What About Will
Page 13
too fast for this stretch
of road, and kind of weaving
back and forth.
“Hey, man. Slow down.”
You gonna make me?
Not me, but turns out
someone’s going to,
because behind us
a policeman turns on
his red and blue lights.
Oh, man. No way. Here . . .
Will reaches into the center
console, pulls out a bottle
of pills of some kind.
Put these in your backpack
and don’t say a word.
“I can’t—”
You have to! Hurry up!
Unbelievably, I do.
Will turns on his signal.
Pulls to the far side of the road.
The cop follows, parks.
Gets out of his car.
I hold my breath.
Start to shake.
Chill out.
As the officer approaches,
Will rolls down his window.
The policeman ducks his head.
Looks inside the car.
Studies Will’s face.
You in a hurry?
Yeah. Sorry. We’re supposed
to meet our dad and we’re late.
Better late than never.
Did you realize you were
fifteen miles over the limit?
No, I didn’t. Guess I wasn’t
paying attention. Sorry.
That’s two sorrys.
The cop isn’t impressed.
License and registration.
Good Thing
We’re not really in a hurry.
It takes at least twenty minutes
for the policeman to write
Will a speeding ticket.
It’s also a good thing
Will gave me the pills
to hold for him, because
his paperwork is in the console
and would’ve been
directly underneath them.
What isn’t a good thing
is that he had them at all.
The officer brings the ticket
back to the car, hands it to Will.
But now he looks at me.
Who are you, young man?
“I’m Trace. Will’s brother.”
You sure you're his brother?
In Nevada a driver under the age
of eighteen can only carry close
family members as passengers.
“I’m positive I’m his brother.”
Why wouldn’t he think so?
I sure hope he believes me.
Your court date is June 15.
You’ll have to bring a parent
or guardian along and hope
the judge feels like being lenient.
He could suspend your license.
Yikes! Dad’s going to be mad.
I understand. Will kind
of chokes on the words.
And slow down. You don’t want
to be responsible for hurting
someone, do you? Especially
not your little brother.
That would stay with you forever.
Yes, sir.
Will death-grips the clipboard
the officer hands him.
His shoulders are stiff
with buried rage.
Please don’t let it erupt!
But he stuffs it long enough
to sign the ticket, and
the cop says we can leave.
Cautiously
Will puts on his turn signal,
waits for traffic to pass by,
then pulls slowly out
into the right lane.
He checks to make sure
the squad car isn’t behind
us, then turns his radio
all the way up and lets out
an ear-blasting curse
before launching a stream
of one-sided “conversation.”
I can’t believe I got a ticket!
How am I going to pay it?
Dad’s gonna be so upset!
What if he takes my car?
What if the judge takes my license?
What am I supposed to do? Walk?
Each question gets him
more worked up.
He talks faster and faster.
And now he’s starting
to drive faster.
“Hey, Will. Maybe slow
down a little? I mean—”
Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.
It’s just, why did this happen?
I probably shouldn’t point
out that he’s why it happened.
I look out the back window,
see we aren’t being followed,
then remove the bottle from
my backpack and give it a shake.
Now I turn down the radio.
“What are these?”
Don’t worry about them.
They’re my prescriptions.
The label does look like
an honest prescription,
one with Will’s name on it, too.
But, “There are two kinds
of pills in here.”
Right. Because I only want
to carry one bottle with me.
Sounds logical, except . . .
“Then why were you worried
about the cop seeing them?”
Because I didn’t want him
to think I was intoxicated.
Oh, Man
Intoxicated.
I always thought
that meant drunk,
like on beer or whiskey
or something.
Can you get drunk
on pills?
Is that why he drives
so crazy sometimes?
“Are you intoxicated?”
Nah. Straight as an arrow.
“So, what do the pills do?”
Will huffs, but he answers.
One of them is for pain.
The other is for depression.
I know a little about
depression because Mom
took medicine for it.
She told me sometimes
the world looked colorless,
and she felt like nothing mattered.
“What color is my shirt?”
He glances over.
I don’t know. Purple?
He’s messing with me.
My shirt is dark green.
The color of Mr. Cobb’s ivy.
“Very funny.”
I’m tired of rap, so I change
the station to alternative rock.
This song called “Pain”
is playing. It’s by a band
called Three Days Grace,
and the main refrain says
something like it’s better
to feel pain than nothing at all.
That’s garbage, says Will.
“What do you mean?”
I’m sick and tired of pain.
Believe me, I’d much rather
feel nothing at all.
“You said nothing hurts.”
No. I said my face doesn’t.
“Yeah. And that you get bad
headaches sometimes.”
Horrible. Like someone’s
hammering nails into my skull.
“How often do you get them?”
De
pends. Stress can cause them,
but sometimes they happen
for no reason I can figure out.
“That’s why you take pain pills.”
Darn straight. They drop
me down into this nice quiet
space where everything’s
peaceful and pain-free.
“But aren’t they dangerous?”
They can be, I guess.
But not if you’re careful.
“I really hope you’re careful.
And I really hope you’re all right.”
He laughs. A short, loud
bray, like a donkey.
I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?
Fact Check
Sometimes he looks fine.
More often, he doesn’t.
Sometimes his eyes
are clear, and his words
make sense, and he acts
interested in life—
Dad’s life
my life
his own life.
Other times his eyes
don’t focus and his words
come out jumbled,
if he says anything at all,
and he doesn’t even notice
Dad or me. He just stumbles
like a zombie through
Dad’s life
my life
his own life.
And now I wonder
if the pills he’s taking
make him be the okay Will
or the one who doesn’t
seem to care at all about
Dad’s life
my life
his own life.
I Really Want
To talk to Dad, so I’m happy
when he walks in, just as
Will and I finish our tuna
sandwiches and chips dinner.
Will actually made them
and hung out to eat with me.
He used to do stuff like that
all the time, but I’ve prepared
my own food and eaten alone
for a while now.
Guess having an awful day
made him want to feel
close to his family again?
It would work that way
for me, not that I’ve ever
been kicked out of school,
and I won’t be driving
too fast anytime soon.
It’s also strange
for Dad to come home
this early. He must be
worried about Will, too.
He confirms that right away.
You almost finished there?
Because you and I need
to talk, Will, and Trace
doesn’t need to be involved.
“I can finish my dinner
outside,” I volunteer.
Mostly because if I sit on
the back porch, I’ll be able
to hear what they say.
I carry my plate out
the back door, which
I leave cracked just a little.
I don’t catch every word,
but it’s easy to get the idea.
Dad:
. . . so disappointed
. . . rely on you
. . . don’t understand
. . . can’t trust you
Will:
. . . sorry, Dad
. . . sorry, Dad
. . . sorry, Dad
. . . won’t happen again
Is that it?
Will got off pretty easy.
Dad says he’s grounded,
but how will he know
what Will does when
he’s at work or Lily’s?
Later On
Will sulks off into his room,
after Dad takes his car keys
away when he finds out
about the ticket.
That gives me the chance
to talk to Dad, who just got
off the phone with Lily.
Trace, my man. What’s up?
“I . . . I’ve been wanting
to talk to you about Will.
I’m worried about him.”
I am, too, son. But you don’t
need to. That’s my job.
“But you don’t, um . . .
see everything.”
Like what?
Will’s already in trouble
for school and speeding.
He doesn’t need more,
and maybe this will be
his . . . what is it again?
Wake-up call?
Still, I need to know more
about his prescriptions.
“Will takes pills.”
Yes. For his depression.
You know what that is?
“Like Mom has.”
Right. Their brain chemistry
is a little off. The pills regulate
it, make it work more like it should.
“What about the other—”
Are you talking about me
behind my back?
Will materializes across
the room like a ghost.
A very upset ghost.
Your brother is concerned
about you, Will. That’s all.
Will reaches me in three
long strides, gets right up
in my face.
I told you I’m fine!
I Can Play This
A couple of ways.
I’ll try joking first.
“You are so not fine.
Dude, your breath smells
like a dirty aquarium.”
His eyes go wide, and he rocks
up on his toes, but then
he gets the tuna reference.
Yours smells the same,
with old milk mixed in.
“Yeah, well yours smells
like far—”
That’s enough, both of you.
Trace, I’ll drive you to and
from school for the rest
of the week, since your brother
is absent a car for a while.
I took a few days off.
Not too many, because Lily
and I are planning a really
special summer vacation.
“Like what?”
You’ll find out on Friday.
By Friday
I’m about ready to pop
at the seams, my curiosity
has swollen so much.
Dad wouldn’t even give us
a little hint about his big
plans for our summer surprise.
It’s been a weird couple
of days, with him home most
of the time. Like, he’s fixing
leaky faucets and patching
holes in the walls.
Mostly, he’s babysitting Will,
which sounds wrong,
considering how old Will is.
But if any seventeen-year-old
in the universe needs watching,
it’s definitely my brother.
I’ve been kind of distracted
at school. Good thing Cat’s been
there to help me focus on
our robotics project and Bram
has been his usual entertaining
self, cracking stupid jokes
whenever I get too serious
or antsy about tonight.
The big reveal is almost here.
/>
Dad Picks Me Up
After school, but instead
of taking me home,
he gets on the freeway.
“Where are we going?”
To pick up your grandpa Russ.
“Really?” Even though
he lives pretty close,
we don’t see him very often.
Yeah. He’s coming to dinner,
and his car’s in the shop.
I thought it was about time
we spent an evening together.
“Why has it been so long?”
Good question. I guess because
I’ve been so focused on work.
He doesn’t say, “and Lily,”
but the thought hangs in
the air between us.
It feels like I haven’t made
enough time for you and Will,
let alone my father. But we can
change that. I want to.
“Sounds good, Dad.”
It does.
I hope he means it.
I hope he follows through.
I hope he finds a way
to make more time
for Will and me.
But I worry
our family’s too broken.
I worry
that even if we change
for the better,
it won’t mean
everything will be solid.
I worry
that the more we try
to put ourselves back
together, the farther
apart we’ll end up.
I worry
if Dad gives too much
of his love to Lily,
it will mean he has less
love for Will and me.
Desert Sky Retirement Village
Is a pretty big place—
blocks and blocks
of plain little homes
with yards that aren’t
too much work for older people,
all behind a big fence
to keep everyone safe.
Most of them probably
own cars, but they drive
around their neighborhoods,
to the pool or tennis or
shuffleboard courts, in golf carts.
Speaking of shuffleboard.
“Lily’s coming tonight, right?”
Yes, of course.
“Couldn’t she have driven
Grandpa instead of us
picking him up?”
She was off today. Spent
most of it at the house.
“Our house?”
Yes, our house. Working
on a fabulous dinner.
Cooking in her kitchen
is one thing. Cooking
in ours is another.
Even if her food is good.