by Eric Bell
Mom looks down.
“Be happy now,” Dad says. “Happy for my promotion. Wear my cross and don’t disappoint me.”
Mom wrings her hands but says nothing.
Dad massages his temples and looks at me. “What sports do you play?”
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice. “I run long distance, I play shortstop, and I’d show you my bicycle kick if I remembered to bring my soccer ball.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “No mistakes. You’ve been practicing. Good job.”
His praise reaches me, but it doesn’t have the same effect it usually does. I look down at my plate.
“Dad,” Nathan says. If words could tiptoe, he’d be creeping around a corner. “Can’t I go over to Marcellus’s? You don’t need me there.”
“Everybody’s going,” Dad says.
“But Dad—”
Dad raises his head. “You have one job tomorrow. This isn’t one of your history tests, little pig, so don’t make any mistakes. Be like your brother.”
It’s like Dad slaps Nathan across the face. Dad stands up, which is the cue that dinner’s over, so Nathan immediately runs upstairs. Mom slowly clears the table, balancing four plates. She drops a knife. I look around—no Dad.
When Mom reaches the sink, I tap her on the shoulder and hold out the knife. She takes the utensil from me and turns back around.
I grab a dish towel and start drying the dishes she washes. She watches me as she hands me a plate, a little smile on her face. I almost give her a smile back, but then—
“What are you doing?”
Dad appears from behind me. I look between my parents as I absentmindedly dry the same spot on the wet plate.
“Leave it,” Dad says. “If you want to be useful, help me in the garage. This is your mother’s job.”
“I was just helping,” I squeak out.
“This is your mother’s job.”
He watches me—they both watch me. Slowly, looking down, I place the rag and the plate on the counter and walk upstairs. I can’t look her in the eyes.
The awesome and cool Alan Cole, who’s completed two out of seven CvC tasks, who’s currently the most well-known kid in school, can’t even help his mom with the dishes.
What a coward I am.
But now, as I walk into my room and stare out at Big Green, it’s officially the weekend, and even though that awful party lingers in the background like somebody’s bad cologne, I can finally relax. I can start my cretpoj, because now I know who it’s going to be a portrait of, and I make for my art supplies—
—until I’m tackled to the floor, tasting a face full of carpet.
“Mmrph!” I try to spit, but he presses my face down hard with one hand, and with the other hand he takes my left arm and holds it out behind my back, at just the right angle where I know, if he twists it the right way, it’ll snap off.
With his knee he digs into my back. My vision’s getting white; little discs of light swim in my eyes. He yanks on my arm and I scream, muffled by the rug.
Everything is spinning and I think I’m going to throw up dinner, and he pulls my arm up and away from my body, and I hear this terrible cracking noise, and I think, oh my God, he broke it, and there’s a little voice inside me that says, at least now you won’t have to go to the company dinner, but that voice goes away with one final yank. I scream again, and now I’m breathing really heavy, and I’m sobbing like a little baby.
He reduced me to this in under a minute.
He hops off me and spins me around onto my back. I can’t even sit up, I’m so dizzy. I rub my arm. Still in one piece. Looks like I’m going to the dinner after all.
Nathan snarls, “You think you’re smarter than me, huh?”
My head’s still swimming; what he’s saying isn’t sinking in.
He slaps me—hard—on the cheek. “You do. You think you’re smarter than me. You little piece of crap.”
I’m still crying a little, trying to regain my breath, my footing. “Nathan—”
He drags me to my feet and presses me against the wall, right underneath my poster of The Old Guitarist. “Say it,” he spits in my face. “Say I’m smarter than you.”
“You’re—hic—smarter than me.”
“Louder!”
“You’re smarter than me. You’re smarter—hic—th-than me.”
Nathan’s eyes narrow, and he lets me go. I massage my tingly arm and rub my cheek, finally almost catching my breath. My brother paces around my room, angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time. “I found it,” he finally says.
I keep quiet. This is one of those times where it’s best to sit, and watch, and brace myself for the next wave.
Nathan pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it onto my bed: a small, folded-up piece of paper that says NATHAN on it. “Band room,” he says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t look there? I know how you think, because you’re dumber than me.”
“Oh,” I squeak.
“And I made someone cry,” he goes on. “That’s two for me. We’re tied.”
I almost ask who. Then I hiccup. Right.
Nathan continues, “I joined the swim team today. Not enough people signed up over the summer, so they took me on. I’ll learn to swim by Thursday. You’ll never get that paper out of the vending machine, or do anything else. You’re going down, goldfish. And when you do, I’ll make sure to let everybody know your terrible little secret.”
And it finally occurs to me, where all this is coming from.
I’ve seen Nathan scared plenty of times before, but all of them were a result of Dad.
This is the first time he’s ever been scared of me.
Nathan starts to laugh. Not his hyena’s cackle, loud and brash—this is uneven, spastic, frantic. “I’m going to have fun destroying you,” he growls. “You’re a disgrace. You’re barely even human. Soon I’ll make you pay for even thinking you could be smarter than me.”
He stomps out of my room and slams the door shut, leaving me rubbing my arm and wiping my eyes.
Why did I think, even for a second, this was possible?
I wish I knew what was making him freak out like this, why he suddenly thinks I’m a threat. When he beats me up he normally enjoys it, but this wasn’t enjoyment. I don’t even know what it was. He’s never felt threatened by me in a CvC game before. Is it the unbelievable idea he might not win something? Or is it something else?
A low vibrating hum snaps me back to my room: my phone’s going off from a text. There are only two nonfamily people who have my number, and both of them got it after lunch today. Sure enough, the text message reads:
What time should I pick you up tomorrow?
I inch into my chair, still tender all over. My old sketchbook sits on my desk. The tingling in my body fades as I reach for the last empty page and my paints.
But first, I type my response:
earlier the better.
TEN
The Trumans pull up to 16 Werther Street on Saturday morning. One chipper knock on the door and I’m running down with a backpack crammed with a bathing suit, a towel, and some money and snacks. I forgot to ask Madison how much this fancy-pants health club costs to get in, so I brought eight bucks and twenty-two cents. I had significantly more than eight bucks and twenty-two cents to my name a few days ago, when a certain big brother swiped a certain little brother’s funds. Hopefully eight bucks and twenty-two cents won’t just get me one lap around the pool and some protein powder to sip through a straw.
I run downstairs with more energy than usual. Partly because I’m eager to get out of the house. But also partly because somebody started his cretpoj last night, and somebody’s a little jazzed about it.
I don’t care what anyone says. I think you’re awesome.
By the time I reach the door, Dad’s gotten there first.
“Hello, sir,” Madison says, standing perfectly straight. He extends his hand. “My name is Madison Wilson Truman. I’m Alan’s co
ach. I’m here to pick him up for his fitness consultation.”
Dad stands there, completely still. I guess Madison realizes his handshake is fizzling like a busted firework, so he drops his hand clumsily to his side and says, “This really is a lovely home you have here. Such nice carpeting. Green carpet—who would’ve guessed?”
I walk closer to the door before this can get any worse. “Hey. I’m ready.”
My presence seems to spur Dad back into motion. He says, “My son didn’t tell me he made plans. I thought for sure he’d remember the important dinner he’s going to tonight.” The voice is light, but there’s nothing light about the words.
The back of my shirt gets wet. “I’ll be back by five.”
“Of course you will,” Dad says. “At four thirty.”
I nod.
Dad smiles at Madison. “If you don’t bring him back by then, you can cook him for dinner.” He laughs once, then twice, each time sounding like a hawk swooping down to catch its favorite meal.
I can hardly shut the door fast enough.
As we walk outside, Madison mutters, “Er, your father is very—”
“You don’t have to,” I say.
Madison exhales. “Okay. I won’t.”
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I wouldn’t make a very good dinner anyway.”
“You’re right,” Madison says as we arrive at the tiny car parked at the curb. “You’re probably better with breakfast.”
He laughs, and I laugh a little too, and the autumn wind whips past my hair and gets in my eyes. Big Green waves good-bye as I climb into the car.
The woman in the driver’s seat smiles. “You must be Alan. I’m Dorothy Truman. This is my husband, Bob.”
“How’re you doing, champ?” Bob Truman reaches across the backseat and shakes my hand.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for letting me use your club.”
“It’s not our club, champ,” Mr. Bob Truman says as Mrs. Dorothy Truman pulls out of the driveway. “Helen’s Crest Health and Fitness Club belongs to all its members. As of today, you’re a member.”
“I, uh,” I say, turning red, “I don’t have a lot of money—”
Dorothy Truman squeezes the brakes in the middle of Werther Street, sending me lurching forward. “Maddie! Did you tell your friend he had to pay?”
“Er, no, not quite,” Madison stammers. “I just didn’t mention it—”
“Maddie,” Bob Truman says, speaking very slowly. “This is what we keep talking about. Acting like a grown-up. You don’t act like a grown-up when you lie to your friends. Isn’t that right?”
“But I wasn’t—”
“If you want us to treat you like a grown-up,” Dorothy Truman says, “you need to act like one. Isn’t that right?”
Madison slumps in the seat. “Yes, ma’am,” he grumbles.
I can practically see the little thought bubble above Madison’s head: Alan, back me up.
We spend some time in the car quietly brainstorming ways to break into an empty vending machine, but when Bob Truman says we should speak up and share with the rest of the car, we clam up pretty fast.
When we arrive at Helen’s Crest, Dorothy Truman says we’re free to explore, but not to use any equipment without adult supervision. (Madison sighs softly when she says that.)
“Whoa,” I say once we walk in. This place is out of control. Flat-screen TVs on every corner, shiny exercise equipment, older boys drinking smoothies . . . something about that last image is really appealing, and it isn’t the berry protein blast. All of a sudden I’m very aware of where my eyes are looking, so I find a nonmuscular spot on the wall to stare at for a bit.
Madison’s mom stops at the women’s locker room. “Remember, Maddie: fifteen pounds by the end of the month. You want the girls to like you, not laugh at you, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Madison mumbles. He shuffles into the men’s locker room.
When I make for the water fountain, Bob Truman stops me. “Thank you, Adam,” he says.
“Um, it’s Alan,” I say, wiping my mouth. “For what?”
Madison’s dad smiles. “Our boy isn’t the best at making friends. We’ve tried to get him to tone it down, but he isn’t learning. It’s nice to know someone feels bad enough for him to give him a chance.”
I can feel my face flush. “I don’t feel bad for Madison. He’s teaching me to swim.”
Bob Truman laughs, then stops laughing when I don’t join in. “You’re serious?” he asks. “He’s teaching you?”
I swallow. “Mr. Truman—”
“It’s Bob, Adam.”
“—Madison doesn’t, uh, need my pity. He’s, um, he’s fine the way he is. Maybe you, maybe—maybe you could—”
Mr. Truman claps me on the back. “You’re a real good kid, Adam. Real good kid.” He lets the word kid linger a little, smiles, and heads into the locker room.
The guy in my cretpoj told me I was awesome. How awesome can I be if I can’t stand up for anyone?
Madison changes into a bathing suit but also wears a baggy T-shirt that says “I <3 My Library,” and he doesn’t get in the pool with me. Instead he hovers at the water’s edge, feet dangling into the blue-green liquid. “Very well,” he commands, his voice echoing in the almost empty pool. “Let us begin.”
“You’re not getting in?” I ask. My voice barely registers through the sounds of middle-aged women splashing nearby.
“I’d rather not,” he says. “If you want my honest opinion, I can advise you better from up here.”
Thirty seconds in and he’s about on the level of Marcellus. Surely a promising sign of things to come.
I grab on to the wall of the pool with both hands and get ready, because what else am I going to do? The pool here is even bigger than Evergreen’s, and the water seems cleaner too. A lifeguard sits at the reverse end of the pool, flipping through a magazine, and those women Mom’s age are doing laps on the other side, so I’ve got plenty of space to practice.
Madison clears his throat. “This is my promise to you: I, Madison Wilson Truman, will teach you to swim by—what’s the deadline for your game again?”
“Friday morning.”
Another throat-clearing, this one a lot quieter. “Right. How much do you know again?”
“I know how to circle one leg at a time.”
Madison puffs out his cheeks. “Right. Okay. Right. By Friday, you say?”
“This isn’t very encouraging,” I say.
Madison scoffs, “There’s no time to waste on encouragement. I’ve outlined a comprehensive program guaranteed to get results. That’s the Truman Doctrine.” He chuckles.
I look out at the vast stretch of water that is the Helen’s Crest Health and Fitness Club pool, and my stomach gets that funny feeling, like my small intestine’s being tied up like a pair of shoelaces.
“First item on the program,” Madison goes on, ticking items off on his fingers. “You’re going to swim from the deep end of the pool to the shallow end, then back again to the deep end in one trip. This builds character. It will make you stronger and more comfortable in the water. We’ll do that a few times, then you’ll do it with your eyes closed to really learn to sense the water around you.”
The echoes of Madison’s voice and the splashes of the water fade, and they’re replaced with things like:
So what’s your deal anyway? Why don’t you know how to swim? Some people are pussies.
And things like:
Soon I’ll make you pay for even thinking you could be smarter than me.
And laughter. A hawk’s laughter.
Then I look up at Madison, at his face (he’s not even looking at me while he talks), and I think of how I would capture everything in those eyes. How he acts around his parents. What he thinks teaching me will actually prove. Why he doesn’t want to take his shirt off, even when there’s barely anybody around, and how he feels when he has to actually do it in school. He could be another cretpoj. Another painting to
change the world. So much to paint, so much to capture.
So little time to make even one.
My fingers grip the wall tight, so tight they turn bright white.
“—then we’ll get started on underwater weights, which are very—”
“Madison.”
“—good at strength training your muscles, which, once you start taking cold showers, can really work on your stamina—”
“Madison.”
He stops.
“Can I have a kickboard?” I ask.
“That’s not part of the program,” he says.
“But I want to learn to swim, not learn to drown.” (I already know how to do that.) “And you need to get down here in the water with me.”
Madison raises his head. “Excuse me? I’m your teacher and you’re my student. I know what’s best for you.”
“This would make sure you get your exercise in too—”
“Oh?” Madison barks. The lifeguard turns her head. “Now you’re being my parents? I want a student, not another family member who’ll—” He squeezes his eyes shut.
“You don’t have to help me as a teacher,” I say quietly. “Help me as a friend.”
Something shifts and changes on Madison’s face, and even though his eyes are shut tight, his features twist, his nostrils expand, his mouth opens. A warmth spreads across my stomach, beats against my rib cage, bubbles into my face.
“Madison,” I whisper. “Please.”
He gets up and walks away. Sighing, I lift myself out of the pool, but then he comes back a few seconds later with a kickboard. He tugs his shirt over his head and, talking in a higher-pitched voice than usual, says, “Let’s get started.”
And thus begins my first lesson with Madison Wilson Truman, swimming instructor and . . . friend.
ELEVEN
“You’re late,” Dad says as I walk in the door at four fifteen. “Hurry up and get ready. We’ve got to be early, early, early.”
I nod, heading upstairs, but then Dad stops me. “What’s that smell?”
“Huh?”
He takes a big whiff of my damp hair. “Chlorine. Why do you smell like chlorine?”
