Call It What You Want(62)

On Thursday night, we had a conversation about his friend Javon going into the Army. I asked Owen if he was going to join the Army, and he kind of shrugged it off. I don’t know anything about enlisting, but I do know you need to pass a physical. I’m pretty sure a blind spot that keeps you from driving would also keep you out of basic training.

When I fire up the engine, the space between us feels awkward. My arms are tired and my legs are tired and I just want to take a nap right here while the car warms up, but I sense that Owen is uncomfortable. I shift into drive.

“I was in an accident when I was three,” he says.

I glance over at him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s just … I want to explain.”

“I’ll shut up.”

He runs his finger along the seam in the upholstery on the door. “My dad was driving, and apparently he was reaching back to touch me or hand me something or take something away from me—I don’t know. I was three and I don’t remember it. We can only go by witness reports. But he wasn’t looking at the road and he ran a red light. It was a major intersection. We were hit from both sides. He was killed instantly. I had a skull fracture. Traumatic brain injury. I was in the hospital for months.”

“Holy shit.” I glance over. I think of my father and wonder if this is worse. I don’t know.

“Yeah, I don’t tell a lot of people. And I don’t even really remember him, you know? Apparently another guy died in the accident and they sued Mom, so she lost whatever life insurance Dad had in place. And with me being in the hospital so long, insurance stopped covering it … you know how it goes.”

Until this very minute, I had never really considered why Owen was poor. I just accepted that he was.

Then he glances over at me and says, “Or maybe you don’t.”

My throat is tight. I don’t know if that’s a dig or a pass or what. My father stole from Owen’s mother. I knew that. It feels doubly wrong now.

I’m not even sure why. It was wrong. It’s still wrong.

When we get to his house, I throw the car into park, but I don’t kill the engine. Owen makes no move to get out of the car. I can’t read the silence at all.

“What do you want me to say?” I finally scrape out.

“Who hit you?”

“Connor Tunstall.” The words are almost pulled out of my mouth against my will. Owen just unloaded this monumental life secret and it feels awful to keep one from him.

“Why?”

“I took Maegan to a party at his house last night. He was being a dick, so I punched him.” I pause. If I mention the earrings out loud, it makes the theft real. I take a breath. “Connor was waiting in my bedroom when I got home.” I glance his way. “He still had a key.”

Owen says nothing.

I fix my eyes on the windshield. “You want me to get out so you can take a swing, too?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His answer surprises me.

Even more so when he says, “You want to come in and play Xbox?”

“I thought … never mind. I’ll come in.” I turn the key and the engine dies.

He still doesn’t move. “You thought what?”

“I don’t know.” And I don’t.

He shrugs. “Then come on.”



Owen’s mother is drying dishes when we walk in, and she stops when she sees me.

“Rob,” she says warmly. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

“Stop it,” says Owen. He breaks off two bananas from a bunch on the counter and tosses one at me.

“What are you boys up to?”

I have to remind myself that she’s suing my family. That my dad screwed her over. That she doesn’t really know who I am, because if she did, she wouldn’t be smiling at me.

I’m a thief. I’m a thief. I’m a thief.

I break open the banana, glad for something to do with my hands. “We went for a run.”

“It’s cold out for running.”

“That’s why we’re inside to play Xbox.” Owen turns away from her and heads toward the narrow staircase.

I follow him, very aware of Mrs. Goettler’s eyes on me.

I’m worried she’s put two and two together somehow, and she’s going to start throwing knives at my back, until she says, “Leave your bedroom door open,” in a knowing voice.

“He’s straight, Mom,” Owen calls. “Give it up.”

In his room, he shuts the door.

His bedroom is tiny, with a twin bed and a narrow dresser in the corner. He’s got a desk under the window, with a small television taking up half of it. His Xbox is up here today, and he switches it on, then tosses me a controller.

His door opens almost immediately. Despite the fact that I’m standing in the middle of Owen’s room, my cheeks catch on fire.

I expect her to yell, but she says gently, “I said open, boys.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

Owen rolls his eyes. She leaves.

“Your mom is really friendly,” I say as he turns on the television.

“She’s great usually.” He slides a disk into the player. “She started crying when I brought her the shoes.” We had them delivered to an anonymous Amazon locker. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and his voice drops. “I told her I had been saving up for a Christmas present.”