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What About Will

Page 15

by Ellen Hopkins


  Dad grins. He’s never been

  married and I don’t think

  he has any kids. I hope not.

  “Ha-ha. No. I mean . . .”

  I glance over my shoulder

  to make sure Will’s not lurking.

  “He’s kind of a loner.”

  He has friends, doesn’t he?

  “He used to. But I’m not

  sure the people he hangs

  out with are really his friends.”

  As Soon as the Words

  Leave my mouth,

  I realize they’re true.

  If he had real friends,

  we’d see them once

  in a while. We never do.

  And just because he leaves

  the house doesn’t mean

  he’s chilling with buddies.

  “He wasn’t very excited

  about the rafting trip.”

  I noticed. My guess is

  he’s afraid of getting hurt.

  “But if little kids can do

  it, and if Will wears a helmet,

  it’s probably safe, right?”

  For the most part. That’s why

  we chose this one in particular.

  Of course, any physical activity

  carries some amount of risk.

  But I wouldn’t put your brother

  in harm’s way, and I’m hoping

  the experience will help him find

  a little self-confidence again.

  I hope so, too.

  I still want the old Will back.

  But It’s the New Will

  Who rides along to my game.

  Dad insists that he come,

  even though he doesn’t want

  to, and that makes him mad.

  Stop being so belligerent,

  Dad finally tells him.

  Little League games stink.

  You’ve seen one, you’ve seen

  them all. Not even real baseball.

  That stings. “Little League

  is too real baseball.

  Like you’d know, anyway.”

  How are you going to play

  without a mitt? Will sneers.

  “I’ve got a glove. Not that

  you care.” I struggle

  not to call him a thief.

  That’s enough, Will.

  Trace works hard to be

  the best he can at this game.

  The least you can do is support him.

  This is not how I want

  to spend my Saturday.

  I Want to Yell

  Want to tell him

  watching him play

  football was never

  my idea of a fun

  Friday night.

  Want to tell him

  high school football

  is nothing like real

  football, and real

  players never get hurt.

  Want to tell him

  I’m sick of

  his meanness

  sick of

  his lies

  sick of

  his self-pity

  sick of

  him

  telling Dad

  telling Mom

  telling me

  we don’t deserve

  his respect

  his trust

  his love.

  Instead

  I clamp my mouth shut.

  Stare out the window.

  Watch the blur of sky to mountaintops.

  Tune out my dad, who’s doing his best

  to make me know he’s proud of me.

  We bump down the road we drive on

  almost every day, sometimes twice.

  The neighborhoods, stores, and

  churches and schools look the same.

  Beyond them, the same desert

  stretches to familiar hills and peaks.

  For as long as I can remember,

  this place has been my home.

  I’ve never felt unsafe biking these

  streets or walking on these sidewalks.

  But I’m scared for my brother.

  Problem Is

  Too much thinking

  messes up my focus.

  Coach Hal’s pep talk

  goes in one ear,

  straight out the other.

  I try to find it again

  by concentrating on

  the feel of my new

  used glove. It’s like

  it was made for my hand.

  Worse, I think my focus

  problem is contagious.

  Coach Tom started Cat on

  the mound. She’s pitching

  wild—in the dirt, past

  the catcher. The other team

  scores three runs in the first.

  Second inning, she loads

  the bases with no outs.

  Coach Tom waves me in,

  and as he starts walking

  toward the mound,

  there’s no way to miss

  Will, yelling from the stands.

  What’s wrong with you?

  Stupid girls can’t pitch!

  Every head snaps

  in Will’s direction.

  Coaches. Players.

  Parents, siblings,

  random others.

  That includes my dad

  and Mr. Cobb, who’s sitting

  a few seats away.

  Also, Cat’s father,

  her brother, and a lady,

  not Victor Sánchez’s

  personal assistant,

  who’s right there with them.

  I want to give Cat a hug,

  but before I can even reach

  the mound, she stomps

  toward the dugout,

  more angry than hurt.

  At least that’s what her

  body language screams.

  I should go get in Will’s face.

  Should ask what’s wrong

  with him, and why he always

  has to be so awful. Should tell

  him Cat has more talent in

  her little toe than he ever did.

  But Coach Tom

  Is calling for me to pitch.

  Coach Hal has convinced Cat

  to catch, and sent Bram

  out to play first base.

  Meanwhile, Dad is hauling

  Will out of the stands,

  which is probably good,

  because Victor Sánchez

  looks ready to do it for him.

  And I don’t blame him.

  We desperately try to get

  back in the game, but

  there’s no possible way

  that will happen.

  I pitch okay, but the three

  on-base runners all score,

  and it’s six to nothing.

  The other team either

  feels sorry for us or their

  focus is broken, too,

  because they don’t extend

  their six-run lead.

  We manage to score two,

  and that’s the game.

  We high-five the other team,

  and Coach gives us the ol’

  “you can’t win ’em all” speech.

  Then I go over to Cat, who

  still looks shook. “I’m sorry

  about my brother. He can be

  a real jer—”

  It’s not him. She sounds

  like she’s going to cry.

  “T
hen what is it?”

  She wags her head toward

  where her family is sitting.

  My mom got here last night.

  My brother was with some bad

  people and got arrested.

  Mom wants Dad to pay for

  a lawyer to get him out

  of jail, but Dad doesn’t want to.

  “Why not?”

  He says Mateo needs to learn

  a lesson so maybe he’ll turn

  his life around and do better.

  Whoa

  Seems kind of harsh.

  I wonder if it’s the right

  thing to do.

  “What do you think?”

  I don’t know. Mom and Dad

  argued about it for a long

  time, so I heard both sides.

  I kind of think Dad’s right.

  It’s not that I want Mateo

  to stay in jail, but if he keeps

  going in a bad direction,

  who knows what he might do?

  “What if jail just makes

  him worse?”

  You sound like Mom.

  That’s exactly what she said.

  “What did your dad say?”

  He said it would be hard

  to get worse than carjacking.

  “What’s that?”

  Stealing cars when their drivers

  are still sitting in them.

  Oh. Like in the movies.

  Sometimes the bad guys

  grab the drivers and yank

  them right out of their cars.

  Sometimes . . . “Mateo

  didn’t use a gun, did he?”

  No. But he had one.

  At least, the cops found

  one under the seat.

  He swears it isn’t his, but . . .

  That’s what they all say.

  Just like in the movies.

  Bram is sitting nearby,

  close enough to have

  overheard our conversation.

  He’s shaking his head in a slow

  back-and-forth roll.

  That’s pretty much how I feel.

  And all I can say at this point

  is “Sorry, Cat.”

  Yeah. Me, too. Better go.

  Thanks to Will

  I’m riding home with Mr. Cobb.

  When he sees me looking

  around for Dad, who’s nowhere

  in sight, he waves me over.

  Your father thought it best

  that he and your brother leave.

  You don’t mind coming with me?

  “No. Why would I?”

  Some people think old farts

  like me can’t drive very well.

  “Guess I’ll find out.”

  Guess you will.

  I follow him to the parking

  lot. I have no idea what

  he drives. His car is always

  parked in his garage, and

  I never see him go anywhere.

  Over here.

  “No way! That’s your car?”

  You ever ridden in a Corvette?

  “Uh, no.”

  Well, get on in. This baby

  is a 1972 classic, and boy,

  does she get up and go!

  “Don’t get a ticket, okay?”

  He laughs and we buckle up.

  The car smells like old leather,

  though it isn’t cracked or anything.

  He must take excellent care of it.

  When Mr. Cobb starts the engine,

  it growls to life, then rumbles.

  “Have you had her for a long time?”

  Since she rolled off the line.

  Becky is the love of my life.

  Well, there was one other.

  I wait for a minute, but

  when he doesn’t offer more

  info, I go ahead and ask,

  “Who was the other one?”

  My wife. Leona and I were

  married forty-four years.

  She’s been gone for three,

  and I miss her every day.

  Together we drove ol’ Becky

  here all around the US of A.

  Mr. Cobb

  Doesn’t drive fast enough

  to get a ticket. For a while.

  You in a hurry to get home?

  “Not really. It’s probably

  pretty tense around there.”

  Ahem. Well, if you don’t mind,

  I’d like to take Becky for a run

  on the freeway. She needs

  to sprint every now and again.

  “Cool.”

  As in super cool.

  Moth wings flutter in my stomach

  when he merges onto the interstate,

  takes a deep peek in his rearview mirror.

  Hang on to your hat!

  We accelerate like a bullet.

  Two seconds takes us from sixty mph

  to . . . I have no idea. I steal a glance

  at the speedometer.

  70

  80

  90

  100

  Mr. Cobb lifts his foot.

  That oughta do it. Gotta blow

  the garage sludge out of her pipes.

  She wasn’t meant to retire.

  Makes her downright testy.

  That was the most thrilling

  few minutes of my whole

  life! I wonder if . . .

  “Hey, Mr. Cobb. Did you ever

  raft the Colorado River?”

  Sure. Three times. Why?

  I tell him about our summer

  plans. “I’m excited, but also

  a little worried. Do you think

  it’s okay for Will?”

  You mean because of his TBI?

  Leona and I did the whole length

  of the canyon, and there’s a lot

  more whitewater upriver from

  the stretch you’ll be on.

  Accidents aren’t impossible,

  but they’re rare, especially on

  the powered rafts. The guides

  know their stuff. He’ll be fine.

  We Exit

  The freeway and Mr. Cobb zigzags

  through the surface streets,

  observing the speed limits.

  Still, heads turn when the cherry-red

  ’Vette drives by, and it sort of feels

  like being a celebrity or something.

  Like Victor Sánchez.

  Like Rory Davis.

  Like Serene Etienne (aka Mom).

  The last thought makes me

  shrivel inside,

  a worm on hot asphalt.

  “I wish we would’ve played

  better today,” I say.

  All teams have off days,

  and considering your start,

  you didn’t finish so bad.

  “Yeah. Poor Cat. She’s usually

  a great pitcher, but bad stuff’s

  going on with her brother.

  She was kind of distracted.”

  Ah. And how about your brother?

  “You got a hint today.”

  Did you talk to your dad

  about your concerns?

  “A little. And my mom, too.

  They mostly think

  it’s regular teenager stuff.”

  Well, maybe it is, and maybe

  it’s more, but at least

  you tried to let them know.

  He turns into his driveway,
>
  opens the garage door

  with a remote in the car.

  Mind helping me wipe her off?

  “Not if I can have another

  ride in Becky sometime.”

  We use special dusters.

  Then Mr. Cobb puts Becky

  to bed (that’s what he calls

  it) beneath her custom cover.

  “Thanks, Mr. C. I’ll come over

  tomorrow and weed your ivy.”

  Thanks for your company.

  It gets lonely around here.

  I understand. I get lonely, too.

  Home Again

  And when I open the door,

  I hit a wall of silence.

  I expected maybe yelling

  or hardcore lecturing

  at the very least.

  “Hey! Where is everyone?”

  Dad stomps into view in the hall.

  Grab a shower and dress nice.

  We’re going out to dinner.

  “With Lily?”

  No, just you and me.

  “What about Will?”

  He went out the window

  right after we got home.

  “Did you give him his keys?”

  Nope. He left on foot, unless

  someone picked him up.

  “So why are we going dinner?”

  Because you didn’t escape

  through the window, and

  because I don’t feel like cooking.

  Dad Lets Me Choose

  Where I want to eat.

  I could say Steak ’n Shake,

  but I’m in the mood

  for something else.

  “Can we have sushi?”

  Your choice, like I said.

  We go to our favorite

  place, and Dad lets me get

  the all-you-can-eat. I’m not

  so big on straight raw fish,

  but I like the rolls a lot.

  “We lost the game,” I say.

  You had a rough start.

  “Yeah. Cat couldn’t focus.

  She found out her brother

  is in jail for carjacking.”

  Dad whistles quietly.

  That’s tough. I’m surprised.

  He comes from a good home.

  “Yeah, well, so does Will.”

  I hope so. I try to do right

  by you boys. This isn’t all

  Will’s fault, though. He—

  “Stop making excuses

  for him. It’s his choice

  to get into trouble.

  It’s his choice to drive

  too fast or to ditch school . . .”

  Oops. I never mentioned

  that to Dad.

  What do you mean, ditch?

 

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