Just Friends

by Elana Johnson

  She raked her fingers through her hair and nodded before she got out of the car. “Good night, Mitch,” she said, reaching for the door handle. She practically ran up her steps and into her ginormous house, leaving me to trudge the slow walk of death as I followed her father into the living room.

  “Sit down,” he said, settling his large frame into a leather armchair. I perched on the edge of the loveseat, my hands knotted together. I remembered how Jade said her dad was so tight. He was definitely the no-nonsense type. Would he simply lecture me? Or would I have to talk?

  “Your father is a pastor, right?” Mr. Montgomery asked, throwing me for a bit of a loop.

  “Yes, sir, I mean, sort of. He’s an anesthesiologist. He works at St. Mary’s, and he runs the community service efforts of our church. So yeah, sort of. Sir.”

  Mr. Montgomery nodded. “I work at St. Mary’s too.” He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. It was all there, screaming in the silence. I know your father. I know his values. I’m sure you don’t want me to tell him what I just saw you doing with my daughter.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve been raised right.” He stood up, so I did too. “Goodnight, Mitch.”

  “Goodnight, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  He nodded me out of the living room, his eyes watchful and his arms folded. At least that vein in his head had stopped jumping.

  By the time I got home, my heart had returned to a frenzied rhythm. What if Mr. Montgomery had called my father? This day felt eternal, and if I could just make it to my room, I could relax.

  I hung up the car keys and had one foot on the stairs when Dad called my name. I froze, thinking this was it. I’d never see Jade alone again. I’d have to beg Drew to go out with me simply to see my girlfriend.

  “Yeah?” I asked, stalling in the doorway to his office.

  “The Isaacson’s need your help on Friday. We’re packing the truck after school.”

  Relief flooded me. He didn’t know about the Make-Out Debacle. “What time?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “I have a track meet until at least five-thirty.” It would probably go longer. Coach Braeburn had made sure all the media outlets knew about the meet, and that Lance and I would be running. Lance had promised not to show me up again during the post-meet interviews.

  Dad looked up from his charts. “Can’t you miss it?”

  Can’t I miss it? Is he joking?

  “No,” I said. “There’s only two meets left, and Coach Braeburn said there will be scouts at both of them.”

  Dad peered at me, knowing full-well that I’d only filled out three college applications—and only because of Jade. I hadn’t sent a single one, hadn’t even written an essay yet. “We’ll likely be done by five-thirty. Clara wants to take Scott out for dinner, and they’re leaving at seven the next morning.” He set down his pen—this was serious. “I think you need to be there.”

  My feet itched to run right now. “Dad, I can’t miss the meet,” I said, my frustration coming out though I tried to hide it.

  “Mitch—”

  “No,” I said, adopting my New-Mitch persona. He didn’t sacrifice his opportunities to serve others, the way I would’ve in the past. “I’m not missing the meet. I’m good at this, Dad. Really good.”

  “I know that. This—”

  “No, you don’t know that,” I exploded. “You barely looked at the newspaper articles. You have never come to a single track meet, Dad. Not one. In four years.” I’d never said that out loud, and I’d never realized that I cared if he came to my meets or not.

  “I have to work,” he said, a current of anger in his words and skating through his eyes.

  “How are you going to help the Isaacson’s on Friday at three o’clock?”

  His escalating anger deflated. “I’m rearranging my schedule.”

  “Exactly,” I said, driving my point home. “You’ll leave early to help them pack. Or to go to the cannery. Or if someone needs groceries.” I took a breath, knowing I should stop but not wanting to. “But you haven’t left work early once in four years to see me run.”

  “I work so I can pay for your two-hundred-dollar running shoes,” he said, the fury back in force.

  “I pay for my own shoes,” I argued, something only New-Mitch would do. “That’s why I worked forty hours a week at the car wash this summer.”

  Dad folded his arms. “The fees for that team aren’t cheap. And—”

  “I paid half of those!” I cried. “I worked all summer, Dad. I saved for what I wanted. I paid for exactly what you and Mom made me pay for.” I jabbed my finger toward him. “Including my own tux for Homecoming. Drew didn’t have to buy her dress. You guys bought it for her!”

  He glared, unable or unwilling to concede the point to me. “Who do you think pays for the gas in that car? All those texts you send?”

  “Good night, Dad,” I said, turning to leave. I didn’t know what had gotten into me. I didn’t fight with my father. I certainly didn’t leave before the conversation was over.

  At that moment, I didn’t care. New-Mitch took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom and closed the door harder than necessary. I changed into my sweats. I collapsed in bed and texted Jade, naughty things about how I wanted her there with me, in my bed, and if she could sneak out over the weekend.

  My dad will murder me, she texted.

  mine too, I sent back. Without thinking, I leaped from bed and crossed the hall to Drew’s room. She had her headphones on, her leg bobbing to music only she could hear, as she lounged in bed, reading.

  She removed her earbuds when she saw me. “What?”

  “I need you to cover for me,” I whispered, though I’d closed her door behind me.

  “For what?” She appraised me, and while I didn’t want to give her more ammunition against me, this was worth it.

  “I’m sneaking out for a few minutes. I’ll be back in an hour, I swear.”

  She sat up, her wariness written in her expression. “Something tells me you’re not going to Lance’s this time.”

  “Please,” I said. “I just feel so…”

  “Trapped?” she asked. “Trust me, I know the feeling.” She drummed her fingers against her book. “Are you sure she’s worth it?”

  I thought of her mouth against mine, her body pressed into me. I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Drew—”

  “Please just listen to me for thirty seconds.” Her voice wavered and her eyes grew round. “She’s not nice. She says mean things to Holly, and then texts her even meaner things. She told Lance to back off so you could win the meets, and I saw her in Ivy’s face the other day. After she lectured me one day about my wardrobe, Omar got in her face, and she slapped him.”

  I’d started shaking my head almost immediately. “No,” I said. “I don’t believe that. She’s nice. I’ve seen her with you guys. She hangs out with everyone before school, and she’s never said anything to me about Ivy bringing me lunch.”

  “Oh, so that’s why she was pissed at Ivy.” Drew folded her arms. “She’s not nice. She’s not the kind of girl you need.”

  “She’s just a little jealous,” I said.

  “This is way beyond that,” Drew insisted. She sighed when she saw I wasn’t going to concede. “Fine. Promise me you’ll at least think about what I said.”

  “I promise,” I said, but I didn’t believe her. Jade couldn’t so completely hide who she was. If she’d been mean to all my friends, I would know.

  “What should I do?” She asked, putting in one earbud.

  “Call me if Mom or Dad come upstairs. Then stall them. I’ll get back here and up to the roof. They know I sit out there.”

  “Your funeral,” she said. “But I can listen with one ear.”

  “Thanks.” I scurried across the hall, and climbed out the window before dropping onto the porch. Ten minutes later,
I was concealed in the shadows across the street from Jade’s house.

  where’s your bedroom? I texted. I want to see you again.

  Are you here??

  around back?

  She confirmed it, and I snuck across the street and into her backyard. A few seconds later, she emerged onto her deck. Her hair was loose, wild, and she wore a tank top and sweat pants. I hurried up the stairs and pulled her into a hug.

  “Did you get in trouble?” I whispered.

  “Grounded,” she said against my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. I knew Jade hated being grounded. She’d complained about the walls of her house keeping her caged. It was one of the reasons she was so bent on going to KU.

  “Not your fault.” She stepped back and ran her hands up and down her arms. She gave me a half-smile. “You’re crazy. If my parents find you here…”

  “They won’t.” I cast a quick glance over her shoulder. I couldn’t see through the glass, but it looked dark inside the house. “I just…” I didn’t know how to finish, because I didn’t know what I was doing. New-Mitch was in charge, and he’d wanted to see Jade. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  She moved closer and fiddled with the ties on my sweatshirt. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just stood there. She finally looked up, and a magnetic force brought our mouths crashing together.

  I gripped her tightly, enjoying the way she leaned into me for support. We kissed until seconds before a thump landed inside her house. I pulled away, and a light flicked on. I melted into the shadows. Jade swore and slipped through the sliding glass door. She didn’t have time to close it all the way before another light flared to life and her father said, “Jade? What are you doing up?”

  I heard her footsteps as she practically ran away from the deck. I pressed my back into the stone and held my breath.

  “I needed a drink,” I heard her say from somewhere farther in the house. Ten seconds became thirty. I couldn’t stand there for another breath, waiting for her father to find me. I dashed toward the stairs and eased into the shadowy backyard.

  I ran home, my own laughter following me. It didn’t quite sound like mine, but more maniacal, more carefree, more dangerous. More New-Mitch.

  23

  After metal shop on Wednesday, Mr. Roskelley called me up to his counter. “You have first lunch, Houser?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what he wanted me for.

  “Good.” He put the hall pass booklet away. “Then I don’t need to write you an excuse for third period.” He sat down on the stool behind his work counter, which was littered with various tools.

  He looked at me from behind his heavy glasses. Mr. Roskelley had more hair on his neck than on his head, and he didn’t appear to bathe very often. He’d lost his wife and youngest daughter in a car accident about three years ago, and he terrified me when he wasn’t talking shop.

  “So you’re good with your hands,” he said.

  I didn’t think Mr. Montgomery would agree. “I guess,” I said, looking at them as if they had somehow betrayed me.

  “I only have seven seniors in metal shop,” Mr. Roskelley said. “They’re only here because they’re the best. And you’re the best of the best.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d never heard Roskelley talk so much at once.

  “What’s your plan post-high school?”

  I thought of Jade constantly hounding me to fill out my college applications. “I don’t really have any plans right now.”

  “I suppose Coach Braeburn has given you the college spiel,” Roskelley said, reaching for a drawer on his side of the counter. “But college isn’t for everyone.” He tossed some pamphlets on the counter. “Technical schools, Houser. Just because you’re smart with math doesn’t mean you have to go into engineering.”

  I picked up the pamphlets like they were poisonous snakes. The top one showed a man wearing a blue lab coat and manning a remote control for a life-size robot. It said Marcus Mann Career School in blue letters.

  “Robotics,” Mr. Roskelley said, “Automotive repair. Plumbing. Electrician. Cabinetry. You can make a good living at any of those.” He peered over the rims of his glasses. “I know you’ve got good grades. I see you’ve enrolled in my auto repair class next semester. I’m not telling you what to do, Houser. I’m just letting you know there’s another option besides college.”

  I nodded and put the pamphlets in my backpack, thinking Jade wouldn’t want me to go to a trade school. Not to mention the conniption fit my father would have if I told him I wanted to fix cars for a living.

  Roskelley watched me, not smiling, but the most personal I’d ever seen him. “Go on,” he said. “Go stuff your face.”

  I left him sitting in the shop, and that evening after track, I slipped the brochures into the same folder that held the applications Coach Braeburn had given me. I’d filled out about half of them now, but only because Jade had helped me.

  I woke up Friday filled with dread. I hadn’t told Coach Braeburn I wouldn’t be running in the meet, and I hadn’t told Dad I wouldn’t be helping the Isaacsons pack. I still hadn’t decided what I should do.

  Perfect-Mitch would give up the track meet to pack the truck. But that guy hadn’t really existed for several weeks now. He didn’t stare at his best friend’s chest or sneak out to kiss his girlfriend. He didn’t make out in the back of vans or the front seat of his car. He didn’t argue with his dad, and he would’ve had his college applications complete and mailed off in only a few days.

  Maybe I wasn’t the straight-arrow guy I thought I was. “I need to run,” I said to myself as I attempted to get my hair to lay down flat. I wanted to put on my running shoes and go right then.

  Downstairs, Dad sat at the kitchen table, a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.

  “I’m running the meet,” I said. I almost added an I’m sorry to that, but bit the words back in another New-Mitch move. I shouldn’t have to apologize for wanting a collegiate scout to see me run.

  “I understand,” Dad said, but he sounded disappointed. I didn’t care enough to supply a rationalization for my decision. As I backed out of the driveway, I heard the angry notes of Tchaikovsky wafting from Holly’s house.

  I ran the fastest I’d ever run—again. Another personal best, this time by four-hundredths of a second. Lance came in barely half a second behind me and set his own personal best as we took one-two to bring Stony Brook to it’s best win yet. Not a single person from my family was there to see the victory. Not even Mom. For the past couple of days every time Dad started talking about his plans for Friday, she’d gotten a pinched line between her eyes.

  Holly didn’t sprint in the meet, and Jade was grounded for the weekend, which included coming to watch me run. So with the stands devoid of Mitch Houser cheerleaders, and the possibility of seeing Jade at zero, I pounded all my frustrations into my feet.

  The only good part about it was Coach Braeburn’s elation. This time, Coach made Lance and I shower while he assembled the press in the hall outside the locker room.

  “Nice job,” Lance said, tightening his tie and donning his jacket. “You sure you’re Mitch Houser?” He slid me a glance I couldn’t interpret.

  “Sometimes you never know.” I gathered my stuff—including the business cards of the five talent scouts who’d hung around to talk to me—and decided since I was embracing this New-Mitch persona, I needed to ask Lance about Homecoming.

  “So you and Holly,” I said, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

  He stared at me for a second past normal. “I don’t kiss and tell, man.”

  But he did. He went all the way and told. “That means you didn’t get any.”

  “Believe what you want, Mitch,” he said, stepping toward the door for the interviews. “But let’s just say she has a very… clean bedroom.” He left, the door swinging shut in my stunned silence.

  When I exited the locker room, bright flash bulbs
blinded me. I managed to lead Lance to the table where Coach was standing and helping me into a chair as if I hadn’t ever seated myself before. I swallowed back my nerves as the questions began.

  The first one was definitely the hardest: “Have you decided where you’ll run in college?”

  Lance looked at me expectantly while I gathered my courage and tried to make my voice work. “I-I haven’t applied anywhere yet,” I said. “I’m keeping my options open.”

  Coach had told me who the recruiters were, and I felt five pairs of eyes on me as I spoke. “I have applications from several schools, and I’m systematically researching to find the best fit.”

  I had no idea where those words came from. New-Mitch had struck again, and this time he was witty and had managed to sound smart at the same time.

  “Mitch, to what do you attribute your wins?” the guy from channel five asked.

  “This guy,” I said, hooking my thumb toward Lance.

  The press laughed, but Lance didn’t. I didn’t either. We stared at each other for a hard moment. Lance leaned into his mic. “Mitch needs a reason to run. Something to piss him off.” The crowd quieted. I wanted to punch him in the face, but only because he was speaking the truth and I didn’t want it printed in the paper.

  “Since he’s my co-captain, we inspire each other.” Lance leaned back, pleased with himself. “It’s a tough job, but Mitch is pretty easily ruffled.” He grinned, and a few reporters did too.

  New-Mitch reared. “What do I need to do to get you to win?” I sneered. “Since we’re co-captains and all, seems like I should repay the favor.”

  The playfulness in Lance’s face evaporated. I should’ve stopped. But something dark had bloomed when Lance had opened his mouth. Everything I knew about him—and every secret of mine he’d kept—flooded my mind.

  “Lance doesn’t need a reason to run the way I do,” I continued. “He’s been trying to get out of Bellvue since kindergarten.”

  Nobody knew what I meant, except for Lance. He burned a glare of hatred in my direction, and I looked the other way as another reporter asked another question. Coach knew something was up, and he hurried us through the rest of the press conference. I trailed behind Lance as he stormed out, jumped in his Mustang, and tore out of the parking lot.