You'd Be Home Now (62)

I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “Why don’t you just let people see your scar?”

He gently takes the handkerchief from me and folds it up, sliding it into the pocket of his coat.

“Because they wouldn’t believe me. Because they’d think it was from something else. Like trying to hang myself, or cut my throat, because this place is just one big rumor factory, and really, no one wants to hear it was just run-of-the-mill cancer, a thousand cells working silently for a long time, in ways I don’t understand, while I was doing dumb stuff, like playing Minecraft. I don’t understand it. And it scares me. And every time I have to look at the scar, I’m afraid those cells might be working again, while I’m reading The Scarlet Letter for the umpteenth time or buying Max deVos chocolate from the wobbly vending machine. Or even now, talking to a crying girl at a crappy high school dance. I prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist. Because I have to keep existing. And I can’t keep existing if I’m constantly thinking that I’m dying inside and I don’t even know it.”

I sniffle. “Is that more profound wisdom from your dad?”

“Funny. You’re very funny. No, that’s all me.”

He peers at me. “Your eyeliner is a little smeared. You look like a very sad lounge singer. It’s a good look for you.”

I sigh. “I have a scar. On my knee. From the wreck. It itches.”

“Mine, too.”

    “I think about it all the time. The accident,” I say. “Candy. I dream about her.”

He nods. “I liked her. She was kind. I remember that. Not many people are, really, when it comes right down to it.”

We are quiet. Then he says, “You could do better than Gage Galt. Or I should say, differently. I mean, he’s benign. Does he even talk about anything but baseball?”

“We never talk. He prefers to do other things.” It’s out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying.

Daniel says, “Wait, what do you mean, ‘other things’?”

Just then, a group of kids, Gage among them, tumble onto the practice field, Gage complaining, Nah, I’m tired. Not right now.

Yeah, man, just a few. Let’s have some fun.

Roly Martin, Gage’s catcher, squats at one end of the field. He holds his bare hands like a mitt. Weaves a little on his haunches. He seems drunk. Here, buddy, right here. He thumps the inside of his palm.

“Emory, are you hooking up with Gage Galt?” Daniel says.

“Please.” I touch his arm. “Don’t tell anyone. It just…kind of happened.”

It feels like a huge weight has lifted off me, saying it out loud.

“Emmy?” Joey is suddenly here, standing in front of the bleachers, staring at us.

My brother’s voice is…thick. And his face looks droopy, somehow. Like the muscles are too relaxed.

Fear floods through me. I know that face.

He’s high.

My stomach sinks.

“Oh,” Daniel says. “Hey, Joe.”

    “Joey,” I say. “Oh, no. No.”

A couple of girls walking onto the field slip, catch each other’s elbows. Whoops. Someone tosses Gage a ball.

I can’t see for shit, he says. The practice field is unlit, the stars above us blunted by the clouds.

Come on! everyone shouts.

Gage’s foot paws at the mound. I don’t know.

Galt, Galt, Galt.

Joey’s eyes are red and soft as he squints at me. “Did I hear that right? Is that why you’re out here crying? Why’s your makeup all messed up? Did Gage Galt mess with you?”

“Joey, let’s just go home. Now. Let’s leave. Give me the keys.”

I stand up, teetering a little on the bleachers.

“What did he do to you?”

Joey’s voice is uneven. He looks over at Gage, on the pitching mound.

Galt, Galt, Galt. Gage tosses the ball lightly in his hand.

“Let’s just take a step back,” Daniel says, getting up. “No biggie. She was rebuffed on the dance floor by Stud Muffin out there, but I think we’re handling it. High school, am I right? You know what Tim Burton once said? ‘The only things that scare me are high school and my relatives,’ and—”

My brother turns and takes off onto the field.

“Oh, god,” Daniel says. “Uh, I’m not really the fighting type and these guys…oh, hell.”

He takes off, too, and I run after him, flashes of pain shooting up my knee.

Joey is high and I have to stop him.

Gage is in his windup when Joey shouts something like Hurt my little sister. Gage, startled, whips his head toward Joey.

    “Joey, no, man. No, I’m sorry—” Gage cries, but his foot slips, his arm still poised midair behind him.

Gage falls backward on his arm. There’s a sickening snap.

Everything stops.

Someone screams. It isn’t me.

It’s Gage.





TWO





25




“HE’LL BE OKAY.” DANIEL is nervous, tugging at the seat belt across his chest. “I’m sure it’s not bad. Oh, turn here.”

I turn right. I’m driving, being extra careful because of my knee and since I haven’t driven a car since the accident. Joey is in the backseat, his face a mixture of dread and sickness. He’s rocking back and forth.