by Andrew Smith
“Do you think I need to go to the doctor?”
“No, Stick.”
* * *
I stayed that way until Thursday.
Then the fever broke.
Mrs. Lohman never called my father again.
But I had to go home on Saturday, and I was afraid.
I had been doing the math.
* * *
I stunk. I needed a bath.
“I would like to, but we can’t,” Emily whispered. “I want to wash your hair. But.”
“I know. Tell your mom I feel like getting up now.”
“No. I’ll go start the water for you.”
“Thanks.”
She stayed in the bathroom and watched as I shakily lowered myself into the tub.
This time, I think we both felt like we were stealing something.
Mrs. Lohman was in the kitchen.
We didn’t say anything.
Emily came over and sat down on the edge of the tub. She filled the little cup with warm water and poured it over my head. Emily rubbed her fingers around and around my scalp. Then the coolness of the shampoo, more water, the cloth she’d use to rub suds into the back of my neck, my shoulders, and my chest.
I could have gone to sleep.
Everything was so quiet, so perfect.
It was like not being alive, and not being dead, at the same time.
Then Emily leaned down and whispered, “I better go.”
I nodded. I kept my eyes down, watching the swirls of foam twisting on the surface of the bathwater.
I wondered what the waves were like at the Strand.
She put her lips so close to my ear. “And, goof, you forgot to bring any clothes to put on. I’ll go get some for you.”
“Okay.”
Then Emily did something.
That was a miracle.
She kissed me on the back of my neck.
It wasn’t like the kiss Kim gave me.
It was something else; a pure thing that, at the same time, didn’t matter at all, and also had more words in it than I could contain in my head.
I closed my eyes.
She said, “I want you to get better now.”
Then I heard her go out the door.
* * *
We sat downstairs, playing Monopoly and drinking hot tea with lemon and honey, with Mrs. Lohman for the rest of the afternoon. I desperately wanted to go outside, but Emily’s mom was stubborn in her insistence against it. I mostly wanted to be somewhere alone with Emily. But feeling better also brought my mind to thoughts of Aunt Dahlia and Bosten, to counting the time between my now and my then, my first and my next, and it made me feel so small, like a feather floating on the sea.
* * *
On Friday morning, after breakfast, Emily and I left the house and walked through the woods, along the bank of the Sound toward the pier. Mrs. Lohman had finally given me permission to go outside, but she instructed us both that she would call Emily’s father at his store in an hour to make sure I was still alive.
It was a perfect spring day, cold and clear, and I could see the dark, flat expanse of the ocean through gaps in the pines and dogwoods. I thought if I could touch the water, I would feel some kind of connection with Evan and Kim, with Aunt Dahlia, too.
And I was finally alone with Emily.
When we came around a small point on the bank, I could just see the end of the pier, the people standing out against its rail, fishing, and their bright-colored windbreakers.
“Hey,” I said.
Then I grabbed her hand.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to hold your hand.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“And tell you thank you, too.”
Emily shrugged. She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“I like you.”
“Well, duh.”
Emily. Why did she always have to be like that?
“But I don’t think we should take a bath together anymore.”
“Oh. Okay. Why?”
I swallowed. “Because everything’s different.”
“You mean, like, your mom and dad?”
“No. It doesn’t have anything to do with them.”
We stopped walking. I could see the roof of Mr. Lohman’s store at the front of the pier.
“It’s me,” I said. “Everything’s different, Em. I’m afraid things might happen.”
“I hope you know that I don’t understand you sometimes.”
She let go of my hand and climbed down the rocks on the bank. It was low tide.
I stood up on the bank and watched her. “Why doesn’t anything ever matter to you, Emily?”
She put her hand up across her brow so she could look at me. The sun was directly behind. “Why do you always have to make things into bigger deals than they really are, Stick?”
It made me mad. So mad, I didn’t want to answer her. All the words got stuck in my head, anyway. I felt like I would explode.
I wanted to go home.
I turned around and walked away from her.
How could she say that?
Couldn’t she see me?
* * *
Everything had changed.
Everything was a big deal.
Everything was ugly.
And I was just looking for something that mattered.
“Hey! Hey! Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just leave!”
“Why not?”
I didn’t want to hear it anymore.
Emily scrambled up the bank after me, but I was already in the woods, walking fast. Walking away from her.
“Hey! I’m sorry if I said something wrong, Stick.”
I kept going.
When she was close enough to touch me, she said, “Stark McClellan. You stop right now.”
I turned around and faced her.
“I want to go home.” My voice was choked with frustration. “I want Bosten.”
“Oh.”
That’s exactly when I grabbed her and put my mouth on hers; and I kissed her perfectly, just the way I wanted to for so long.
At first, I think it surprised her. But I kissed her again and again, holding her perfect neck in my cupped palm, opening my mouth, tasting her breath as I slid my other hand up inside her sweater and pressed it against the smoothness of her back so our bodies were as close together as they could be.
And when I stopped and looked into her eyes, they were wide and open, and I could tell something had changed in her. She was suddenly so serious, like I scared her.
Emily said, “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I. Uh. Um. Stark.”
“I know.”
“You want to do that again?”
And I tried to sound as much like Emily as I could. “Maybe we can. Sometime.”
Then I spun around and started heading back toward the water’s bank and the pier.
Just like that.
“Are you kidding me?” Emily came running after me. “You’re kidding, right? Are you?”
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”
She grabbed on to my shirt and turned me around. “Stark McClellan.”
So I kissed her again.
And that was why we couldn’t take another bath together.
At least, not for a while.
* * *
My mother phoned the Lohmans that night after dinner.
She wanted to talk to me.
I was afraid.
I held the phone for a moment and looked at Emily and her parents. I wanted them to leave, but if they did, I was afraid I’d just hang up and not even say hello.
It was like I could smell the cigarette smoke coming through the receiver.
“Stick?”
“Hello?”
“How are you, dear? Mrs. Lohman told me you’ve been ill.”
“Uh. I’m okay, Mom.”
“Well, you be sure that you’re not biting your nails. You catch things bi
ting your nails. From the dirt, you know.”
“Oh. I’m not doing that, Mom.”
“How did you enjoy California? Don’t tell me you didn’t. I’ve already spoken with Bosten.”
“Oh. Mom?”
“What?”
“When are you coming back home?”
I looked at Mrs. Lohman when I said that. She looked like she would cry. I didn’t mean to make her sad.
“I’m coming to take you shopping next Saturday. For your birthday.”
I would be turning fourteen on Thursday. And I didn’t care.
“Oh.”
“Maybe the three of us can go. For Bosten’s birthday, too.”
Bosten’s birthday wasn’t for four more months.
“Oh.”
“I’ll pick you up about noon. We can go to Bremerton, if you want.”
* * *
I couldn’t sleep.
All I did was lie there, thinking about going back home in the morning. I imagined Bosten would come into my room at any moment and say, “Hey, Sticker, get your ass up and let’s go blow something up.”
But that didn’t happen.
* * *
I was most afraid of seeing Dad again.
But that’s just how things were going to be now.
* * *
It must have been midnight. The television downstairs had long since gone silent, and the house was completely dark. A finger tapped outside on my door.
I believed that somehow Emily knew what I was thinking.
She always did.
She came in and sat down on the chair next to me.
I think we just watched each other.
It seemed like all of forever, balled up inside just a minute.
Then she climbed onto my bed with me, squeezed herself inside the sheets next to me, and hugged me. It was tight and steady, and it made me believe there was nothing in the universe between me and Emily Lohman. My heart pounded as we held each other. I felt my penis pressing against her through the thin cotton of my briefs, and it scared and thrilled me at the same time.
Emily put her face next to mine on the pillow and whispered, so faintly, “I just want you to know how sad I am about all this, Stark. I just want you to know that I will always be here for you.”
Then she got up and left.
Just like that.
DAD
Dad said, “I imagine you’ve got some laundry to take care of for when school starts back on Monday.”
That was the first thing he said when Emily’s father dropped me off.
Dad stayed outside and talked to Mr. Lohman while I carried my suitcase through the door and down the stairs to the basement. Emily waited in the car.
I tried not to make a big deal out of our quiet good-bye.
There were things I thought we needed to say, but we just didn’t get around to them, and all those words were stuck inside my head, anyway.
We promised to meet each other tomorrow, the last day of our break from school.
Maybe I could tell her then, I thought.
It seemed like I had been gone for a long time, but as soon as I stepped through the door and smelled the air in my house, all the time and distance got smashed away like glass beneath a hammer blow. I looked to see if Bosten was home yet.
He wasn’t.
As usual, he was smart, and did his math.
I tried to stay busy, to make myself invisible if I could. I’d unpacked my suitcase. The wetsuit Evan had given me was hanging up from the edge of my little window, so I could look at it. It still smelled like the sea.
And I hid my Sex Wax T-shirt at the bottom of my sock drawer. I don’t think Dad had ever looked through my things one time in my life, but I could be wrong.
Everything was different now, anyway.
And the wax itself was stashed beneath my pillow, so I could smell it when I went to sleep. It was like I had complete control of my world when I was inside my room.
But that was a dumb thing to believe.
* * *
Dad came downstairs while I was loading my laundry into the washer. He stood on the last step, smoking, watching me. I had to concentrate on what I was doing. He made me worry that I was going to do something wrong, and then he’d tell me how stupid I was.
“When your brother comes home, the three of us are going to sit down and have a talk.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Things are different now. We have to make some new rules. You boys are going to have to start taking care of more duties.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad watched me for a few more minutes. When his cigarette was smoked down to the filter, he went back upstairs.
* * *
In the early part of the evening, just before dark, Dad went out to the wellhouse, carrying his toolbox, cussing; the tip of his lit cigarette seesawing with every “goddamn” and “shit” that mumbled past his lips.
And I was so relieved when I saw Mrs. Buckley’s Trans Am cutting up our drive from the highway. I slipped my shoes on and ran down the steps from the mudroom to meet them.
As soon as Bosten and Mrs. Buckley got out of the car, I could tell something was wrong. They both saw me—they had to—but neither one of them acknowledged it at all. And Paul wasn’t with them; it was only the two of them.
“Hey!” I said, as I came up to the car.
Mrs. Buckley opened the trunk for Bosten, and he mournfully lifted his suitcase and began walking toward me.
Something was definitely wrong.
Bosten looked scared, sick.
“Hey, Stick,” he said as he passed me, lugging his bag up the steps to the mudroom.
“What’s—”
“Where’s your father, Stark?” Mrs. Buckley didn’t look like herself. It scared me a little.
“He’s fixing the pump in the wellhouse. Is something wrong?”
She didn’t answer. She turned and walked toward our well, down the little path on the hill. I thought I should go with her out of politeness, but I stopped after one step and chased Bosten inside the house.
He’d left his suitcase and shoes in the mudroom. I heard him going down the stairs to the basement. I kicked my shoes off and went after him.
“Bosten?”
He didn’t say anything. He went into my room and sat heavily on my bed, staring down at the floor in the space between his knees.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m in trouble. Bad.”
“What happened?”
Bosten looked at me. I knew what he was going to say. He took a breath. “She—”
“You and Buck?”
He nodded. “She flipped out. We thought no one was home. She caught us together.”
“Oh.”
“At first, nothing happened. Everything was so quiet and heavy, like after a bomb going off. We all just stayed there, stupid and embarrassed.”
“What did she do?”
“She started screaming and crying then. She called Paul’s dad at the golf course and made him come straight home. And she started hitting Paul and breaking things. She said she was going to call the police and have us arrested; that what she saw us doing was against the laws of the State of Washington and God, and we both deserved to be thrown in jail.
She flipped out.
Then she told me I needed to get the fuck out of their house.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dad’s going to kill me.”
“We need to leave, Bosten. Let’s get out of here before he comes in.”
“Where can we go?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go to the Lohmans. They’ll know what to do. At least we should go there until things cool off.”
That’s when the front door slammed, and we could hear—feel—the vibrations of Dad, upstairs, storming through the house, knocking into things, screaming for my brother to come out.
“Bosten!”
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
But
Bosten just sat there, frozen.
Dad was on the stairs, coming down.
“Bosten!”
Lights came on in the basement.
Then he was standing in my doorway, heaving with rage.
I was so scared, I felt my throat closing up. Dad came over to the bed and grabbed Bosten by the collar and flung him toward the door.
“I should have known about you. Get out of here! Get upstairs, you goddamned faggot.”
He tried kicking him, but Bosten was too far away.
Then Dad went after him and grabbed the back of his shirt, but Bosten swiped Dad’s hands away.
“Leave me alone! You’re not going to touch me again!”
Bosten stumbled out of my room, and Dad was after him.
I got up, started after them, but Dad whirled around with his fist raised, and said, “You don’t move. You come out of that room and I’ll break your fucking neck.”
He slammed my door shut when he left.
* * *
All I could do was sit there and listen to what went on upstairs.
I put things against the door.
I didn’t want him coming for me.
What else could I do?
It was worse than anything I could ever imagine.
But that’s how things were at our house.
They didn’t just happen. They stayed that way.
I climbed onto my bed, wearing all my clothes, kept my light turned on.
I pressed my ear to the pipe.
The little golden rectangle was a black mirror to the outside night above me.
* * *
The first sounds
were things being broken.
Big things.
Things that nobody would ever fix.
It sounded
like the house itself was coming apart.
I heard some words.
Goddamn
Faggot
Queer
And after the words more things were broken.
But I was never so scared in my life as when everything went silent and stayed that way.
Perfectly.
Until morning gray showed on the other side of my little window.
* * *
I never stayed inside my room as late as ten in the morning before that day.
Sunday.
But I had to get out. I had to see if Bosten was going to be okay.
The night before, I had wedged a straight-backed chair below the knob on my door, and there was a dresser bracing it in place.
Dad never came down for me during the night.
Even after I had cleared the barricade away from my door, I waited with my ear pressed to the wood for several minutes.
