What We Saw(10)

The sun is hanging a little lower in the sky, and the guys on the basketball court haul their friend with the sprained ankle into a car as the mother at the picnic table packs up the leftovers. My leg is all pins and needles from the weight of Ben’s head, and before I can talk myself out of it again, I run my fingers lightly through his hair. He stirs and opens his eyes.

“Did I go to sleep?” He rubs his eyes and yawns.

“Yeah. So did my leg.”

He smiles and helps me up, grabbing our trash and tossing it in a barrel on the way back to his truck.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

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seven

AS WE DRIVE away from the park, Ben’s phone rattles in the cup holder. The music from the playlist pauses as John Doone’s picture pops up on the screen under the name “Dooney.” Ben glances down and frowns.

“Want me to answer it for you?” I reach toward the phone, but Ben grabs it in a hurry and taps ignore. The music swells to full volume automatically.

“Nah—I’ll call him back. Probably just woke up.”

“How is he going to put his house back together before his parents come home?”

Ben smiles. “Deacon told him just to burn it to the ground.”

“Wish I could’ve stayed longer,” I groan. “Was it fun after you dropped me off?”

Ben glances over at me, but I can’t read what’s behind his eyes. “Nothing’s ever as fun without you there.”

My stomach drops and I try to stop myself from staring at him. Too late. There is no oxygen in the cab of this truck anymore. Ben takes a big breath, then opens his mouth to speak. Only he doesn’t speak. He bellows a song like one of those opera guys on PBS:

“Yooooooooou, light up my liiiiiiiiiife. Yooooooooooou give me hooooooope to carry oooooooooooooooon—”

I punch him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

He laughs. “No! Don’t be pissed.” I feel his hand on my knee and look back at him. He’s smiling his Irresistible Grin. The one that made my mom sneak him an extra juice box back at age six when we had snacks after the game. Some things never change.

“Seriously,” he says, turning onto Oaklawn. “Would’ve stayed at the party later if you’d been with me. Since you weren’t, I walked back to get my truck and left.”

“Oh. Rachel said she saw you coming in when she was headed out.”

“Told Dooney bye. He and Deacon were totally wrecked by that point.”

“Yeah, Rach sent me a picture, and—”

“Of what?”

There’s an awkward pause. “Um . . . of me?”

“Oh, cool.” He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel.

“It was not cool. I was blotto. Don’t worry, I deleted it. Made Rachel delete it, too. I was doing shots with Stacey.”

Ben turns up the volume and a male voice raps about girls in their bras and thongs falling at his feet like trees, “Timber.” He taps along on the steering wheel as we pull down my street.

“Didn’t remember Stacey even being there,” I confess. “Until I saw the picture.”

Ben shrugs and nods his head along with the lyrics, She say she won’t, but I bet she will, timber.

“I didn’t know she hung out with Dooney much.”

He glances over at me with a grin, turns down the music a little. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

Why am I talking about Stacey at a moment like this?

“Nothing.”

Will is in our driveway shooting baskets, missing more than he’s making. As we climb out of Ben’s truck, I hear more rim than net—more donk than thwfft.

Ben’s immediately in action, running into the drive, hands up. “Dude. I’m open.”

Will tosses him the ball. Ben takes it down for a couple of through-the-leg dribbles, pivoting low as if he’s being double-teamed in a tight imaginary defense. He drives to the basket and alley-oops, like he’s going for a layup, but expertly hooks a pass to Will, who is caught completely off guard. My brother bobbles the ball and chases it into the grass.

“Awwww, man! Gotta be ready.” Ben shakes his head. “Eyes on the ball, not on my face. I can make you think I’m headed one way with my eyes, but my hands and feet are busy doing something else.”

There’s a big brother friendliness about this chiding that makes Will nod and smile, and beg Ben to show him how he did that. Before long, Ben’s shirt is off again, and the two of them are locked in a lopsided one-on-one—Will, losing, but triumphant. Court time with a starting junior is a rare commodity for a benchwarmer on the JV team.

Mom sits down next to me on the front porch steps. She offers me an open bag of gummy worms bearing a large green seal across the front that proclaims them to be FAT FREE!

I smile and try to look away, but she catches me and pokes me in the ribs. I jump and we both laugh. “Are you making fun of me?” she asks.

“Mom, all gummy worms are fat free. They always have been. Because they’re made of corn syrup.”

Her laugh is warm and breezy. She slides an arm around my shoulders. “Well, I’m certainly no scientist like you are, but at least they’re not full of sugar and fat.” She holds the bag toward me once more with a sly smile. “Every little bit helps, I always say.”