Things You Can't Say

by Jenn Bishop

  Finally we flip to a picture that’s more obvious: a crisp shot of the Washington Monument.

  Phil peers at the photograph. “The eighth-grade class trip!”

  “You went to Washington, DC?”

  “We fund-raised all year for this. Now, you asked why the photos are so blurry. That’s because, shock of all shocks, back then we couldn’t see what we were taking a picture of.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you could see it.”

  “Nope.” Phil laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not like it is with your smartphones. Back then you had to put a roll of film into a camera and actually look through the viewfinder. You couldn’t zoom or focus. You never really knew how things would turn out until you dropped the film off and got the photos back a few days later.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “That’s growing up in the nineties for you.”

  We flip through a bunch of out-of-focus shots, a few photos taken outside the White House, and then we get to one that makes Phil yelp so loud I almost jump. “What?”

  “I haven’t thought about her in years. No—decades.” The girl in the picture is off to the side, wearing a big teal-and-purple sweatshirt and braces.

  “Who is she?”

  “Heather Spencer. The crush to end all crushes. Or so I thought.”

  I squint to try to see it, but no, that girl just looks weird. “Was there anyone my dad liked? You know, a girl?”

  “Oh, believe me. I know.” Phil flips through the photos again. “Renée Cassidy.”

  Never heard of her, but I guess that’s not a big surprise. “Did she like him back?” Phil throws his head back and laughs. “So no?”

  “Well, maybe? Let’s just say we never got to the bottom of that question. Back in seventh grade, Jimmy was way, way too shy to ask a girl out. Not that I didn’t try to make him.”

  “You did? How?”

  “This probably sounds like ancient history to you, but back in the nineties, we didn’t have Snapchat or Instagram, so it was all about notes. Handwritten notes.”

  “Like the ones at the bottom of this box?”

  “Exactly. You know what? He probably saved some good ones. Luckily for him, Jimmy didn’t stay shy forever.”

  Jimmy. It feels weird to hear him call my dad that. Like he was a whole different person back then. But then, maybe he was.

  We finish flipping through that set of pictures. Before I decide on the next thing, I clear my throat. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I don’t really know how to say this. I mean, it might be rude to ask.…”

  Phil shakes his head. “Shoot.”

  “What happened to your brother? He and I, we have the same name, right?”

  “You do. Well, he went by Andy.”

  I repeat the name quietly. “Andy.”

  “Andy was two years younger than me. He was my shadow, you know? Well, of course you do—you have Xander. Andy died of brain cancer the summer before I started eighth grade.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Me too, Drew.” Phil runs his hand through his hair. “When you’re young and someone dies—especially someone that close to you—it shapes you. I had to grow up real fast. One day I was still a kid and the next, I wasn’t, you know?”

  The thing is, I do.

  “I don’t know who I’d be if Andy were still alive.”

  “You think you’d be different?”

  “All the choices I’ve made since then, I feel like I had to really live my life. Not just be a passenger along for the ride. That’s why I traveled for so long. It’s why I bike. The bike ride this summer, it was a way to honor Andy’s life by raising money for cancer research. There have been a lot of medical advances since Andy died, but we still have a long way to go. This summer is the thirtieth anniversary of his death. Thirty years.”

  It’s only been three years since Dad died. Well, three years, five months, and—counting the days is too hard. Thirty, though. One day it will be thirty years since Dad was gone. That feels like so many.

  “Do you think my dad—do you think he named me after him?”

  “I’d like to think he did, but to be honest, Drew, I don’t know for sure. You could ask your mom, though. Your dad and I hadn’t been in touch for so long.” Phil takes in a slow breath. “Look, I want you to know, if you ever want to talk about your dad, if you’ve got questions about anything from back then, anytime, I’m just a phone call or video chat away. For you, and for Xan.”

  I scan over the boxes in front of me, all of them packed to the brim. Each item with a story, a memory, something about Dad I’d probably never know otherwise. I want to know it all, but it’s not something we’re going to do tonight and be done with. I’ll be unpacking these boxes for weeks, months. Years? I’ll be unpacking Dad forever.

  I reach in and pull out a small, slightly wrinkled trifold. A playbill for Aladdin. “Our first play,” Phil says. “Well, just children’s community theater. No Broadway for us.”

  There are signatures—sorry, autographs—from the cast members. I open it up, searching for the cast list. “Who was Dad?” I ask. But before Phil answers, I see it. He was Aladdin.

  “The man, the myth, the legend. Aladdin himself.”

  “Wait, and who were you?” I have to keep going down the list a while until I see Phil Pittman listed. Street urchin.

  “I was more of a behind-the-scenes guy, to be honest. Loved making the sets, plus hanging out with everyone.”

  My dad was the star. “How about my dad?”

  “Well, I’m not sure Jimmy always believed in himself, which is crazy to think about because he was talented. He could sing and act, the whole package. Well, minus the dancing. Oof. He sure could test the choreographer. No, your dad had this special charisma. You couldn’t not watch Jimmy McCormack onstage. But even offstage, at least then, he had this nervous energy about him. I think that’s true of a lot of actors.”

  My eyes smart for a second. I wish I could see it, that I could’ve been there somehow to see that version of my dad.

  “You know, he’s probably got a recording somewhere.” Phil digs through the box a little. “Yup!” He pulls out a VHS tape with Aladdin written on the yellowed tape down the side.

  “I don’t think my mom has anything that can play it.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of old VCRs floating around. I’m sure Kay can track one down on Craigslist for you.”

  I’d be able to see him. The real him. Jimmy McCormack, back when he was my age. But am I ready?

  I put the VHS tape back in the box for now and glance out the window. The sun’s almost set, and I really should move the sprinkler to a new spot so that it soaks the whole yard. But there’s one thing I still have to ask Phil about.

  “Did you and my dad ever have fights? Like, when you were my age, I mean.”

  “Yeah, of course. We butted heads about all kinds of things.”

  “No—” I shake my head. “A real fight.”

  “Jimmy wasn’t much for confrontation. And I usually tried to keep the peace too. But, you know, even if it feels like it’s been a while, it’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”

  “Even if the other person started it?”

  “You need to ask yourself what’s important to you. And if that friendship is important to you, then you do what it takes to make things right. Apologize, but don’t be afraid to explain why what your friend did was hurtful. You need to be able to have a real back-and-forth. That’s what makes a good friendship after all, right? Honesty.”

  I haven’t exactly been super honest with Filipe lately.

  “Do you wish you and my dad had stayed friends?”

  “Let’s put it this way: I sure wish I hadn’t thrown away all those years of friendship over a girl.”

  “Hey,” I say, suddenly realizing what he’s saying. “That’s my mom you’re talking about.”

  Phil laughs. “I know
. But you understand the sentiment, right? We should’ve been able to get past that. At least, I should have.” He glances out the window. “You know, it’s been a real trip these past few weeks, getting to spend time with you and your brother. Jimmy’s boys.” He shakes his head like it’s hard to believe that the person he knew as a kid could have ever grown up to be a dad. To be my dad.

  And then he goes quiet for a second, and I wonder what other thoughts are running through his head. When he and my dad were my age, did they ever imagine this far out?

  Phil sniffles and runs his hand through his hair. “If only I’d been around. If I hadn’t been so far away. If I’d just stayed in touch.” He lets out a sigh and then turns back to me. “You know, you and Xander remind me so much of Jimmy. Both of you. You’ve got his smile and that creative streak, Xan’s got his sense of humor and, I swear, the exact same cowlick. There’s more, of course. You got different parts of him … the best parts.”

  I’d never thought of it that way before. Assumed being Dad’s son was an all-or-nothing deal, but it’s not. Of course it isn’t. He had good parts and bad parts like anyone else. It’s just, ever since he died, it felt like the bad parts overwhelmed the good ones.

  Just then the outside lights turn on and my mom steps out onto the deck. “Xander’s demanding a bedtime story and says I don’t do it right. Any takers?”

  I put the top on the box. As Phil and I step out into the yard, I hear the faint bop-bop of a basketball across the street. Phil and I eye each other. “You know what, you should take a stab at it,” I say. “But get ready, because Xan’s got some high standards.”

  31

  MAYBE I WOULDN’T FEEL COMFORTABLE heading over in the middle of the afternoon knowing Theo could be there—wouldn’t want to get in the way of one-on-one again—but at almost nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, I can almost guarantee it’s only Filipe just out of sight on the other side of the bushes.

  He takes a shot, the ball bouncing off the rim, but then he makes it in on a rebound. I’m standing in the shadows, trying to find the right moment to let him know I’m there, when he turns his head real fast and ducks in surprise. “You reenacting a slasher movie?”

  “No,” I say. “Sorry—I didn’t want to mess with your shot.”

  He holds up the ball. “You want to play?”

  “Sure.”

  He bounces it my way and I dribble it a little while, warming myself up before I take a shot. Swoosh. Not bad. Filipe jogs in and grabs it, taking it back beyond where the arc would be to shoot a three. Swish.

  “Nice one.”

  Filipe shrugs, just standing there, bouncing the ball in place. I know I need to say something about what happened a week ago, but it’s not as easy as Phil made it out to be. Where do I even start?

  “Hey, can we talk?”

  “Fine.” Filipe takes a shot, the ball bouncing off the rim. Neither of us goes to get it. Our eyes follow as it rolls over to the garage door, finally coming to a stop.

  “Look,” I say, not sure what’s going to come out next. “I’m sorry about last week—the fight—but the thing is, it’s been weird ever since you got back from soccer camp, and I don’t get it. I don’t get what’s changed.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Filipe says.

  I eyeball him.

  “Does it need to be that big a deal if I want to hang out with other people sometimes? I mean, you didn’t exactly seem happy when me and Theo came by the library.”

  “That’s not true. I was just—”

  “Surprised that I would ever come to your special place? Interrupt things between you and—what’s her name—Audrey? You said she drove you nuts. Didn’t look like that, though. You didn’t even introduce us to her.”

  Did he really feel that way? Was it possible that Filipe felt as rejected as I did? “Did you really want me to?”

  Filipe shrugs. “Kind of. You’re there so much of the time, Drew. I mean, fine, if she really is the worst thing ever, I guess I don’t need to meet her. But it didn’t look that way when we were there.”

  “Wait a sec. So it’s my fault for not introducing you to Audrey but it’s totally cool for you to boot me from shooting hoops with you and Theo?”

  Filipe’s mouth opens and shuts.

  “How would you feel if some random guy who’s interested in your mom had come over to your house and all you wanted was to get away from him for a few minutes but your friend booted you because he’s got a new friend who’s older and cooler than you?”

  “Like crap,” Filipe says. Behind his eyes, I can almost see it clicking into place as he swaps out his POV for mine. Maybe we all need to do that a little more often. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was being a jerk. And I’m sorry for earlier, for picking on you about your mom and that guy. But why didn’t you just say something? You never talk about your dad anymore. And I get it—no, that’s wrong. I don’t get it. We’re not little kids, Drew. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to tell me stuff.” He sounds surprisingly frustrated. “You still think about him, right? I mean, you must, because I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. He was your dad, Drew. I spent a lot of time with him too. But how come you never talk about him anymore?”

  I guess part of me thought Chad’s House was the spot to talk about Dad. And so I did. But when that ended—well, Filipe’s right. I don’t talk about my dad with him. At least, I haven’t for a long time.

  “Drew?”

  “I don’t know why,” I begin to say. The thing is, suddenly I get what’s been wrong with Filipe and me. It wasn’t just about him becoming friends with Theo—not really. It was me. And the elephant in the room. “I want to, though. I guess maybe I thought it would weird you out or …”

  “It won’t.”

  For a second, all I can hear is the croaking of some nearby frogs. “You weren’t exactly wrong about the guy on the motorcycle,” I say. It’s a start.

  “Wait, really?” Filipe jogs over for the ball and bounce-passes it to me. “I saw his motorcycle come back the other day. Is it weird with him?”

  “Not as much as at first.”

  “But he’s not your dad.”

  “I know.” Maybe someday I’ll tell Filipe how I thought he could be. But for now I leave it at that. “He’s not trying to be. And anyway, he’s leaving tomorrow. Going back to Colorado.”

  “So it’s over?”

  “I don’t know, actually.” This time, it’s the truth. I need to ask Mom. Maybe she doesn’t even know, but it sure seems like they’re planning to stay in touch between now and next summer. “Hey, can you pass me the ball?” I jog over to the far side of his driveway. “I want to take a crazy shot.”

  If there were such a thing, this shot would be a six-pointer. It’s got to be three car lengths from the hoop, minimum.

  “No way are you making that in.” Filipe laughs.

  “Yeah, but what if I do?”

  “If you do—um … If you do, I’ll give you all the money in my bank account.”

  “You would not.”

  “I know!” Filipe smiles. “But you’re not going to make that shot, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay.” Honestly, the basket is so far away that the only chance I have of making it in—and we’re talking infinitesimally small chance—is if I take a total granny shot. “For all the money in your bank account. One, two, three.”

  I fling the ball up toward the basket. It’s still arcing up. Now it’s coming down. Oh my God, it’s close. It’s—

  “Off the rim! Are you kidding me?” Filipe’s mouth is wide open, like he can’t believe it either.

  I’m legit falling over laughing, a borderline pee-my-pants situation.

  Filipe goes after the ball and dribbles it back toward me. “Crap, that was close.”

  “Yeah,” I say, holding my fingers a centimeter apart. “I was this close to being rich.”

  “You have unrealistic expectations about my bank
account.” Filipe laughs.

  Across the street, the light is still on in Xander’s room. I wonder how Phil’s making out with the bedtime story. Xan’s probably hassling him for not creating unique enough voices for each character the way I do. “I should head back and say good night to Xan.”

  “Okay, yeah.”

  I’m heading down the driveway when Filipe yells out my name. “Yeah?” I say back, turning around. He’s jogging toward me.

  “Are we cool again?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course we’re cool. Later, Filipe.”

  “Night, Drew.”

  The sky’s clear tonight and the chrome on Phil’s motorcycle reflects the moonlight. Tomorrow morning he’ll be on that thing, zooming down our road for the last time for a while. After how much has happened in the last few weeks, I can’t honestly imagine how much will change by the time he comes back next summer. Assuming he does, that is. Next summer I’ll be a page-in-training. Hopefully Audrey will too. Mom’s she shed will finally be finished. And Xan will be seven and a quarter, so watch out, world.

  Right then my phone buzzes. I expect it to be Filipe now that things are cool again, but it’s not. It’s from Audrey. A photo of a chicken—the kind we saw at the county fair, the white Silkie bantam.

  My parents said yes! I’m getting TWO chickens!

  She sends me a GIF of someone doing a happy dance.

  Can you help me name them?

  Sure, I text back, thinking about the long list of names she came up with for our fake patron and how she probably doesn’t need my help. It’s sure going to be interesting when Mom talks to Loretta tomorrow.

  Through the open window upstairs, I can hear Phil reading Xander his bedtime story. Every now and then Xander groans. “You’re not doing it right,” he says. “Drew does it better.” And then Phil tries again.

  “Oh, you guys.” Mom’s laughter. “Let’s wrap it up. The rest of us have to go to sleep someday.”

  I head inside through the garage.

  “Finally!” Xan shouts as I close the door behind me. “Drew’s back. Drew, can you finish the story? Sorry, but Phil’s not as good at it as you are.”