Mrs. Fletcher(66)

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” he said, though he didn’t sound all that happy about it. “But honestly? The way we talk about girls? The shit we say? I didn’t want to do that to her. She deserves better.”

“What are you talking about? I would never make fun of a disabled person.”

“It’s not you, bro. It’s me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He took a while to answer. I could see him thinking it over, trying to get it right.

“No offense, dude, but the person I am when we’re together? I just don’t want to be that guy anymore.”

All right. So he was in love or whatever. Good for him, I guess. It didn’t really bother me, except that I hated being alone in our double, especially at night, when I had work to do, and I always had work to do, not that I ever did any. When Zack was around, we would procrastinate for hours, trash-talking and playing video games, and it would feel great, exactly like college was meant to be. But on my own it just seemed kinda pathetic, like I was a loser with no friends who was failing half his classes. I started keeping the door wide open, in case somebody I knew walked by and felt like saving me from my solitary confinement.

That’s what I was doing that boring-as-shit Wednesday night, sitting on the ratty couch Zack and I had found on Baxter Avenue, playing Smash on auto pilot—I was Captain Falcon—just killing time, waiting for something to happen that would give me an excuse to get off my ass and out of that depressing room. I remember how my heart jumped when the phone buzzed—I was thinking, hoping, Amber, Becca, Zack, Wade, in that order—and how disappointed I was when I paused the game and realized it was just a text from my mother.

I miss you.

I mean, it was sweet, don’t get me wrong. I was glad she missed me. But it didn’t really help with my situation.

Miss you too, I texted back.

And then I looked up and saw Sanjay standing in my doorway, staring at me with his big sad eyes. Somehow, just from that look on his face, before he even said a word, I could tell that bad news was coming.

*

Somewhere in the middle of the slide show, Margo felt the audience slipping away from her. No one laughed at her jokes; a handful of spectators were behaving badly, disrupting her talk with loud whispers and possibly derisive comments, some of which drew appreciative snickers from their neighbors. The applause at the end of the main presentation barely rose to the level of basic politeness.

But it wasn’t until the lights came back on for the Q&A that she realized the extent of her flop. She could see it in the faces staring back at her—some blank, some icy, many others disgusted or confused.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Ask me anything. There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

The silence that followed took on an embarrassing density. Then, mercifully, she noticed a hand inching upward in the center of the crowd. It belonged to the woman in the lavender turtleneck, her imaginary ally, whose face no longer seemed quite so sweet or supportive.

“Some of us ladies were wondering,” she said in a frail voice. “Which rest room do you use?”

Really? Margo thought. It wasn’t just the question that depressed her, it was the loud murmur of approval that followed it. After everything I just told you, that’s what you want to know?

“I use the women’s room,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “I think I’d cause quite a stir if I wandered into the men’s room.”

The seniors took a moment to discuss the matter among themselves. Margo noticed another hand jabbing into the air, offering her a lifeline.

“Next question. Over there.”

The words were already out by the time she realized that she’d called on Julian Spitzer’s neighbor, the loudmouth who’d made such a ruckus during the slide show. He rose with some difficulty and gazed at her for a long time with a weirdly expectant expression, his arms spread wide, as if he himself were the question.

“Mark,” the man finally said. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Margo winced, but maintained her calm. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t go by that name anymore. Please call me Margo.”

“You really don’t know who I am?” He removed his baseball cap, giving her a better look at his face, but it didn’t help. Margo had spent so much time trying to forget so many things that huge swaths of the past were lost to her. And that was okay.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to help me out.”

“Al Huff.” The man’s tone was reproachful, as if he shouldn’t have been forced to say his name out loud. “Coach Huff. From St. Benedict’s? We played you twice in the state tournament, ’88 and ’89? You were such a great player, Mark. Best pure shooter I ever saw at the high school level.”

“Oh, wow.” Margo nodded in fake recognition, trying unsuccessfully to connect the Coach Huff she remembered—former Marine, lean and athletic, a motivator and disciplinarian—with the old man standing in front of her, his face bloated with alcohol and disappointment. If she remembered correctly, Al Huff had resigned under a cloud, some kind of recruiting scandal, ten or maybe even fifteen years ago. “It’s good to see you.”

“You killed us with that buzzer beater in the semis.” He shook his head, as if the memory still stung. “Just broke our backs. I’ll never forget that.”