by Anne Dayton
“Hey,” I say, startled. That Ben guy. I shouldn’t be that surprised since he technically attends youth group with me, but his appearance here reminds me that I haven’t seen him since that day in the parking lot. Where’s he been? “Skipping the fascinating fund-raising meeting too?”
He scratches his nose and shrugs. “Did you hear they want it wired for videoconferencing?”
I roll my eyes. “I liked this place better when everything was simple. I remember when the annual trip to the campgrounds was the highlight of the year. It was kind of lame, but we made it fun somehow. The campfire, the marshmallows, the singing . . .”
Suddenly I wonder why on earth I’m bearing my frustrations to the likes of Ben Nayar. An uncomfortable pause hangs in the air.
“Up for a game of H-O-R-S-E?” I toss him the ball to break the silence.
“If you don’t mind losing,” he mumbles, and I have to laugh. The guy’s got nerve, that’s for sure. He walks over to the three-point line and sinks a basket, bouncing it off the backboard.
“No sweat.” I take over the spot, squint my eyes toward the rim, and try to picture the ball swishing through the net. It bounces off the backboard with a lazy thud and hits the ground.
“H.” Ben walks over to get the ball.
“I didn’t know you were like a young . . .” I like sports, but basketball is not my area of expertise. “Does Michael Jordan still play basketball?”
“No, he retired a long time ago.” He grins from ear to ear. “I’m only good at shooting though. My dad and I used to play all the time.”
“Really?” I try to picture Ben’s dad playing basketball. I’ve seen him waiting for Ben and his sister after youth group a few times. He’s Indian, and like Ben he’s tall with dark hair, and he always seems to wear button-down shirts with dress pants. Ben’s mom is a Midwesterner, blond with frosted highlights. “Your parents seem so fancy.”
“Believe it or not.” Ben walks around to the side of the hoop and jumps off one foot, completing a perfect hook shot. The ball swishes as it goes in. “They were pretty cool when I was younger. It’s only . . . recently . . . that they’ve gotten so uptight.”
There’s a sadness in his face I hadn’t noticed before. How have we been going to the same church for more than a year and never even scratched the surface with each other? Somehow in a group he fades into the background. I always thought he was shy, but maybe there’s something more behind it. He takes a difficult shot and finally misses, making it my turn.
“Hey, so you know everybody at school.” He picks up the ball and walks it back to me. “What do you think about Dan Rice?”
I scrunch up my nose. “He’s really into dirt bikes.” I take the ball from his hands. “Not really my kind of guy. Why?” Dan’s a senior and probably best known for the huge tires on his truck and the giant space between his ears. “Is he . . .” I shift the ball from one hand to another. I don’t want to insult Ben, but if Dan is picking on him, I could probably make it stop. I could make it known that Ben’s a friend and should be left alone.
“I’m going to kill him, that’s all.” Ben grabs the ball from my hand and launches a sloppy shot at the basket with all his might. It bounces off the rim, and he grunts loudly.
“I don’t really think you’re going to enjoy jail.” I turn away and jog across the floor for the basketball. I pick it up and try dribbling it on my way back, but it’s too flat. I hand it to Ben and cock my head to the side. “Is there something I’m missing?”
Ben glances back at the door as if he’s worried someone is listening and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m having a horrible day.”
I wait patiently. “Pastor Jandel almost threw my brother out of the sanctuary this morning for screaming at the top of his lungs, so you’re not going to shock me,” I say finally.
Ben bounces the ball once, shuffles a few steps back, and takes another ugly shot. The ball hits the backboard and flies through the air at a weird angle. “Dan Rice got my sister pregnant.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, then put it down again quickly. I don’t remember his sister’s name, but I know who she is. She comes to youth group too, but she’s definitely younger. She has Ben’s same light brown skin, dark hair, and fine features.
“Asha told us a few days ago, so I’m really not in the headspace for church today.” He smiles sarcastically and then looks up at the ceiling with his hands spread wide. “Just being honest.”
I stare at the ball across the floor, listening to the quiet of the gym for a second. “I’m really, really sorry.” Ben’s in my class, but she must be fifteen, maybe sixteen at the very oldest. “Has she told Dan yet?”
Ben rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say he’s not looking to be Father of the Year.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t shock me.” I scramble over to the bleachers and grab the ball from underneath them. I hurry back with it and put it in his hands.
“I hate myself for it, but I’m really mad at her.” He traces the word Spalding on the ball with his finger. “She’s really smart, and now I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He grabs the ball in both hands and launches it in the vague direction of the basket. It slams into the metal framework, and a ringing hangs in the air. “Your turn. I’m pretty sure I got H-O-R-S-E already.”
The ball rolls back our direction. I grab it and take a dramatic granny shot, goofing around on purpose. It falls short of the basket by several feet, and I catch Ben smiling.
“You’re terrible at basketball.” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“I don’t have to take this abuse, you know.” I take a few steps away. “I’ve got the world’s most boring meeting to attend if I want to.”
“Don’t go,” he says, his voice suddenly not teasing anymore. “I mean, um.” He bows at the waist and then comes up. “I humbly apologize for insulting your abysmal basketball skills.”
I laugh, then we both go silent, listening to the overhead lights hum with an electrical buzz. “I should probably be getting back anyway. The meeting will be over soon.” I slide over to the door, find my shoes, and loop my fingers through the straps. “But I’ll . . . see you around.”
He waves at me almost sadly, but I can’t force myself to stay. It got very intimate there for a moment, and I feel strangely self-conscious—like I’m wearing my underwear on the outside of my clothes or something. “It’ll work out. Somehow.” I cringe. What a stupid, worn-out, half-truth kind of thing to say. It’s what people tell children.
Ben shrugs and takes another shot, sinking it easily.
Even though I’m still standing there, hesitating, he looks lonely, and it gives me the chills.
6
“Look what the school spirit blew in.” Ms. Moore rushes across the classroom and wraps me in a big hug.
Even though we have a big game Friday, Ashley excused me from cheerleading practice because Ms. Moore wanted me to attend this meeting with my parents. I’m not sure what’s on her mind. Did Mom ask her to help me with my applications? Does she want them to do something for Earth First?
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” I can’t keep the dopey grin off my face. I saw her around town several times during the summer, and the Miracle Girls helped her assemble some IKEA furniture one afternoon in August, but after everything it took to get Ms. Moore’s job back last year, it doesn’t seem real somehow.
“The big senior! How does it feel?” She pulls back and sits down behind her desk. Her brown hair is longer, almost shoulder-length, and she looks tan and rested.
I try to make my voice sound light and airy. “Really awesome.” I lift my bag off my shoulder and lower it to the ground, then take a seat at a desk in the front row. “Great.” I trace my fingers over the fake wood grain of the desk.
“Riley.” I don’t have to look at her to know that she doesn’t believe me. Her voice says it all. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Your parents will be here soon”—she glances at the big clock on
the wall—“but we have a few minutes. Talk.”
“No, don’t worry. It’s fine.” I tap my fingers against the smooth plastic. “It’s just . . .”
Ms. Moore has a different classroom now, in the B-wing. The desks are arranged in a funny pattern, and the posters on the walls look fresh, like she made them last night. There’s a new blue carpet, and her desk is clean and tidy, not piled high with papers and books like it used to be.
“I don’t know.”
She watches me. “Did you enjoy your college tour?” She props her head in her hand.
“Yeah.” I glance at her, but something in her eye makes me look away. “I—”
I should tell her. I know I should. Of all the adults in my life, Ms. Moore is the most likely to listen, to not judge, to understand. Plus, she can already tell something’s wrong, and she’ll drag it out of me one way or another. It’s that kind of determination that makes her such a good friend.
But this classroom smells funny, like new carpet and paint fumes, not the damp smell of old books that used to permeate her room. She’s wearing pressed black pants and a V-neck sweater instead of the funky T-shirts that were her signature. “It was weird. I don’t know what I—”
The door whooshes open, and voices from the quad fill the room. My parents walk into the classroom, and they look so out of place here in my world. Mom’s helmet hair is freshly “frosted,” and she’s wearing her best suit. She must have come from a closing.
“Natalie.” Dad holds out his hand, and Ms. Moore shakes it. He’s come straight from work and is wearing his dot-com dad uniform: Dark jeans and a collared shirt. “Good to see you again.”
“Thanks for coming.” Ms. Moore pulls my mother in for a quick hug, then rushes to arrange a few desks in a circle around me. My parents sit down. Dad folds and unfolds his hands several times, then rubs them down his jeans.
“I wanted to talk to you.” She clears her throat. “All of you.” Ms. Moore glances at me, and I give her a weak smile. “Because what I’m going to say involves the whole family, and it’s going to take all of you to make this work.” Ms. Moore grabs a folder off her new desk and settles into the fourth chair, across from Dad. “I know Michael’s at his scout meeting, so I’ll get right to the point. I’m worried about him.”
“We’re concerned as well, and we appreciate your attention.” My mother’s voice is too high, and she’s speaking slowly, choosing her words too carefully. “What exactly is the issue?”
“I’m not sure that Michael is”—Ms. Moore brushes a lock of hair behind her ear—“having such an easy time.”
“He did okay last year.” Dad crosses his legs and hits his shoe on the underside of the desk.
“He did okay.” Ms. Moore shuffles some papers on her desk and pulls her mouth into a downcast pout. “He didn’t fall too far behind, and he didn’t excel.”
“Of course he didn’t excel. But how—”
She cuts Mom off. “Michael is, like Riley, a borderline genius. We all know that.” Ms. Moore lifts a paper from her pile and leans forward. “Which is exactly why we can’t sit back and watch him do okay. He’s far above grade level in math, but he’s already fallen behind in my class.”
“We make sure he does his homework every night.” Mom brushes her hand against her cheek. “We sit there with him and make sure he gets it done.”
“But much of English class is about discussion, and he has a very hard time participating in a seminar. And it’s not only my class. Ms. Lovchuck and I are in frequent contact about his progress, and she has confirmed he struggles in other areas too.”
My nostrils flare at the mention of Old Lovchuck. Marina Vista’s principal is thin and joyless, and up until last year, I thought she hated every living, breathing thing on this planet—but I was wrong. As it turns out, she likes Ms. Moore. After the lawsuit was dropped, she immediately offered Ms. Moore her job back and begged her to return to Marina Vista.
“As you know, kids on the autism spectrum have different struggles. Michael can keep up academically, just barely, but socially I fear we’re losing him.”
“What do you mean?” Mom wrinkles her forehead and leans forward.
“Recent events have made me wonder if there is a better academic plan for Michael. There have been a couple . . . well, incidents, I guess you would call them.”
“Incidents?” Dad repeats, like he’s trying to figure out what the word means.
“Riley, you know how it is around here. It’s”—Ms. Moore seems to expect me to offer some gesture of agreement, but I stay still, boring my eyes into the space above her head—“challenging even for the most outgoing students.”
I nod my head, trying to wrap my head around what’s happening. She’s way off base here. First of all, Michael is doing just fine at Marina Vista, thank you very much. And second, even if he weren’t, she could have come and talked to me about it first.
“The other day I caught a couple of students who’d taken his lunch from him. He was having one of his outbursts.” She purses her lips. “He kept challenging them to a joust.”
Mom pats her hair. “He’s in a medieval phase. Lots of knights and quests and things.” She eyes Dad’s profile and sighs. “That could be a good way to interest him in English literature. Or history, maybe.”
Ms. Moore doesn’t seem to hear her. “And there’s class too. When he does respond to direct questions, some of the other students laugh at him. He pretends he doesn’t hear them, but I know he does.” Did she hear about the incident with Paul and Jordan? Rumors travel fast at this tiny school. I try to catch her eye to signal for her to stop this, to talk to me about it later, but she’s so focused on Mom and Dad that she doesn’t look at me. The only sound in the room is my dad tapping his foot against the desk.
“What are you saying?” I almost whisper it, but I still want to take the words back as soon as they’re out.
“I love having Michael in class. He thinks differently, and he’s so smart, so please believe me when I tell you he is one of the reasons I get out of bed in the morning. But he did so well after the residency program at UCSF two summers ago. According to his records, it gave him such a leg up for high school . . . and I know he didn’t go this past summer. I thought it might be helpful to address the situation.”
“The situation?” Dad cocks an eyebrow.
“I believe his needs would be better met by a special program.” Ms. Moore is calm, but my heart is lurching around in my chest. We all stare back at her blankly, as if none of her words makes any sense. “I guess what I’m saying is, I’m very worried about Michael. I don’t think Marina Vista is meeting his needs, academically or socially. He may need to be enrolled in a special program, and we don’t have anything like that at Marina Vista.”
Michael needs help, sure, but who doesn’t? He didn’t go to the residency program in San Francisco this past summer because it was hard on the whole family when he went last time. How can Ms. Moore even suggest that he leave again—and not just for a summer but permanently? I reach for the strap of my bag.
“I don’t want to upset you,” Ms. Moore says. “But I thought you should know.” She closes the folder, and no one says anything. I feel my stomach clenching, and my fists slowly start to curl.
Michael has always struggled, but he’s always made it. He will get through this rough patch too because we’re here for him.
Ms. Moore wants to help, I know, but she wasn’t here for his whole freshman year. How can she know what he’s capable of? That file can’t tell her everything.
My hair falls over my eyes, and I stare out though the space between the strands. Dad is tapping his fingers on the surface of the desk, and Mom looks like she’s about to cry. Ms. Moore tries to catch my eye, but I turn away.
***
When my parents and I step out into the courtyard, I walk away from the classroom door as quickly as possible.
“How’s Michael doing at school, really?” Mom asks once we’
re safely out of earshot of Ms. Moore. Dad leans in to hear my answer. This is the most interested in me they’ve been in months—well, not in me exactly, but whatever.
“I want your honest opinion. Is he . . . fitting in? Is there some truth to Ms. Moore’s assessment?”
I swallow a lump in my throat. I really can’t believe Ms. Moore didn’t come to me first. Whatever Michael is going through, I can handle it. She didn’t need to make my parents panic like this.
“Um . . .” Our shadows are long on the smooth cement of the courtyard. “I guess. I mean, as much as anyone, I suppose.”
Dad takes in a slow breath and lets it out. “We should have sent him to the residency program this summer.” We walk past the front office, and Mom glares at him. For the first time I wonder whose decision that really was.
“Have you noticed the kids being . . .” She brushes her hair back as we walk down the breezeway. “Treating him differently?”
“He’s . . .” I think back to that day in the parking lot. Were they picking on Michael because he’s autistic? Or because that’s what jocks do to geeky underclassmen? “I’m looking out for him. It’s going to be okay.”
My parents are doing the best they can, but I’m there every day. It’s up to me to fix this. I’ll take better care of him.
Dad smiles at me as we edge around the fence that encircles the pool. “You’re so strong, Rye. I thank the good Lord every day Michael has a sister like you.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze as we head toward the gym, where we’re going to meet Michael. Mom gazes at me, her eyes getting misty, and suddenly I want to be everything they think I can be—for them, for Michael, for our family.
“It’s going to be fine. I can keep better tabs on Michael—introduce him around and stuff. Ms. Moore is totally overreacting. That’s how she is, you know. A little too involved.” I hear the words coming out of my mouth and I know they’re mine, but for some reason I feel detached from them. Have I always felt this way about Ms. Moore? Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind? “Michael is going to be fine. I promise.”
