The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I’m not interested in what you’re ‘supposed’ to think. I want your actual opinion.”

  I hesitated only slightly—just long enough to nibble off a coat of lip balm. “Amy. It’s a youngest thing. And an art thing—we even have the same favorite brand of drawing pencils.”

  “Ahh, Team Amy.” Ms. Gregoire grinned. “I like it. And what’s your ‘hot take’ on Laurie—am I using that term correctly?”

  “Um, I’m not the right person to ask. Toby says I’m always a couple generations off with slang.”

  “Oh, Toby.” She smiled and sipped her coffee, her expression gentle as she prompted, “But first thoughts on Laurie?”

  “I don’t know, he seems fine. He’s probably a Fielding to Merri’s Jo.”

  Ms. Gregoire sucked in a breath through her teeth and crinkled her nose. “I don’t want to give anything away, but . . .”

  “But you disagree?” She wasn’t even subtle about it. But I already knew I was wrong. Boy next door who gets in trouble and romps around with adventurous Jo? There was no question who he resembled. I wasn’t going to say it, though. Putting the words out there made it real.

  “Fielding’s a wonderful young man . . . but I wouldn’t categorize him and Theodore Laurence in the same genre of human.”

  “Genre?” People had those? Or was this some metaphor/simile/smart people thing? I flipped the pages of the book.

  “There’s plenty more to come. Keep reading.”

  That was true. While The Great Gatsby had been 180 pages, this book was five hundred. Not-So-Little Women would’ve been a more accurate title. “Why?”

  She put her hand on the book and slid it across the desk to me. “Because you need it.”

  The novel nudged against my fingers and the contact sent goose bumps down my arms. The “it” in “you need it” didn’t mean extra credit; it meant the content between the covers.

  “What if I’m reading it wrong?” I asked.

  “You know there’s two sides to any piece of art. There’s the creator’s intent and the audiences’ interpretation. If one of your paintings inspired sadness in a viewer but you were happy when you painted it, does that make their reaction wrong?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Exactly. What is your reaction to this story? I don’t want you to try to figure out some ‘right answer,’ I want your answer.”

  I gritted my teeth, but the words still built behind them, until my mouth was opening without my permission and a riptide was slipping out. “Just once, can’t I identify with the star? Why am I always the secondary character? The second choice? Gatsby, Amy—don’t I get to be the hero even in fiction?”

  “First of all, if Amy were a sentient being, do you really think she would think of herself as secondary? No. She’s not and neither are you. She’s a heroine. You are the heroine of your own story, Aurora. You’re no one’s sidekick or second fiddle. Forget that. Now, what else is holding you back?”

  “I can’t write like Merri. I can’t say things on paper the way I want in my head.”

  “I don’t need you to write the world’s most polished prose. And writing’s like any other skill; it improves with practice. Besides, I approved some drawings. I want you to tell your truths.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “No, I don’t mean that—though maybe you are, a little, to yourself. I mean: Go deeper. Find your truth, your story. I don’t need you to tell me your secrets. I don’t need to invade your privacy. But I need there to be honest emotions. I think you need to find some honest emotions. So tell your truths, even if you just tell them to yourself.”

  If she wanted truth, I’d find it. I spent the morning lost in my head, then went to the art room at lunch. Not to paint but to pull out my laptop. By the end of the period I’d written something true. So true it hurt.

  Is it possible to have PTSD and not realize it? Because I finally found a moment where I connect with the text—Amy and her pickled limes. Side note: That sounds disgusting.

  Mine was less revolting food fad and more folded paper—origami stars were the rage of my fifth-grade class. Everyone folded them, collected them, traded them, competed to see whose flew the farthest when flicked through the air. If you were cool, you had stacks in your desk—stored in an origami box if you were Stella, because she was the coolest of cool fifth graders. Did I mention she hated me? When I tried to offer up my own first attempts at stars, she scoffed and rejected them because they were plain computer paper. Hers were origami paper and mine were “boring junk.” I tried again the next day—after having spent an hour the night before decorating mine with doodles and cartoons. This time she ignored me. The class followed her lead. “Do you hear something? I don’t.”

  It was September—and the curse of having been born in October is that birthday and Christmas money is long spent by the start of the next school year. I had to do chores around the house and store for two weeks to earn the money to buy a pack of fancy origami paper. In the meantime our teacher, Mr. Rafe, had gotten fed up by all the origami drama and banned all stars from the classroom. Not that it stopped anyone. We just got stealthy. When I finally had enough money, Lilly drove me to the stationery store and I picked the most gorgeous, bright, tie-dyed patterned paper—I stayed up way past my bedtime and folded exactly enough stars to give to everyone in my class.

  I’d made one for Stella, and it was the most gorgeous of all—blue and green swirled paper on one half, silver foil on the other. But on the way out the door that morning, I decided she didn’t deserve it and impulsively gave it away to someone else instead. I still remember the way my stomach twisted and lurched as I watched her stomp up to Mr. Rafe’s desk and tattle.

  His face turned bright red. He walked up and down the rows of our classroom and made every one of my classmates turn in the stars I’d given them. Then he made me watch as he fed them through the paper shredder.

  I cried so hard I threw up on my shoes.

  And reading about Amy and her limes brought me right back to that night of hiccuping sobs when I begged my parents to let me be homeschooled or switched to a different class—anything but walk back in there.

  I’m glad Amy got her wish to leave school, even if I didn’t get mine.

  36

  “Hey Roar,” Toby called from his living room. We never spent any time in there. It was always the kitchen. And the only other light I ever saw glow in his house was his bedroom’s. I followed his voice to find him dressed down in his glasses and basketball shorts and a Hero High lacrosse T-shirt. “Save me from these exercises. My physical therapist accused me of slacking on the stretches, and I made the mistake of mentioning that to Fielding and now he—”

  “Fielding was here?”

  “Yeah.” Toby ducked his head and grabbed his water bottle. “I thought about what you said last week. I’ve been lousy to him lately and he called me out on it. I let something like not being on the team and . . .” He trailed off and took another sip, his eyes darting in the direction of my house. I shoved thoughts of Merri aside and focused on the fact that he’d listened to me.

  “How’d it go?” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  “Well, besides his lectures on physical therapy and threatening to come train with me . . . Good. He’s a good guy.” He winced a bit like that truth hurt. “One of the best I know.”

  “I’ve been a lousy friend as well.” I shifted the focus back to me to save him from lingering on that thought. “And Clara totally called me out on it too. It must be national friendship accountability day or something. I bet there really is one of those. It’s up there with popcorn day and idea day and all those other invented holidays.” Geez, I sounded like Merri in full-ramble mode. But at least he was no longer moping like my sister was true north and he was a compass.

  “How have you been a bad friend?” His forehead wrinkled as he sat on the arm of the couch.

  “I’ve been busy. I mean, Clara’s busy too—she’s in every cl
ub—but she’s made lots of strongly worded suggestions that I pick one and come to a meeting. I finally did today—progress! And Huck keeps offering to teach me more about pottery.”

  Toby shifted his water bottle between his hands. He frowned. “Is it because you’re always here? Tutoring?”

  I shook my head frantically. Was it possible for a gesture to be a lie? I needed to be more convincing. “But, school’s important, right?”

  “Right!” He jerked his chin in a quick nod, seizing on the excuse I’d provided. Neither of us ever acknowledged that we spent as much time not-tutoring as we did studying. “You’re doing so much better in math. We wouldn’t want you to backslide. So what’s tonight’s assignment?”

  “Oh.” I’d actually done it with Clara while waiting for the president and vice president of the student council, aka her brother, Penn, and his girlfriend, Lynnie, to arrive so the meeting could start. “I—I don’t have any?”

  Which meant I had no reason for coming over. And we’d both just hinted I spent too much time here already. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt and shrugged my shoulders up to my ears. It didn’t make me less exposed or my feelings less transparent.

  “Well, I’m done with my PT exercises.” Toby scowled and picked at the lint collecting on his knee brace’s Velcro. “I’m so sick of sitting. One more week in this stupid thing.”

  “And that’s all you can do? Sit?” Which had been the worst form of punishment for Toby when he was little. When his parents got mad they’d say, “Sit right here until I say you can move.” Always somewhere he could see the rest of us playing. He’d practically shake with the desire to join us and the effort to keep his body still.

  “Walks. Stretching. My physical therapy exercises.”

  His whole fall had been a time-out. The realization hit me in the gut, but I couldn’t change that, so I wouldn’t let him dwell on it either.

  “Oh don’t be pouty. It doesn’t suit you. Soon enough you’ll be back to running five miles and whacking people with lacrosse sticks and all sorts of other barbaric sports things.” I smiled when Toby did and rolled my shoulders back, feeling some of the tension release in a series of cracks along my spine. “Actually, I think I can help.”

  “How?”

  “I can teach you some yoga—No, don’t make that face. You’ll love it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Love sounds like an oversell. I might tolerate it.”

  “C’mon.” I dropped my backpack in the corner. “This is my chance to teach you for once.”

  “You sure we can’t just watch a movie or something? I promise not to talk about the musical score . . .” He scrunched his mouth to one side and added, “Much.”

  “After, if you want.” I was already twisting my shoulders, loosening my neck. If I could help him with his knee, it gave us another reason to hang out, even if I suddenly became an A-plus math student. He didn’t need Fielding to train him—

  I cut that thought off and hid my guilty expression by turning to move a decorative vase out of arms and legs range. I wanted Toby to fix things with Fielding. And we’d just acknowledged we needed to spend time with other friends too. But he’d seen Fielding, and I had glitter under my nails to prove I’d made Candlelight Concert posters with Clara. We could do both: have other friends and hang out.

  Yoga was a me and Lilly thing. A way-too-focused-and-slow for Merri thing. Which was why it was a me and Lilly thing versus a Lilly and Merri thing. It was exercise that didn’t trigger my asthma. It was a way to be, to think and exist that muted all the anxious thoughts in my head. But I never went to class without Lilly . . . and she hadn’t gone for months, which meant all my recent yoga had been iLiveStream videos.

  Five minutes later I’d shoved the coffee table to the corner of the room and coaxed Toby through a reluctant sun salutation. “This isn’t hurting your knee, is it?”

  “No, but does this even count as exercise?” he grumbled. “I mean, obviously you’re in shape, but I’m not even sweating.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We’ll hold this next down dog for—I don’t know, do you think you can manage two minutes? And then I’ll check you for sweat.” If that didn’t impress him, I’d pull out some shoulder stands and advanced positions.

  I talked him into the pose, trying not to get a thrill when I had to touch his back to show him how to shift his shoulders away from his ears, to straighten his spine, and to push through his hands and out his tailbone. When he was finally in position, I peeled off my sweatshirt and slid into the pose. “Now, two minutes. Think you can do it?”

  “Sure,” he scoffed.

  “We’ll see.” I kept up running commentary for the first ninety seconds. Reminders to keep his heels down and keep his shoulders from creeping toward his ears. Talk about slow inhales and exhales and sinking further into the pose. Phrases my yoga instructor had said so often that they flowed from my lips like song lyrics. It was kinda empowering to be the one teaching him for a change. But his responses got more and more sporadic. More and more distracted.

  “How are you doing back there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I lowered my head to look at him around my legs. He wasn’t holding the position anymore. He’d dropped his knees, and was—

  “Are you”—okay/tired/hurting—“staring at my butt?”

  His cheeks turned bright red and he sputtered. “No! What? Um, no.”

  I didn’t know whether to blush or lecture or laugh. Eliza would do the second, Merri the third. I was pretty sure I was already doing the first.

  Toby studied the hardwood floor. “Normal people can’t bend like you.”

  I laughed and transitioned from down dog to up dog. His gaze shifted to my chest, which was pressed outward in this pose. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry.” His cheeks turned redder and he fastened his eyes on my face like they were glued there.

  “So, I’m not normal? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He sat down, no longer even pretending to copy my moves. His hands were white knuckled as they curled around the sweatshirt I’d discarded. I glanced down at my bright blue yoga top. It was smallish and strappy, but supportive and covered all the things I wanted covered.

  When I glanced back up, his eyes were still on my face, searching for something as his mouth stretched into a grin that felt like it was mine alone. “Roar, you are—”

  Everything about his expression changed in an instant. His eyes went wide as all other emotions disappeared. He stood, tossing me my sweatshirt as he said, “Dad. I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”

  “I noticed. Your car is parked to block access to the garage.” Major May turned to me. “Aurora!” He said it with a big, swaggering smile but also a note of hesitation, like he was crossing his fingers he was correct.

  He looked inordinately pleased when I nodded. “Hi, Mr. May.”

  “I hear my son is tutoring you in math. It’s his best subject, you know. Someday he’s going to take the finance world by storm.”

  I hid my wince by pulling on my sweatshirt. Toby’s best subject was music. The last thing he’d want to do was work for his father’s firm.

  “But this doesn’t look like any math I’ve ever studied . . .” I emerged from my sweatshirt to find him taking in the disarray in the living room and our flushed cheeks with an amused expression.

  “Rory was showing me some yoga poses that will help my knee.” Toby fiddled with the Velcro on his brace and wouldn’t look at me.

  “Ah. I hear that’s a thing now—guys doing yoga.” He laughed. “Well, whatever gets you back in fighting shape sooner. Aurora, you’ll join us for dinner.”

  I didn’t know which of his statements to react to—the sexism, the pressure, or the invitation that wasn’t a question. I looked at Toby and his lips were still twisted in the small tight smile that’d emerged at the critique of his parking job, but his eyes pleaded with me to accept.

  There was a slight desperation in Mr. May’s eyes as
well, and I wondered what dinner was usually like in this house—on the rare occasions they both attended.

  “That would be nice,” I said and watched as relief poured into both of their expressions.

  Ordering dinner was clearly a well-rehearsed routine. Mr. May called in “the usual” to a local upscale Italian place—with Toby interrupting to tell him, “Add the veggie antipasto.” A request I was grateful for when “the usual” arrived and it was sausage pizza.

  In my house, we ate takeout out of containers. I would’ve been fine with popping the plastic cover off the circular tinfoil dish and digging in, but Mr. May spooned everything out onto a plate for me, then carried it into the dining room. He placed it beside the two other plates he’d carried, each containing a single slice. The pizza box had stayed in the kitchen.

  “I’m sure my son meant to ask what you’d like to drink, but since he’s forgotten, let me get you something.” Mr. May opened the fridge and scowled at the contents. “Or maybe Toby just knew he had nothing to offer you.”

  “I was going to go to the store tomorrow,” said Toby with a sheepish expression I’d forgotten. It was one he’d worn through so many backyard barbecues with our parents. When his parents had still been married, he was the target for their anger at each other, lots of tight “Dear, I thought you were going to take Toby for a haircut, but if you don’t care whether our son looks like a ragamuffin, I guess I’ll pretend not to either,” or, from his mom, “Do you see that scab on poor Toby’s knee? Someone decided to take his training wheels off, though I said he wasn’t ready.” The barbecues had stopped after they’d divorced; I guess I assumed the nitpicking comments had too.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” I’d spent enough time in this kitchen to know exactly where the glasses were kept. I pulled two and got Toby and me water. Ice for him, none for me.

  The dining room was gray, its curtains silver to match the mirrors that hung on the wall, the chandelier modern—square and glass. The only white in here was the tablecloth, but the aesthetic was just as cold as the kitchen’s. Once we were seated, Toby leaned across the table and speared the mozzarella balls off my plate, dropping them on his own. I nudged the last one from beneath an eggplant slice. He grinned and scooped it right into his mouth. I watched his lips and felt my cheeks heat. That was not supposed to be attractive, right? Watching someone eat cheese? But it was the easiness of it, the way we could communicate so much without even speaking. He pretended to gag when I ate a piece of broccoli. I raised an eyebrow and pointed a fork at my hot peppers. He aimed the tines of his at my plate and began to reach—