Aftermath(25)

So as they announce the hundred-meter dash, I screw up my courage, walk from under the bleachers and head toward the side, where I see a bunch of people, mostly adults. I pass three seniors talking loudly about how the competitors all suck, and I make the mistake of glancing their way. The ginger-haired one grins and gives me a once-over, like he caught me checking him out. I roll my eyes and keep walking.

The competitors are on their mark. I spot Jesse easily. I will always spot Jesse easily.

He’s wearing shorts and a school tank top, and when I see him from the rear, I see his brother. I see Jamil Mandal in the long, muscled brown legs and arms. I see him in the glistening black wavy hair. I see him even in the sliver of jaw I can spot from this angle, set and determined.

The shot fires, and they’re off. I’m staring at Jesse, forcing myself to watch as he breaks into a run and…

“Race ya.”

Jesse’s voice rises from my memory. We’re in a field, and he’s grinning at me as he walks backward.

“Race ya.”

My competitive streak wants to refuse. Or at least demand a head start, so I have a chance. But I agree, and we take off, and Jesse outstrips me in a few paces, and I don’t care. I just want to watch him run.

He can beat me easily, but he hunkers down and gives it his all, and I wonder whether that’s for my benefit. If the guy who never shows off does it now, just for me. I like the thought of that. I’m not sure why. I just do.

Mostly, though, I just like to watch him run. Run and turn at the end, wiping away sweat as he says, “Beat ya.” And then he grins. Grins the way he doesn’t when he beats me on a math quiz. That one’s a quiet smile that says he’s pleased by the accomplishment but doesn’t want to rub in his victory. This is a real grin, not about beating me but about succeeding at something that isn’t usually his strength.

Now, as Jesse takes off from the starting line, that’s who I see. Not Jamil. Not even the Jesse I’ve met in the past week. I’m standing behind him, where I’ve always been when he runs. And I see that old Jesse in the way he hunkers forward, in the way he runs, the flow of his muscles, the set of his shoulders.

He reaches the finish line, and I’m not even sure where he placed – I haven’t noticed the other runners. Then a voice reverberates from a substandard PA system and announces that Jesse Mandal takes first place. He turns toward the stands, and he doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even smile. He just nods, almost a courteous thank-you, like he used to give when he won an academic competition. Tears prickle behind my eyelids.

Hey, Jesse. Missed you.

“Skye?” It’s a woman’s voice, and I tense hearing it. As I walked over here, I caught the looks, the whispers, from the adults.

That’s her. Skye Gilchrist. His sister.

I did what I’ve been doing since I arrived. The mental equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and singing “La-la-la, I can’t hear you.”

If I can’t hear you, you can’t hurt me.

What complete and utter bullshit.

“Skye?” the voice says again.

I turn. It’s Jesse’s mother. I recognize her immediately. When I was thirteen, she was already a half inch shorter than me. She seems tiny now, but she walks with a purposeful stride that makes everyone give way. She’s dressed in casual wear, with a wool coat, killer boots and a hijab.

I’ve lived in cities where the hijab is more common, but it was rare enough in Riverside that when I first went to Jesse’s house, I tried very hard not to stare. I’m embarrassed by that memory now, but Dr. Mandal only smiled and later said I could ask her anything. I didn’t, not then, but as Jesse and I became friends, I did ask, haltingly, and I got my answers, with patience and kindness.

“Dr. Mandal,” I say. “It’s good —”

She pulls me into a tight hug with a whispered “It’s so good to see you,” as fierce and sincere as the hug. When I step back, Jesse’s dad is right there, with a hand on my shoulder and a “Welcome home, Skye.”

I should have known they’d be here. They always went to Jamil’s games. Jesse’s dad is an engineer and his mom’s a doctor, so getting time off isn’t easy, but they would make it work, whether it was for Jesse’s math competitions or Jamil’s football games.

“Come over here where it’s quieter,” Dr. Mandal says as another cheer goes up. Then she leans in and whispers, “Jasser’s finished, so we don’t need to pay quite so much attention.”

I smile, and she steers me toward the end of the stands. I ask how they’ve been, and then I wave at the track field and say, “That’s new. For Jesse, I mean. He’s doing awesome.”

“Yes, he’s doing well in track.”

The “in track” part speaks volumes, as does the cloud that passes behind her eyes and the twitch in her husband’s lips. Mr. Mandal doesn’t say much – he’s as quiet as Jesse – but I see pain in both their faces. Not disappointment. Just concern that their high-achieving son isn’t doing as well as he used to.

“I know it won’t be easy being back,” Dr. Mandal says. “If you ever want to talk…”

She takes a pen and paper from her purse and jots down her cell number. The Mandals were always kind to me. When I became friends with Jesse, his mother approved. You bring him out of his shell, she said. I didn’t quite know what she meant then. I do now. She saw something in Jesse, a hesitancy, a lack of confidence. She never guessed his brother had a lot to do with that – Jamil was so careful around them. Having someone like me for a friend – brash, bold, maybe a little too confident – helped Jesse. Helped both of us.