Dear Edward

by Ann Napolitano

  “Jesus,” Shay says. “Fine.”

  His face burning, he follows her onto the court. He stands where the other kids are standing. When the class begins, he finds the acoustics of the gymnasium excruciating. The repeated shrieks of the whistle, the slamming of the basketball to the floor, the scuffling of feet, and the thudding of bodies into his. The volume of the room, the urgency of the noise, calls up memories he tries to run away from. His heart, as he crisscrosses the court, beats inside his ears. He averts his eyes so no one will pass him the ball. Once, when it bounces into his arms, his entire body seizes. He hurls it away, as if it’s a grenade about to explode.

  Twice the gym teacher yells, “Adler, you’re headed in the wrong direction! Turn around!” Edward becomes convinced that the clock on the wall has stopped, or that he’s fallen inside this hour, as if it’s a pool of quicksand, and he’ll never work himself free. Time has swallowed him whole. He will sweat and panic across this gym forever. When a kid bangs into him, Edward acts without thinking: He turns and shoves him in the chest. The kid—who Edward sees is not a him but an Asian girl named Margaret, who’d helped him find his new high school locker—falls to the floor. Mrs. Tuhane says, “Adler, get off the court right now! Take a seat!”

  That night, he says to John and Lacey, “You need to write a note to get me out of gym class. Just for a few months, until I’m stronger. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” John looks at his wife. “Have they changed gym class since we were kids?”

  “I’ll fake a stomachache every time if you don’t write me a note,” he says. “I’m not doing that again.”

  “Honey,” Lacey says. “Of course. We’ll write a note.”

  * * *

  —

  When he enters Shay’s room that night, he stares down at his feet. He can still hear basketballs pounding the floorboards in his head when he says, “I’m sorry I was a jerk.” He registers that he sounds angry, even though he’s not; he’s just trying to speak loudly enough to be heard over the rattle of balls.

  “What do you have against Margaret?”

  He tries to think of a way to explain what it felt like on the basketball court, how his nerves were being lit on fire, one wick at a time. After gym class, he’d apologized to Margaret. She hadn’t said anything in response, just glowered at him and walked away.

  “At least you know there won’t be any consequences for shoving her,” Shay says. “Because you’re you.”

  “They wouldn’t do anything to a kid for shoving someone one time.”

  “They most certainly would. I got suspended for punching a boy.”

  Edward stares. “You were suspended? When?”

  “Right before you got here. The kid’s family moved away, so he’s not at the school anymore.” Shay closes the book she’s holding. “He hummed under his breath during every class, which was profoundly irritating. I couldn’t take it.”

  “So you punched him?”

  “Well, I was bored before you got here, and I hate being bored. I had to entertain myself. I’ve almost run away every year since I was six. I always had a different plan, with different timing. I realized at some point that I was never going to actually run away, because it would kill my mother. But I still needed to make the plan, to distract myself.”

  Edward has a memory of standing on the front stoop with Besa during one of his first weeks here. “Your mom told me that you used to hit girls sometimes, when you were little. She was thanking me for being your friend, and I assumed she was exaggerating to make me feel less bad about showing up here.”

  “She wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “What were you trying to distract yourself from?”

  Shay makes an exasperated noise, then says, “I don’t know. My mother buying me dolls every Christmas, hoping I would play with them. Eating dinner at five-fifteen every single day. Do you know our chicken schedule? Because we have a chicken schedule. We eat fried chicken on Mondays, roasted chicken on Wednesdays, and barbecued chicken breasts on Fridays. It never varies.”

  Edward feels like he’s walked into a different bedroom from the one he sleeps in every night. He remembers following Shay down the school hallway on the first day of seventh grade, watching her elbow a boy out of his way. He remembers her scowling at the people who used to watch him as if he were a parade. He can see this new version of Shay in the old one.

  She shakes her hands out, the way athletes do between competitions. “Look,” she says. “I don’t want to shut up anymore. I don’t think you want me to.”

  “No,” he says, even though he feels nervous. The air in the room is strange, like the still precursor to a hurricane.

  “The plane crash, and you moving here, was obviously exciting,” she says. “But now…”

  He nods. He knows that now is different, and dissatisfying. The air is loose, and there is room for boredom along with other types of chronic mild discomfort. Edward pants slightly, almost bends over and puts his hands on his knees because today has worn him out, but he has to focus, because him being irritable at the world and Shay being irritated at him are two very different things. The second is unacceptable, and yet Edward can now see small signs of her disengagement over the past few months. Sometimes Shay turns out the bedside light early, even when she’s not particularly tired. She chose to take a different elective from him at camp: Edward signed up for an additional session of arts and crafts, and she took wood shop. Once or twice she sat at a table full of other kids at lunch. He feels a trill of panic. He’s losing her.

  “I’m sorry I’m boring you,” he says, and hates how whiny he sounds.

  She shrugs. “This isn’t about you, Edward. For once.”

  There’s danger in her expression. She looks out the window like she wants to jump and hit the pavement running. He knows that, somehow, his speaking angrily to her in the gym unleashed this. She’d been committed to taking care of him, and he’d told her to back off.

  Oh God, he thinks. What have I done?

  When she turns back toward him, her expression is fierce. “I have to tell you something.”

  “You don’t have to right now,” Edward says. “Tell me tomorrow.” He has no idea what Shay’s about to say, only that he can’t bear anything more. He has a memory of watching his mom press her thumb against the birthmark below her collarbone. When Jane noticed her son watching, she’d smiled and said, I press here when I want to turn back time. Eight-year-old Edward had believed her and wished that he’d been born with a magical birthmark. He has the same wish now, again. Filled with dread, he wants to reverse away from this moment.

  “I promised my mother I would say this, or else she said she would tell you, and that would be mortifying.”

  A car on the street honks loudly, and Edward feels the sound inside his body.

  “You can’t sleep in my room anymore. It’s fine, though; nothing else will change.”

  His body temperature plummets; his skin is suddenly cold. “Why?”

  “My mother made me promise when you showed up here, when you first started sleeping in my room, that it would stop when we stopped being kids. When I became a woman. Ugh.” Her hands are over her face. She speaks between the spread of fingers. “That’s what she calls it.”

  Edward looks at the clock on her bedside table. It’s eight-seventeen. How is this day still happening? “What are you talking about?” he says. “You know I don’t understand anything.”

  “I got my period.”

  With the exception of the trip to D.C., Edward has walked in the darkness from his house to hers every night since he met her. “So what?” he says, but he knows this is something Besa would care about, a milestone where she would plant—has planted—her flag.

  “I know you don’t want to sleep in the nursery. But there’s a pullout couch in your basement. You sho
uld sleep there. I can help you set it up. You can sleep in my room for a few more days, until the basement is ready.”

  Edward blinks. He knows he has to reply, so he says, “Okay.”

  “We both knew it couldn’t go on forever.”

  He thinks, I didn’t.

  * * *

  —

  The next day is Wednesday, so Edward shows up at Principal Arundhi’s office after school. They circle the perimeter of the room, Edward with the blue watering can, the principal with tiny muslin bags filled with different plant foods. The bags aren’t labeled, but he knows which bag is which. For a few of the plants, the principal massages the food into the leaves and then adjusts the heat lamps situated overhead. For others, he makes careful divots in the soil with his index finger and then gently tips the contents of a bag into the holes.

  Edward has learned to pour water slowly and to watch the soil color to see if it’s saturated. Dark brown is good; tar-black and muddy means he’s gone too far. He focuses on controlling his pour. His hands have an uneven tremor, because he barely slept the night before. He’d lain awake on Shay’s floor, trying to memorize the Y-shaped crack in her ceiling, trying to memorize the tiny squeaks she makes when she rolls over in her sleep.

  “Can you name them, Edward?” The principal is three plants ahead of the boy. He sniffs the leaf of a plant and then tips his head to the side, as if considering the meaning of the smell.

  Edward knows now that the entire room is filled not with many different types of plants, as he’d assumed on his first visit, but with various ferns. Principal Arundhi is not just an avid gardener but specifically an expert on ferns. He’s even published a book, called Ferns of the Northeast: Including Clubmosses and Horsetails, which is showcased on the windowsill between two large flowerpots.

  Edward sets down the watering can and picks up a spray bottle from the desk. The frilly plant in front of him does best when misted with water. “This is a crocodile fern.”

  “Good.”

  Edward names the next one. “Boston fern. Staghorn. Then a couple maidenhairs. A holly fern.” He squints at the plant in the corner. It’s two feet tall with strappy, leathery fronds. “That one and the one behind it are bird’s nests.”

  Principal Arundhi nods affectionately in the same direction. “I’ve had the beauty in front since graduate school.”

  “Button fern. The ones up on the shelf are silver brakes, and that’s a kangaroo paw.”

  “Excellent. And what do they all have in common that differentiates them from other plants?”

  “They’re vascular and reproduce via spores.”

  The man nods, his mustache pulled taut with a smile. “Fine work. You’re a pleasure to teach.”

  When Edward’s finished watering, he pulls on his backpack. Shay is waiting for him at home, to start setting up the basement. Edward shifts the straps of the backpack and draws slow breaths, willing time to slow around him.

  Principal Arundhi turns from the oldest fern in the corner. “Is it four already? One other thing before you go, Edward. Mrs. Tuhane told me that you opted out of gym.”

  “My leg hurt.”

  “Hmm, yes. She told me about the class and what the note said. Can you hold this for a second? I want to fix its perch.”

  Edward thinks, He knows I shoved a girl. The principal places the lemon-button fern in Edward’s hands and turns back to adjust the stand. The boy looks down at the plant. It’s bright green and about six inches tall. Its fronds are thumbnail-sized. Holding it to his chest, Edward stares directly down into the center of the fern. If a plant has a face, this is it. Edward can’t help but think that the plant is regarding him with skepticism. I agree, he thinks.

  “What do you think about that idea? Edward?”

  He realizes, just as he hears his name being spoken, that the principal has been talking for at least a minute. He looks up quickly and hands the plant back to him. “I’m sorry?”

  “Weight lifting,” Principal Arundhi says, looking slightly annoyed. “During your gym period, you can lift weights in the weight room instead of joining your class. This will allow you to accommodate your injured leg and yet still get some exercise. It’s much quieter in the weight room than in the gymnasium. I myself prefer it. And we can all afford to get a bit stronger, can’t we?”

  “Weight lifting?” Edward says. He has a hard time finding an association for the word at first. He pictures huge, oiled men in bikinis. His father would never have lifted weights, nor would John. Edward regards the principal, who has soft cheeks and a soft middle. Does the principal lift weights?

  Then he remembers the soldier on the plane. Edward and Benjamin had introduced themselves outside the bathroom, and the soldier had appeared almost impossibly muscular. He definitely lifted weights; nobody would have ever messed with him. Benjamin must have felt safe everywhere, at his size. He would have been safe everywhere, except on that plane. Edward looks down at his own skinny arms and bony wrists. He feels the shape of the scar on his shin. He tries to picture himself wider, stronger, safer.

  “I’ll do that,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  —

  At dinner, Lacey says, “Do you have a favorite movie?”

  “Me?” Edward had been staring down at his plate, trying to come up with a way to consume just enough pork chop to keep Lacey from being disappointed. His appetite has dimmed since Shay’s pronouncement. He can feel himself dimming inside, his lights going out, one by one.

  You okay? Shay had asked him at lunch today. Don’t get weird because of this. Everything is fine. We’re fine. He’d said, I know, but in truth he feels like he’s been handed notice to walk a plank and drop into shark-infested waters. Every minute, he’s inching down the wooden slab. Tonight will be his last night on her floor. Tomorrow, he jumps.

  “Yes, you, silly,” Lacey says.

  “What’s yours?” He says this to buy time. He doesn’t have a favorite movie. When he was little, it was The Jungle Book. Has he even seen a movie since the crash? He thinks, General Hospital?

  “Steel Magnolias,” Lacey says.

  “What about you?” Edward says to John. He’s comfortable with this kind of conversational bobbing and weaving; he does it with Dr. Mike every week. Every time a question makes him uncomfortable, he redirects. This week, in an effort to avoid any mention of Shay or the fact that he’s moving bedrooms, he told Mike about the book on investing that Louisa Cox’s driver had dropped off at their house that week. Included was a note on very thick cardstock that said, There are elements of a proper education that they never teach you in school. Read this book and then write back with your organized thoughts. This was the second book the driver had delivered since the hearing. The first was a biography of Teddy Roosevelt, which Shay and Edward had read together, stopping every page or two to make fun of how besotted the author clearly was with the burly president. But now when Shay says, Should we do our homework? Edward feels a wave of guilt that has nothing to do with the work assigned by his teachers but with the fact that he owes organized thoughts—on a book so boring he can’t get past the first page—to Mrs. Cox.

  Dr. Mike had been amused, though, and therefore Edward won. He doesn’t always win with the therapist—Dr. Mike usually plays along for a minute and then comes up with a question that’s even closer to the bull’s-eye—but Edward is confident he can run a conversation with his aunt and uncle. They are unskilled; they have no chance.

  “Blade Runner.” John chews a bite of food and smiles slightly, as if the movie is a warm memory. “Seen it twenty-three times.”

  “Goodness,” Lacey says. “That’s not something to brag about, you know.”

  “Oh yeah?” John points his fork in the direction of his wife. “How many times have you seen Steel Magnolias, Lace?”

  “That
movie is a classic,” Lacey says, in a haughty tone. She turns back to Edward. “I was thinking that if you liked Star Wars, or another big movie, we could get you Star Wars bedding.”

  Edward rolls the sentence through his head, trying to make sense of it. “Bedding?”

  “Besa told me that you’re going to sleep on the pullout couch in the basement. I think we can make that a really special space for you down there.”

  Down there. Edward pictures the basement, which lies directly beneath them. He is near the end of the plank, and the wind is howling, and he hates himself for feeling this way. He knows he’s more upset than he should be, at least about what’s happening on the surface. He went to bed in one room; now he’ll go to bed in another. The distance between Shay’s bedroom and the basement is less than thirty yards. He will still walk to school with Shay every morning. He will still listen to her read books aloud. The surface news is bearable. But what might be below the surface, below the roiling water, distresses him.

  Lacey is beaming at him from across the table. Edward puts down his fork, his appetite finished. The darkness inside him has taken over. He wonders what exactly Besa told Lacey. Did she say that Shay got her period? Or did she say something else, something Edward dreads is the actual truth: that Shay is simply sick of him, and now she has the necessary excuse to get him out of her room and, therefore, her life?

  * * *

  —

  He lifts the metal objects Mrs. Tuhane tells him to lift, straightens his spine when she tells him to, and tries to decipher the strange physical-fitness language she speaks. The weight room is directly off the gym; Edward can hear kids shuffling across the shiny floor. Balls being dribbled. A whistle demanding attention.