workbench when I hear a motorcycle.

  Thrum thrum Thrumthrumthrumthrumthrum.

  Did Filipe’s older brother, Anibal, get a bike? It sputters as it comes to a stop, but it doesn’t pull into Filipe’s driveway as it slows down. It pulls into mine.

  Filipe’s staring at the thing with his mouth open. “Nice ride.”

  I give the ball a few bounces and watch as the man props up his motorcycle. He removes his helmet and carries it over to my front door. Is he lost? Maybe he’s one of those people who goes door-to-door selling stuff. Or trying to save the environment.

  Mom left a little while ago to pick up Xander from his friend’s house, so there’s nobody there to answer the door. I stop bouncing the ball. “Come on,” I say to Filipe.

  “You want to go over there?”

  “Yeah,” I say. For a second, I forget that Filipe doesn’t get it. Without my dad now, I’m the second most in charge. At his house, he’s got Anibal and his mom and his dad. Filipe’s never had to be responsible for anything. “What if he’s trying to case the house?” Okay, not super likely, but it could happen.

  “Drew, be serious.”

  “You never know.”

  We have to wait at the edge of his driveway forever while some lady on her cell phone in a Prius slowly creeps up the street.

  “He’s probably just lost,” Filipe says.

  Finally the Prius passes us and we dart across the street. The truth is, when my mom isn’t home, I’m not supposed to answer the door. For the past two years, she’s let me stay home alone—finally—so long as I follow that rule. But Mr. Chapman next door is out watering his garden, so I think we’re in the clear.

  “Can I help you?” I ask the man loudly, standing my ground.

  The motorcycle guy turns and slips his sunglasses up onto his hair. It’s curly brown, but with the littlest bit of gray at his temples. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably around my mom’s age—early forties. Yeah, he’s definitely too old to be going door-to-door to save the environment. “Drew, right? I’m Phil.” He reaches out his hand, like this is the right time and place for a handshake. He’s smiling at me like he knows me, but I’ve never seen the dude before in my life. So how does he know my name?

  I keep my hand right where it is and flash Filipe a Who is this guy eyeball. Filipe only shrugs.

  “Look, I think you’ve got the wrong house or something,” I say, ignoring the fact that he somehow knows my name. I’m starting to wish we hadn’t come over here in the first place. Maybe if we’d stayed across the street at Filipe’s, he would’ve rung the doorbell, waited a minute, and just left.

  He slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. They’re all beat up and worn, not at all like the jeans my dad used to wear.

  “I’m sorry, Kayla—your mom, she didn’t …”

  Wait. This guy knows my mom? From where?

  He’s still staring at me, like he expects me to figure this out myself. I glance at Filipe, but he looks as confused as I probably do.

  “Oh, jeez.” He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “My phone died on the road. The plans changed and I decided to swing up through Rhode Island first and … what am I say
ing? You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” He takes a few steps toward his motorcycle. “I’m real sorry for throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans. When’s your mom supposed to get back, Drew—wait, is that short for Andrew?” There’s this weird look on his face all of a sudden, almost like he wants to smile but he’s stopping himself.

  “Yeah,” I say. The second it comes out, I regret it. Why does he need to know? And what’s he talking about? Plans? He and my mom, they made plans? Since when?

  “You know what? I saw a coffee shop back a little ways. I bet they’ll let me charge my phone there. Tell your mom I stopped by, all right? I’ll give her a call.”

  He has her phone number?

  “Okay … ,” I say. He’s already on his bike, revving it up. “Wait,” I shout. “What’s your name again?”

  He shakes his head like he can’t hear me.

  “Your! Name!” I shout again.

  He cuts the engine. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s Phil.” And then he revs it up again.

  Filipe and I just stand there, watching as his motorcycle heads back down our street.

  It’s only as he leaves that I realize I’ve been clenching my stomach the whole time.

  3

  “I DIDN’T KNOW YOUR MOM had a boyfriend,” Filipe says as we walk back toward his house.

  “A boyfriend?” I choke on a laugh. “No way.” I’ve never seen that guy before in my life. Besides, Mom would tell me if she had a boyfriend.

  The couple times she went out on dates earlier this year, trust me, you couldn’t miss it. She emptied out her whole closet on her bed trying to figure out what to wear. The upstairs reeked of perfume.

  Each time, she sat Xan and me down beforehand to let us know where she was going and all the details. But that was it. A first date, never a second. All that fuss for nothing. She says online dating’s way harder than it looks in the movies.

  No, there’s no way she could be dating that guy. Not in a million years. For one, she’s always around in the evening. When would they have even been on a date?

  Maybe he’s some patron from the library who’s got a crush on her. Honestly, the more I think about it, it’s the only thing that makes any sense. He must’ve overheard her talking about me one day at the library. And then looked up our address online. It’s super creepy. Like, stalker-ish, really. It’s a good thing I had Filipe there as backup.

  Next thing I know, Filipe’s trying to twirl the ball on the tip of his finger like he’s the newest Harlem Globetrotter. I snatch it real fast, and then we both dart across the street, playing one-on-one like nothing happened. Like some strange guy on a motorcycle didn’t just stop by my house looking for my mom.

  It’s not until Mrs. Nunes lays on her horn so she can squeeze past us and into the garage that I remember I still need to take out the chicken to defrost for dinner. She gets out of the car, their old husky, Tobey, climbing out after her. I still can’t believe she gets to take Tobey to work with her. Maybe I’ll be an architect when I grow up if it means I can bring a pet with me every day.

  Tobey heads right for me, his snout sticking up in the air. “Hey, Tobes.” I pat his head and give him a good scratch around the ears. “Hey, Mrs. N.”

  “Nice to see you, Drew.” She asks Filipe, “How’s that free throw coming along?”

  “Fine.”

  I toss the ball to Filipe, who takes a shot to demonstrate. The ball bounces off the rim.

  “I made ten in a row earlier,” he says. “I swear.”

  “I’ll bet you did.” Mrs. Nunes whistles for Tobey. “Come on, Tobes. Let’s go get supper ready.”

  I wipe some sweat off my forehead, remembering the chicken again. “Be right back,” I shout, jogging down the driveway.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got to defrost the—never mind. I’ll be back in like five seconds.”

  Filipe mutters something under his breath. It sounds like he says, “Whatever.”

  Whatever, Filipe. The chicken can’t exactly defrost itself.

  Back home, I take the chicken out of the freezer and place it in a glass dish to defrost in the refrigerator. I’m pouring myself a glass of water when I hear stones skittering on the side of the driveway.

  The front door bursts open, and in shoots my little brother, making a beeline for the bathroom. “I have to pee! I have to pee! I have to peeeeee!”

  Someday Xander will stop announcing every bathroom visit, but today is not that day.

  Mom comes in behind him. “Hey, hon.” She ruffles my hair. “Gosh, you’re sweaty. Do you want to take a shower before we get started on supper?”

  “This guy stopped by while you were gone,” I start to say, when Xander zooms around the corner and flings open the fridge.

  “Mom, I need a snack!”

  “How about some carrots and hummus?” Mom says.

  Xan scrunches his nose up at hummus. “How about some cookies?”

  Mom shakes her head at him. “Not this close to dinner, bud. How about …” She rummages through the fridge. “Sorry, Drew. Can you say that again? Someone stopped by? Did he leave a name?”

  I didn’t know your mom had a boyfriend.

  My stomach clenches again as I try to remember exactly what he said. He got all flustered. And he said something about plans changing. Plans, like … a date? No way, though. He definitely wasn’t dressed for a date. Not with those ratty jeans.

  “Who do you know who rides a motorcycle anyway?”

  Mom jerks her head, banging it against the inside of the fridge. That has to hurt. She rubs at it while handing Xan a string cheese, and reaches for her cell phone on the counter. She types something in and presses it to her ear, rubbing that spot on her head with her other hand.

  “Do you want an ice pack?” I open the freezer, looking for the soft kind Mom uses when Xan or I hurt ourselves.

  When I spin around, she’s already put her phone down and now she’s at the sink filling up one of the biggest pots. The kind she only uses when we’re having pasta for dinner.

  “But what about the chicken?”

  She adds a dash of salt to the pot and click-click-clicks the gas on beneath it.

  Okay, she must have really hit her head.

  “Mom?”

  She doesn’t answer right away.

  “Mom, who was that guy?”

  It’s not until she turns around that I can finally see her face. She’s doing the same thing that guy on the motorcycle was doing, that same thing with her mouth. Like she wants to smile, but she’s stopping herself from doing it. Who stops themselves from smiling? Who smiles like that after they just whacked their head?

  “This isn’t how I planned to tell you,” she says. My stomach goes all tight again. I can’t believe she kept this from me. Filipe was right.

  “Are you … dating him?”

  “No.” Mom shakes her head. “Not at all, hon. I haven’t seen Phil in years.” She pulls up a chair at the table and gestures for me to take the other one. “He’s an old friend of mine from high school. He put out a call on Facebook for places to crash as he makes his way across the country on his motorcycle. Things got all turned around and he’s swinging into Rhode Island a little earlier than expected.”

  “He’s going to stay here? In our house?”

  Mom tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, Drew. We’re only talking a few days. We’ve had my friends stay here before. Remember when Laura came out for Thanksgiving last year?”

  That’s different, though. Laura’s a girl. Plus, I’d met her before. She’s not some random guy just appearing at our house one day, no advance notice, no nothing.

  “I can see how it must have been confusing for you to have him stop by before I told you, and I’m sorry about that. But sometimes things just don’t go according to plan, right?”

  Xander runs into the kitchen. “Drew! My show stopped. Can you fix it?” I don’t exactly have a choice—Xan practically drags me into the living room
.

  I glance back at Mom, trying to make sense of what she just said as Filipe’s words ring through my head. Her explanation doesn’t entirely add up, though. Not really. There’s something different about Mom, something that changed the moment I mentioned that guy. I just can’t put my finger on what.

  Reaching up above the TV in the living room, I reboot the wireless. It takes a minute, but then Xander’s show starts playing again.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  My brother’s eyes are glued to the screen. I swear I stop existing once the TV is on.

  When I’m back in the kitchen, Mom asks, “Can you grab some spinach from the fridge?” I hate how she says it like everything’s okay, like there’s nothing messed up at all about this perfect stranger suddenly joining us for dinner.

  Why didn’t she say something before? When she first knew he might come? If he’s really just a friend like Laura, she would. No, she’s not telling me everything. I don’t know why, but she’s not, and that’s what hurts the most. I’m not little like Xander. I can handle the truth.

  I jerk open the fridge door a little too hard and the pickle jars clink together. When I go to pull out the drawer for the veggies, it comes right off in my hand. It takes three tries to get it back into place.

  “Drew.” Mom turns around to face me. “That’s enough.”

  I toss a bag of spinach onto the kitchen table. It slides across and then falls to the floor.

  Mom eyeballs me, but she doesn’t say anything more about it. Sometimes silence is the worst. “Can you finish making dinner while I tidy up a bit?”

  So maybe she didn’t know he was coming tonight. Maybe she’s not lying about that part.

  “I’d really appreciate it. You’ve been doing such a good job with that artichoke sauce. And we have a few cans in the pantry.” Her eyes linger on me, pleading.

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  She mouths “thank you” and snatches the laundry basket from the dining room before heading up the stairs.

  I heat up some olive oil in a pan and start chopping onions and garlic. Once I have those sizzling on the stove top, I set four place mats on the table, and grab the cans of artichoke hearts and peeled tomatoes from the pantry. Is there any smell better than garlic in olive oil? Well, maybe warm chocolate chip cookies. Still, the smell of the sauce coming together calms me down a notch.