What About Will

by Ellen Hopkins

I’m glad he has Lily.

  I’m Glad

  Because I’ve spent

  a lot of time alone

  here in this house,

  but I knew eventually

  someone would come

  home.

  But I won’t always

  live with Dad.

  Will won’t, either.

  We might move

  far away from

  home.

  Maybe to the mountains.

  To ski or snowboard.

  Maybe to the ocean.

  To play music at the beach.

  Maybe to Minnesota.

  To grow food on a farm.

  Who knows?

  But while we’re

  figuring out where

  we want to go,

  I wouldn’t want Dad

  to be alone.

  Mom Isn’t Coming Back

  She could barely step

  through the door

  and hang out for

  a couple of minutes.

  I wish things could be

  different, but wishes

  don’t always come true.

  Maybe I’ll see her this summer.

  But even if I do, it won’t be

  her and Will and me, hiking

  or mountain biking.

  It won’t even just be her

  and me. It will always

  be her and her music.

  And maybe her and Rory.

  That’s something else I can’t fix.

  I go to my closet.

  Way in back, behind

  the stack of Lego boxes,

  is the bottle of shampoo

  and the magazines.

  I leave the shampoo.

  Someday I might

  want that reminder

  of my mother’s

  hair perfume.

  As for the magazines,

  I turn to the articles

  featuring Mom that

  I’ve looked at dozens

  of times. I know them

  word for word, by heart.

  And that’s where

  I decide to leave them.

  In my heart.

  I can’t quite bring

  myself to throw

  them away, though.

  Dad yells, Hey, Trace! Game’s

  about to start. LA at Colorado.

  Should be a good one.

  Colorado. That gives me

  an idea. I take the magazines

  to the living room, where

  the game is just underway.

  “Hey, Dad? Can we mail

  these to Maureen and Paul?

  They might want them

  for a scrapbook or something.”

  When he sees what they are,

  he asks if I’m sure, and I nod.

  “Positive.”

  Bottom of the Ninth

  The Dodgers are creaming the Astros,

  10–2, when Lily and Sylvester

  come through the door. With pizza.

  Dad gets up to give Lily a kiss,

  but before he does, he looks

  in her eyes and says softly,

  I love you.

  She glances my way,

  and I realize she’s wondering

  if it’s okay with me. Yes or no,

  she kisses him back, whispers,

  Love you, too.

  So, yeah, they love each other,

  and I see now that it doesn’t mean

  less love for me. It means more.

  And there’s no such thing as too

  much love, only too little.

  Sylvester trots over for a pet,

  and when he nuzzles my hand,

  kind of pushing it up toward

  the top of his head, I understand

  this dog is asking for love.

  I’ve got plenty to give him,

  and I think he’s got lots for me.

  As the last Astro batter folds

  and the Dodgers win, Lily takes

  the pizza into the kitchen.

  Sylvester follows, probably

  hoping for a stray piece

  of pepperoni or cheese.

  That hollow place

  Mom and Will left

  behind shrinks a little.

  This isn’t the family

  I grew up with, the one

  I tried to stitch back together

  when it came unraveled.

  But this one isn’t bad.

  Dad starts toward the kitchen.

  “Wait,” I tell him. “About you

  and Lily. I guess it’s okay.

  But you have to wait at least

  six months, so you’re sure.”

  Dad grins. Okay, Trace.

  We all want to be sure.

  Six months seems reasonable.

  Now, let’s get some pizza.

  Dad Knows

  Being sure is not

  the real reason

  I want them to wait.

  They definitely are,

  and I am mostly

  sure along with them.

  But this is huge.

  Not just for me,

  but for all of us

  who are part of

  this expanding family.

  We are growing,

  despite losing one.

  Mom will always be

  important to me, but

  we can move on without her.

  If Dad and Lily’s wedding

  is in our future, all the rest

  of us have to be there.

  That will take six months.

  We can’t move forward

  without my brother.

  And so,

  one more time . . .

  What about Will?

  Author’s Note

  Family dynamics are personal, and always thought-provoking. My husband and I are currently raising a third generation of kids. Gen One: way-adult children, two daughters and a son. Growing up, the girls related to each other, but not so much to their older brother.

  Gen Two: adopted only-child son, who did all the things—school, sports, music (metal?!), lots of travel—and built deep friendships but lacked sibling connections.

  Gen Three: our grandchildren. And with them, for the first time, we are watching the relationship between brothers, almost five years apart.

  This book is a tribute to the younger of the two, who has grown up in the very long shadow of his troubled brother. To love someone and watch them struggle is hard. It’s even more difficult when your own accomplishments too often go unrecognized because the spotlight is shining on someone else’s problems. And yet you soldier on, earning straight A’s, pitching Little League no-hit innings, and singing your way through every day, because that is who you are.

  With or without siblings, whatever their circumstances, every child deserves recognition. If raising one “takes a village,” we’d better build galaxies.

  Turn the page for more from Ellen Hopkins

  Definition of Resent:

  Feel Bothered By

  Cal moved in

  a little more than a year ago.

  He wasn’t exactly a stranger.

  Aunt Caryn was his mom,

  and she and my mom were more

  than sisters. They were identical twins.

  Two halves of a whole,

  Mom called them.

  They were close, but they

  didn’t live near each other.

  Aunt Caryn moved to Arizona

  before Cal was born.<
br />
  She visited once in a while

  and came to a couple of family

  reunions. Talk about trouble!

  I guess when Aunt Caryn met

  Cal’s dad and dropped out

  of college, it made Grandma mad.

  They hardly talk at all anymore,

  Mom told me once. And when

  they do, they end up shouting.

  “So why does Aunt Caryn

  go to the reunions?” I asked.

  “Grandma’s always there.”

  Caryn still wants to be part

  of the family, and she wants

  Cal to know his relatives.

  “I think Grandma should

  forgive her,” I said.

  I think so, too. But my mother

  has a hard time with forgiveness.

  She thinks it’s a sign of weakness.

  Grandma still hadn’t forgiven

  her when Aunt Caryn died.

  I’ll never forget that day.

  Mom cried and cried.

  When she finally stopped,

  her face was so puffed up,

  I could barely see her eyes.

  I lost a piece of myself, she said.

  Maybe Cal living with us

  is like getting that piece back.

  Maybe that’s why Mom lets him

  get away with everything,

  from pranks to meltdowns to lies.

  I’m sorry, but I resent that.

  Try to find a little sympathy,

  Mom urges. After Caryn passed,

  things got pretty rough for Cal.

  His dad took him after

  the funeral, but the details

  of the next two years are a mystery.

  And no one’s giving out clues.

  You’ll have to wait for Cal to tell

  you, Mom says. It’s not up to me.

  Whatever happened, I feel sorry

  for Cal. If my mom died, I’d be lost.

  Cal must feel lost sometimes, too.

  So, yeah, I want to forgive his quirks.

  Definition of Quirk:

  Weird Habit

  Still, Cal isn’t easy to live

  with. I like order. Routine.

  He’s the king of chaos.

  Our spare room is Cal’s lair

  now. Mom let him paint it

  charcoal and doesn’t even

  yell about the mess—

  greasy wrappers here,

  dirty clothes there.

  Imagine what’s crawling

  around in his closet!

  Gross.

  I have to share a bathroom

  with him, which might not

  be so bad, except he forgets

  to drop the toilet seat.

  I’ve splashed down

  in the dark

  more than once.

  Gross squared.

  Cal drinks milk straight

  from the carton,

  and brushes his teeth

  without toothpaste.

  Sometimes he doesn’t

  brush them at all.

  Gross cubed.

  Those are little things.

  But Cal has bigger problems.

  Like right now at school,

  we’re outside for recess.

  It never gets really cold here,

  but it’s early November. The sky

  is gray and the air is kind of sharp.

  Almost everyone is playing ball.

  Softball.

  Kickball.

  Tetherball.

  Basketball.

  But Cal is sitting against

  a wall of the sixth-grade

  building, face in a book.

  He reads, like, three a week.

  Our teacher, Mrs. Peabody,

  keeps telling him to slow down.

  Comprehension means more

  than word count, she says.

  But, no. He has to read more

  than anyone else, and asks

  for books that are long and

  advanced. Sometimes it seems

  like he’s showing off.

  The problem with that

  is it can draw the attention

  of bullies, especially those

  who think it’s hilarious

  to make someone freak out.

  There go two now,

  and they’re headed

  in Cal’s direction.

  This could be bad.

  Definition of Intervene:

  Get Involved

  Vic Malloy is

  taller than average

  square

  buzz-cut

  meaner than snot.

  Bradley Jones is

  a head shorter

  round

  faux-hawked

  meaner than snot.

  They close in on Cal.

  I know what they’ve got in mind.

  Cal’s been in this school

  for a year. They’ve seen

  him melt down before.

  I nudge my best friend

  Misty, who’s watching

  the tetherball wind

  and unwind around the pole.

  “Look.”

  Uh-oh, she says.

  We’re all the way across

  the field, so we can’t hear

  what the boys are saying.

  But when Cal looks up,

  his expression is easy to read.

  Annoyed.

  Anxious.

  Angry.

  Think we should intervene?

  Misty asks. Like the counselor

  told us to do in that assembly?

  “Yeah. We probably should.”

  But before we can, Vic kicks

  the book, and when it goes

  flying, Cal jumps to his feet.

  The other boys laugh

  and move in toward him.

  Some kids might respond

  by raising their fists.

  Others might shrink back

  against the wall.

  Cal screams.

  Like a siren.

  Piercing.

  Panicky.

  Painful.

  Everyone stops

  what they’re doing.

  Turns to stare.

  The playground-duty

  teachers go running.

  Vic and Bradley

  slink off into the shadows.

  Laughing hysterically.

  And Cal

  is still screaming.

  Definition of Mortified:

  Totally Embarrassed

  Our principal, Mr. Love

  (yeah, I know), comes

  to see what the problem is.

  He puts an arm around

  Cal’s shoulders, steers

  him toward the office.

  Well, that was special,

  says Misty. Your cousin

  is weird, you know.

  My cheeks were already

  hot. Now they’re on fire.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault.”

  Misty sniffs. I didn’t say

  it was your fault.

  No one thinks that.

  “So why is everyone looking

  at me? I’m mortified!”

  Hannah, you’re the most

  popular girl in the sixth grade.

  Don’t even worry about it.

  “Okay, fine.” But my face

  is still burning when the bell

 
rings and we go back inside.

  Luckily, Cal isn’t here.

  Mr. Love has him working

  in the office, where it’s quiet.

  That’s an “accommodation”

  of Cal’s IEP. That means

  Individualized Education Program.

  Kids who have a hard time

  learning get accommodations. It doesn’t

  mean they’re not smart.

  Cal is, for sure. But when

  he has a meltdown like that one,

  he can’t pay attention in class.

  Neither can anyone else.

  Especially not me. Mom

  swears Cal can’t control it.

  His therapist says when

  too much comes at him

  at once, his brain crashes.

  Crashing brain!

  Siren screaming!

  Sometimes he throws things.

  I get that it’s not all his fault.

  No one wants to be pushed

  aside and made fun of.

  I wish I knew how to help

  him. I wish I could figure

  out how to be his friend.

  But that’s hard

  because I’m not exactly

  sure who he really is.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is always a semi-lonely pursuit. You spend a lot of time in your own head, not to mention your office or wherever you go to create. So, you might think writing a book during a pandemic-induced stay-at-home lockdown wouldn’t be such a big deal. But you’d be wrong.

  Almost every writer I know struggled to create during the time I wrote this book, and that includes me. Where words used to flow by the thousands, they sputtered by the dozens. There were days I called myself an imposter and meant it. Had this story not been so important to me, it might never have found its way into these pages. It took the moral support of a number of people, whom I’d like to acknowledge here.

  To my family, who listened to me yell, moan, cry, cuss, and whisper to my computer, thank you for your patience, grocery store runs, help in the kitchen, and endless inspiration. To my mutual admiration club—Susan, Susan, Andrew, Amy, Amy, Matt, Laura, and Jim—thank you for those late-night calls and regular Zooms that reminded me I’m a writer second. First, I’m a (good) person, and subject to human frailties. To forever friends and old classmates, thanks for your longtime presence in my life. It’s been quite the journey. To my SCBWI clan, you remain a beacon. To readers, teachers, librarians, and all those who support my efforts daily, I appreciate every one of you.

  To my agent, Laura Rennert, who always insists I can when I complain I can’t, I wouldn’t be here without you. And, of course, to my team at Penguin, especially Stacey Barney, this beautiful book is in the world because of you. Thank you for not only being in my corner but for being my corner of the publishing world.