If I'm Being Honest(47)

“Use the keys to move. Click to use your sword,” he says gently. “Here, try again.”

I do. This time I manage to run away for a minute before I get killed. On my fifth try, I kill one. I give an involuntary whoop, which echoes in the empty room. Brendan cheers with me. A mummified basketball player pops up behind me, and I dispatch him easily. “Okay, I sort of understand the appeal,” I say. “The virtual stabbing is oddly satisfying.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware how disturbing you just sounded,” he replies.

I pull out my sandwich while Brendan takes my place in front of the keyboard. He opens up a toolbar, and I watch him fiddle with the settings. It’s quiet for a few minutes, a restful, comfortable quiet. “See?” I say. “This isn’t terrible, is it?”

“What?” He faces me.

“Having lunch with another human being.”

His smile fades. “No, it’s not terrible,” he says.

“Then come sit with me,” I implore.

“I want to. It’s just . . .” His eyes return to his computer. “I really do have to work on my game. I’m not allowed to when I’m home.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents—my dad, really, doesn’t love my interest in game development. Computer games won’t get me into colleges with good financial aid. They won’t get me scholarships,” he continues. I remember he’s on scholarship here at Beaumont, too. “When I’m home, I’m expected to study. If I were caught doing this . . . I don’t know, he’d be pretty upset. It’s just easier if I work on the game here. Besides, getting scholarships is important.”

“Not if you can’t study what you’re interested in,” I find myself replying almost instantly. I start to tell him scholarships and finances aren’t worth giving up his passion, but I stop myself. Sometimes choosing financial security is responsible, like I’m doing with Wharton. Even if you might have other interests, too. Other dreams.

He shrugs. It’s not a carefree gesture, rather one weighted with resignation. “I make time,” he says simply.

I say nothing, realizing, for the first time, that I understand Brendan. Understand why he confines himself in here even though he could easily have friends. It’s like Paige said: it’s his choice. A choice he’s been forced into, but a choice he’s made to pursue his passion.

“Well, surely you can have fun occasionally.” I bump his shoulder playfully.

His lips twitch. “Occasionally.”

“Good.” I reach for the controls. “Because I want to kill more zombie teachers.”

Brendan laughs, his features brightening. He leans over me to reload the game, and I notice that the tension normally in his shoulders is gone. Then, grinning, he takes a carrot from my bag.





Twenty-Two



I WALK INTO MY MOM’S CLOSET IN my running clothes after school. I have only a few minutes before Andrew and his mom get here for dinner—and much more importantly, for Andrew’s and my run.

The closet’s a mess. I push past dresses and jackets smelling of mothballs, packed way too tightly, and falling halfway off the hangers. I shove aside empty shoeboxes, remove old shopping bags and fling them onto the floor outside the closet. I ignore the unopened carton of Healthifex cleanse powder in one corner.

Finally, I find what I’m after. The cardboard box is pushed deep into the far end of the closet, its corners flattened from years of having things piled on top. I have to wrestle it free. When I do, a cloud of dust follows me out into the bedroom.

I fold open the cardboard flaps, holding my breath because I know I’m going to sneeze. I recognize immediately the white feather boa on top of the box’s contents. I remember putting it back in the box when I was ten years old. I’d play dress-up with the clothes inside, parading through the living room pretending to be my mom while she got ready for performances. I feel a wave of longing—to be younger, to want to be my mom, to watch her chasing her dream before she decided it was behind her.

I pull out the boa, and with it I put aside a flapper dress and a pair of ruby slippers. I have something specific in mind. I spent the afternoon researching Rocky Horror on the internet. I’d planned on watching the movie itself, and at lunch I asked Hannah if I could borrow her copy. Part of me hoped it might be the thing to get her to have a conversation with me.

It half worked. She looked me up and down, hesitating, her expression conflicted. I knew her desire to avoid me was warring with her intense fandom for Rocky Horror.

“If you really want to do this,” she said finally, “your first viewing has to be with an audience. It’s the only way to really understand Rocky.”

I’m curious what exactly I’m getting into, but I didn’t want to ignore the first thing Hannah’s said to me since the parking lot. I dutifully avoided the movie and kept my research to Google, which in turn led me to some admittedly disconcerting fan forums. In a couple hours, I had a good idea of how I could put together a costume.

From the box on my mother’s bedroom floor, I remove what I’m looking for: a woman’s tux jacket with tails, complete with a frilly dress shirt. My mom wore the outfit on a kick-line ten years ago. She let me try the jacket on in the dressing room while she did her makeup. I hardly remember the performance. I do remember the cherry lollipop Mom got me in the lobby on our way in, and I remember the way the actresses would bustle in and out between acts for quick changes and retouches. It had felt unbelievably grand and glamorous at the time.