“Tomorrow night?” he asks, looking up again from the drawing. He’s never come inside my house. I’ve never invited him until now.
“Maybe you could sleep over. We could watch Alien, like we talked about.”
He stares at me for a second, maybe surprised, maybe trying to figure out a way to say no. “Yeah, that would be fun. I just . . . are you sure it’s okay with your folks?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I haven’t asked them.
“I have to run it by my parents.”
“Okay.”
I haven’t had a sleepover since this past summer, with Nick. It’s like once we started high school, those things were childish. But with Sam, we have our own realm, in a way. Normal rules don’t apply.
“My mom may freak out if I am not here at night. She’s still a little overprotective,” he says.
“Well, if you don’t want to come,” I say.
“No, no, I do. It will be fun.”
“Yeah,” I say. I click my phone for the time. It’s just after five. Dad will be here soon. “You almost done?”
“Yep,” he says.
I try and lean over to sneak a peek, and he snatches it away, smiling. “Jerk,” he says.
His hands move swiftly now, like he’s just scribbling. He looks happy, concentrating on his task. And all that stuff he told me seems so far away from us now. You’d think that someone who’d been through all that would be so obviously messed up. But I look at Sam—focusing his eyes on the sketch, a slight smile forming as he looks at his own handiwork—and it’s like I can forget anything ever happened to him.
“Done.” He looks up and flashes another smile and closes the sketchbook.
===
The next day, around noon, while I’m studying, Nick texts me.
Want to go to a party tonight?
What party? I text back.
Rob Moore’s parents are away and he’s having some people over.
I’m a little surprised he’s not going with Sarah. And then I’m surprised there’s a party the weekend before exams. And then I’m confused. I text back: Who’s Rob?
He goes to TA. Remember??
Oh yeah. TA is Tuscaloosa Academy, the private school. Then I remember that Rob took some summer tennis clinics with us. I didn’t know Nick was that friendly with him.
Come over at seven.
I don’t text back right away. I can’t, I eventually type.
Why not?
I think about an easy lie. That we’re having company over. That I really need to study, which wouldn’t be that far from the truth. But I’m sick of lying. Sam’s coming over. To hang out.
No response for about five minutes. U there? I text.
Ur really hanging out w that freak?
I hold the phone for a bit, just looking at the words. Why would Nick say something like that?
Not a freak, I type back.
But before I can type anything else, I get another text from Nick: Whatever. Later.
I just sit there, holding the phone. I don’t know why Nick’s being this way. Angry and jealous and kind of mean.
I set the phone down. I don’t respond.
===
Sam comes over at seven. His mom walks him to the door. I can see her eyeing the foyer and den, checking out our house. It’s nicer than the one in Pine Forest.
“What a lovely home,” she says, sounding genuine but also kind of annoyed.
“Thanks,” Mom says. “You want some coffee, or a glass of wine?”
“No thanks, I better get going. We’re going out to dinner.” Sam’s mom hugs him so tight and for so long that it’s like she thinks this is the last time she’s ever going to see him. After the hug, Mom walks her to the car. No telling what they’re talking about.
Sam and I go upstairs and dump his duffel at the base of my bed. I’d already blown up the air mattress for him.
“Want to start the movie now?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
In the den, I sit at one end of the couch and Sam sits at the other. I find the movie on Netflix and we start it.
Alien is creepy, kind of like watching a haunted house movie, except everyone’s on this weird spaceship. Later, when Sigourney Weaver is in the shuttle escaping after everything has gone to hell, I say, “Don’t tell me the alien is in there with her.” But it is. I dig my hands into the cushion, but then it’s all over, she’s safe in hypersleep, until she’s rescued and has to battle a whole bunch of aliens in the next movie.
I flick on the light and it’s like we’re coming out of a bad dream. “Intense,” I say.
“It gets me every time,” Sam says, watching the credits.
We order our pizza and once it comes we just flip channels and watch stupid stuff, not really talking. Mom comes in and checks on us after a while. “You guys sleepy yet?” It’s midnight. I hadn’t realized we’d wasted so much time just vegging in front of the TV.
“Not really,” I say.
“Well, just shut out the lights when you’re done. Your father and I are hitting the hay,” she says.
A little bit later, after I let out an audible yawn, Sam says, “Let’s go to your room.”
Upstairs I sit down on my bed, and Sam starts digging around in his bag. He pulls out a paper sack and holds it up, grinning like he just opened a present.
“What is it?” I say.
He opens it and yanks out these little mini bottles of liquor. Jack Daniel’s, Bacardi, Wild Turkey, Absolut, Dewar’s.
“Wow,” I say, surprised that Sam has this stuff. “Where’d you get all that?” I feel excited and nervous all at once.
“Found them at home, a whole bunch. Might have been my dad’s. There was a whole bag in the back of the pantry. You wanna have some?”
Mom and Dad are asleep, at the other end of the hall. I’ve really only had sips of drinks and beers at parties with Nick and the guys. I can’t say I’ve ever been drunk. “Sure. Why not?”
We each crack open a Jack Daniel’s. I can only take small sips. It’s bitter and burns my throat. Sam chugs his, then opens another. I start to wonder if he drank and smoked and did stuff like that in Anniston. Nothing would surprise me anymore about his time there.
I dim the lamp and put on my pajamas in the bathroom—boxers and a T-shirt. When I come out Sam’s just in his boxers, sitting Indian style on the air mattress. I want to stare but I know I shouldn’t. I go to my bed and crawl in. I take another sip, then another, finishing the bottle. I see two empties by the air mattress. Sam grabs his sack, digs around, and tosses me a Wild Turkey, which tastes only slightly different from the Jack. I feel a buzz now, a dizziness. Like I’m cut loose from my actual life, calmer, almost giddy. I stare over at him, at his shirtlessness. He’s a little glassy-eyed, looks kind of goofy. But also cute. I take my T-shirt off then, feeling less self-conscious.
“Man, every time I watch Alien. . . . Every time I think somehow they’ll all survive. I know how it ends, but I still root for them to get away. Like, that scene with Parker and Lambert, I’m always like, ‘Run! Run!’ But they never do. They always die. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“No,” I say. “Not at all.” I know what he’s talking about. Like, what if I had run out of that backyard and seen the white truck’s license plate as it drove by, and what if I had reported that?
But I didn’t.
Sam crawls under his covers, so I flip off the lamp. The glow from the streetlight sneaks through the blinds, so I can see the outline of Sam down beside my bed. I feel myself start to doze, lulled by the alcohol, but Sam starts talking.
“I called Kaylee the other day,” he says, sounding suddenly serious. He’s quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Her dad wouldn’t let me speak to her. He told me to never call again.”
I don’t say
anything, but I hear Sam take another chug from one of the bottles. I wonder why he thought of her now. “I really cared about her. She’s the only girl I ever did it with.”
Did it with. It takes me a few seconds to realize he means sex. And I feel queasy all of a sudden. Sam, who had his life taken away from him, has had sex with a girl. I start to wonder about Nick and Sarah and my other friends, and then about all my classmates. All of them doing it. Everyone having sex, drinking. Is everyone normal and I’m like the one who’s the total loser, who’s never done anything exciting in his life? Even Sam, after what he went through—he’s done stuff that seems so far off to me.
I haven’t even kissed anyone.
I feel small in my bed, and I’m glad I’m in the dark under the covers.
“Josh? You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever, like, done it?”
“No,” I say, and it feels surprisingly okay to admit that to Sam. The old Sam might have laughed at me or made a joke. But not this Sam.
“You’re the only one who knows about Kaylee,” Sam finally says. “I haven’t even talked about her to my therapist.”
I don’t respond.
“I really miss her sometimes.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I see him unwrap the covers and stand up. He walks toward my bed, around to the other side. “You mind if I just lay here for a little bit. It’s easier to talk this way.”
“Okay,” I say, my heart starting to rev.
He lies on the side next to me, but not under the covers, and I feel my body shift a little to his side of the bed, his weight pulling me toward him. I close my eyes and listen as he talks.
“Kaylee was . . . well, when I was with her. It just felt like I was in another place,” he says.
Another place. Does everyone feel that way, when they’re with someone they like, someone they love? Sam’s so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath, can smell the musky scent of his body next to mine. I scoot away a little and reach over to the bedside table and grab the Wild Turkey, still mostly full, and take a few sips.
“Can I have some?” he asks.
“Finish it,” I say, and he does.
After a long silence, I think maybe Sam is asleep. But then I feel the bed shake as he props himself against the pillows a bit more. I see his hand going under the covers, just a bit. Outside, I hear a car drive by. So late for this neighborhood. I close my eyes again when I feel Sam’s hand on my hip, at the waistband of my boxers.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I do.
Maybe if I wasn’t drunk I’d leap up and lock myself in the bathroom, but I don’t. I just lie there, eyes closed, and let it happen. His hand, it’s warm, it creeps into my boxers and finds it, and he starts tugging. It hurts at first but then it doesn’t.
It doesn’t hurt. It feels good. So good.
I know this isn’t what he wants. It’s what I want. It’s what he somehow knows I want. I listened to him talk about Kaylee, and now I get this.
“Don’t,” I say softly. But he keeps going, keeps at it till I gasp and shake a little and then it happens and I feel like I might yell out or something because it’s so different than when I do it. It’s like he knows exactly when I can’t bear his hand anymore, and he lets go and rolls off the bed, goes back to his air mattress, climbs under the covers.
We both just lie there in silence for what seems like a long time. It’s like how I felt after the movie earlier. My heart racing and racing and then it’s over, and my heart slows and slows.
Maybe Sam’s fallen asleep. I pull my boxers off and sort of wipe myself, and then drop them on the floor, on the other side of the bed. I’m tired. So tired, and a little drunk probably, because my head spins when I collapse on my pillow. And I’m glad I feel so funny because then I don’t have to think about what just happened. It’s so quiet, the only noise the sound of Sam breathing.
===
When I wake up Sam’s not there. But his stuff is. The bed’s unmade. Why didn’t he wake me? I don’t hear any noises in the house so I rush to the bathroom, totally naked. I don’t look at myself in the mirror, but I wash myself with a hot rag. Out in my room I change into a clean pair of boxers, my jeans, a T-shirt.
I hear a faint noise from the front yard. I crack my blinds and I see Mom and Dad, and Sam, all of them dressed. They’re wandering around cleaning things up because someone has toilet-papered our house.
No, not someone. Probably a whole group. They’ve thrown toilet paper over the trees, over the shrubs, around the mailbox, everywhere, making it look like a snowstorm came through overnight.
I put on my shoes and go downstairs and out the front door.
It’s a mess.
Mom spots me first. “Morning,” she says, sounding surprisingly amused.
Sam and Dad are slowly unwrapping the toilet paper from around the biggest tree in the yard. I try to catch Sam’s eye, but he keeps to his task.
“Here, have at it,” Mom says, throwing me a Hefty bag.
I start on the mailbox, unwrapping the soggy paper, which comes off in gloppy, messy clumps. While I do this, I keep glancing at Sam, but he never looks my way, and I realize he’s doing that on purpose. He can’t look at me. I feel my face flush, thinking of his hands on me. I turn away and grab strips of paper off the ground. Some of the streams of toilet paper, the ones high up in the trees, won’t be easy to get down. The rain or the wind will have to do that. For weeks, we’ll be reminded of this, and the neighbors, too.
I keep grabbing the toilet paper. It seems endless, but that’s okay. If I focus on getting every speck of the stuff then my mind won’t flash back to last night. How good it felt. How weird it was. How guilty I feel.
“Who could have done this?” Mom asks out loud, but I don’t think she expects or even wants an answer.
It’s not like this happens in our neighborhood. Looking up and down the street, all the other yards are untouched. Only high school kids do this dumb shit, to other high school kids. And only to people they know.
And then it clicks.
Nick.
Nick did this. And whoever he was with at that party. Because they knew I was with Sam, not with them. Because they knew Sam was here. Sam the freak. I feel a crackling in my chest as I grab yet another glob of paper and force it into the bag.
I look at Sam, he’s saying something to my dad, who pats him on the shoulder as they both keep collecting the paper.
When we get the yard as clean as possible, we go back inside and Mom toasts us some bagels and brings out the cream cheese. Sam and I sit on the stools by the counter and watch her, not talking, still not even looking at each other. When we’re done with our bagels, he packs his bag in my room while I watch TV downstairs. I see Mrs. Manderson drive up.
We all walk Sam out to the car and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Manderson kind of chat and laugh about obviously being toilet-papered, despite our cleanup efforts. “There’s been a rash of these lately,” Dad lies. “I guess it was our turn.”
I see Dad look over at Sam, like he’s worried about him for some reason, but Sam’s a blank. Mrs. Manderson’s gaze swivels, and a flash of recognition registers across her face, her eyes squinting ever so slightly. She clears her throat, says, “You’d think people would have better things to do with their time.”
“You’d think,” Dad says, clapping his hand on Sam’s back.
“Anyway, did you boys have a nice time?” Mrs. Manderson asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” we both say at the same time.
Sam looks over at me, for the first time that morning. He’s giving me a slight smile, but then it’s like he suddenly remembers last night and he frowns and looks away. Still, he sticks his fist out and we fist-bump, like we always do, like nothing happened between us. And when they drive off, Mom cups her arm
around my shoulder and we walk up the front walk. She stops to stare up to the top branches of the trees where the toilet paper that was too high to remove is, little white strands waving around in the morning breeze.
“He’s a nice young man,” she says.
===
All day Sunday I cram for exams and try not to think about the sleepover, but I feel a guilt pressing down on me. Can you hate something and like it at the same time? Because I do. And it’s like these feelings are battling in my stomach—making me smile one minute, and then making me tingle with shame the next, again and again. And then I think of how Sam wouldn’t look at me this morning. Because he was embarrassed. Or maybe he was disgusted by me. Disgusted because I let him do it, even though I said don’t. Disgusted because I liked it.
The only way I can stop these thoughts is by studying harder, so I do. My eyes start to feel exhausted from reading my notes again and again. The book stacks on my desk, towers of information. I feel like my brain might explode.
When I wake on Monday morning, I sit in bed, immediately thinking about my exams for today—Spanish and algebra—all the formulas and rules and phrases and grammatical rules held in place, ready to spill out.
I jump in the shower and scrub and wash my hair and hope the water washes away any bad thoughts or feelings I have. I want to ace my exams.
I see Nick during the algebra exam, and I don’t even talk to him, and he doesn’t talk to me. And that’s all the convincing I need to know it was him and the rest of my friends. I see them all—Max and Raj and Ty and Nick—after the test is over and classes are dismissed. They’re at Raj’s locker, talking. Normally they’d wave me over, but they don’t and I keep walking. I don’t want to confront them about what I know they did.
While I wait for Dad to pick me up out front, I think about them out in the dark that night, rolls of toilet paper cupped in their arms. While they trashed our yard, was I asleep? Or was Sam next to me on the bed doing what we did?
Once back at home, I continue to study, cramming my brain with facts, nothing but facts.
===
I finish my last exam on Wednesday. School is over for the year. Christmas break. I should feel happy and free, but what I feel mostly is tired, and slightly uneasy. I’m chatting with Dad in the kitchen, eating mini pretzels before dinner. We’re waiting for Mom to get home, to see if she wants to eat out. And that’s when the house phone rings, and I know it’s Sam. “For you,” Dad says.
We Now Return to Regular Life Page 21
