Aftermath(57)

“That’s enough, Mr. Mandal. I’m going to ask you to leave —”

“The team? Sure. I’ll take a suspension, too, and whatever else you’re offering.”

“Your sense of humor —”

“Not joking. Really, really not joking. I don’t know how you want to handle this, but I’m ready to take my punishment. Return my trophies. Get expelled from RivCol. Whatever you want.”

“I want you to leave my office. Go to your last class, and I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

Both Jesse and I stare at him. Silence falls, so thick I swear I feel it.

“What?” Jesse says.

“You heard me, Mr. Mandal. Return to class.”

“I just confessed to using steroids.”

“In an effort to divert attention from Miss Gilchrist’s antics. I would applaud your chivalry, if it were not so misguided. I will do you the favor of pretending this conversation never happened. If you continue in this vein, Mr. Mandal, I would suggest that suspension would be the least of your worries.”

“Are you threaten —?”

I wrap my fingers around Jesse’s arm and whisper, “Let’s go.”

When he hesitates, I add, “Please,” and he takes my hand, fingers interlocking with mine, and marches from the office.

Skye

Mr. Vaughn comes after us, warning Jesse that he’d better get to class and I’d better get back in his office so he can formalize my suspension. We ignore him until he threatens to call security. Then Jesse says, “Call my parents, too, please. I’d like to tell them that I confessed —”

Mr. Vaughn cuts him off with a cough and says, “I expect you both to go to the library and wait for me there.” Then he retreats to the office.

Jesse mutters under his breath, “If we actually went to the library, how long would it take him to show up?”

“Monday,” I say.

Jesse shakes his head, and we continue out of the school.

Jesse walks to the bus stop. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s still holding my hand, but he’s clutching it hard. I don’t say a word. I hold on just as tightly.

We’ve just reached the bus stop when he spots a taxi and hails that instead.

It’s a silent ride. Jesse stares out the window. He hasn’t even put on his seat belt, and he jumps when I place the metal end on his leg. Then he nods and clicks it into place.

The car stops at Fletcher Park: the playground where we used to hang out and pretend we were still children.

Except we were children. In so many ways.

Jesse leads me through the gate. Then he stops. The swings are gone. The spiral slide is gone. So is the teeter-totter. Instead, there’s a bright red plastic climbing contraption with short slides and walking rails barely a foot over the ground, so even a toddler couldn’t get hurt falling into the bed of shredded rubber below.

Jesse squares his shoulders, as if he’s going to make the best of it. He turns toward the wall…

They’ve put plastic shielding along the base, so no one can climb it.

Jesse’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t know they redid it. I haven’t been here since…”

“Neither have I,” I say, and I smile, but he just keeps looking around for something – anything – familiar.

“It changed,” he says.

Everything’s changed.

Everything’s changed, and we can’t go back.

I squeeze away the prickle of tears. He doesn’t need that. Neither of us does. I tug his hand, and he follows as I lead him to the picnic shelter. He sits on a tabletop, but I say, “Uh-uh. Too easy.”

I climb onto the table, grab the shelter roofline and hoist myself up. He follows. We crawl to the opposite edge and sit looking out at the ball diamond, a new housing development under construction behind it.

“It’s true,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “About the steroids.”

“I figured it must be.”

“I cheated. All those awards…” He swallows. “My parents keep them in the living room. With Jamil’s. I won’t go in there. I didn’t earn any of them. I cheated. Every last race, I cheated.”

“Your trainer gave you steroids for weight training in the off-season. You didn’t take them at race time.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just —”

“Please.” He looks over at me. “I know what you’re trying to say, but I cheated, and I don’t want excuses.”

“Okay.”

“I just…” He pulls his legs up, sitting cross-legged, like we used to do on his garage roof. “With Jamil gone, my parents missed going to his games. Being in the stands. Cheering him on. You can’t do that at a spelling bee.”

“They did.”

“It wasn’t the same. They acted like it was, for my sake, but I knew they missed sitting in the bleachers. I’d always been a good runner, so I tried out for track and made the team. When I started high school, my parents got me that trainer. He suggested —” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not blaming anyone. I figured I’d use the steroids for one season to jump-start my training. But then I started winning, and it was the one thing…” His breath catches. “The one thing…”