Aftermath(61)

“I —”

“You were busy. I get it. Now you say you want to help, but do you know what helping would have been? Taking a couple of weeks off and coming to look after Gran when she had her second stroke. Visiting just long enough to assure child services that everything was fine. If you couldn’t find time for that, then maybe you could have listened when I begged – begged – not to come back here. But no, this is what I needed. To return to a town and a school where my brother was part of a school shooting. Where every day I see people who knew the victims, and others who think having me in Riverside is an outrage to the victims. People shove it in my face, and then tell me I’m masterminding my own fake persecution. You wanted me to toughen up, Mae? Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m not that tough. I’m just not.”

I stride to my room and close the door behind me.

Jesse

Jesse tells his parents about the steroids. He sits in the living room to do it. He hasn’t done more than pass through there since his parents proudly displayed his first track trophy. Now, though, he needs to let them look at those trophies and realize he hasn’t earned a single one of them.

He talks. They listen. And he must witness every emotion that passes over their faces.

Trepidation at first. They don’t know what happened at school, only that there was some “incident” involving Skye, and Jesse left with her because of it. When he got home, the first thing his father said was “We aren’t angry.”

Get that out of the way quickly, as they always do, because they are never angry. No matter what he does. No matter how far he falls.

Mom says they knew he must have walked out in solidarity with Skye, and while she isn’t sure that’s the proper response, they understand. They always understand.

When he repeats that he needs to talk to them, he gets the looks of trepidation. Then, as he begins to explain, trepidation turns to bafflement.

Track? What could an incident with Skye possibly have to do with track?

He says the word.

Steroids.

Their confusion grows. Is he telling them that other kids are juicing? Is he feeling pressured? That must be it, because their son would never — Did he just say…?

They look at each other, searching for clarity, proof that they have misunderstood, because Jesse would not — Astonishment. No, he is clearly saying what they thought he was saying.

Their son used steroids.

Disappointment. Dismay. They cover those quickly – his father rubbing his beard, his mother glancing out the window – before recovering. Disappointed? No, no. Surprised. That’s all. They’re just surprised.

He finishes. Then he waits. They have spoken volumes with their eyes and their faces and their gestures but haven’t said a word since he began.

His father opens his mouth. It takes another moment for the words to come, and when they do, they’re slow, the thought still forming.

“I don’t understand. How…?” He trails off. Jesse knows what would have come next.

How could you?

His father would never say that aloud. He’s quieter than Jesse’s mother. Dad leaves the big conversations to her and sits in the background as support. Yet it is always support. His father would no sooner accuse Jesse than his mother would, and so he lets that “How…?” hang there, the rest booming inside in Jesse’s head.

How could you?

Jesse wants to explain. Wants desperately to explain.

You guys missed Jamil. You missed going to his games. I couldn’t give you back Jamil, but I could give you back your place in the stands to cheer on your son, to be proud of your son.

He says none of that. They’ll feel it as blame, even if that isn’t what he means. Starting track was a gift to them, not fulfilling an obligation.

So he says nothing. But his gaze slips, only for a second, to the wall of trophies, and that’s enough. His mother gives a sharp intake of breath and his father exhales at the same time.

“Was this about —?” she begins.

“No,” Jesse says. “This was about me. All me. My mistake.”

“But —”

“I screwed up,” he says, rising. “And I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

His mother rises to hug him, but he sidesteps, his gaze averted so he can pretend he didn’t see her reach out.

“I’ll be in my room,” he says.

He has to pass the trophies. He stops and looks at them, beside his brother’s.

“Could you take these down?” he says. “Just… get rid of them. Please.”

Skye

It doesn’t take long for Mae to come to my bedroom door. She wants to talk. I don’t. I’ve heard enough.

We might not be close, but it never occurred to me that she’d actually think I did this. That hurts more than I could have imagined.

“I’d like to be left alone,” I say.

“I just want to talk.”

“I don’t. I’m going to ask you to respect that, Mae.”

Silence. Long silence.

“I just want to talk,” she says again.

I sigh softly. “If you insist, then I’m going to walk out that door and continue straight through the front one. I don’t want to storm off. That’s what a child does. I am not a child. I don’t want to argue anymore, so I’m trying to do the mature thing and just stay in my room. Okay?”