Gone, Gone, Gone(32)

“—f*cked up,” I finish, quietly.

He’s really surprised I interrupted him. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “A little f*cked up.” He looks away and finishes taking books out of his locker. I hope he doesn’t cry. I think it’s adorable how much he cries, but I can’t deal with any more crying today. That’s probably why I’m not doing it.

I say, “I need to get home.”

He looks at me. “What’s up?”

“The kid who got shot goes to my sister’s school. I don’t . . . I don’t think she saw anything. But she’s really freaked out. Dad went to get her. I feel like I should be home.” I’m panting.

I force the keys into his hands.

Craig puts his hand on my arm and looks down at the keys. “I can’t drive.”

He showed me his learner’s permit the day he got it. He was so proud. I say, “You’re better than I am.”

He nods a little. “Okay. Come on.”





CRAIG

REALLY, I SHOULD CALL MY BROTHER. HE WOULD pick us up.

But Lio wants me to be his hero.

And I’m really only a little bit mad at him, anymore, especially since he talked to me, he came to me and he talked to me, and he asked me for help.

And that’s a reminder that I really, really want to be the one to fix him.

The rain is coming down like crazy, so I’m trying to hurry, plus Lio looks like he’s about to require the use of psychiatric drugs. He leans against the car and blows on his hands while I unlock it, his collar hitched up so it protects some of his skin from the cold. It’s an old car, so both doors need to be unlocked by hand before we can get in, and Lio’s just standing there, nursing a cigarette between his fingers, trying to keep it lit, taking short drags on it like they’re all he can stand.

He’s making a lot of glances over each shoulder—Is anyone coming? Who’s coming?—but I tell myself he doesn’t want to get caught, not that he’s worried he’s going to get shot, because I really don’t know what to think, if all of a sudden Lio’s afraid of getting shot. I don’t know what that means about anything.

Anyway, he’s not freaking out or anything, he’s just a little twitchy.

“Ready?” I ask him.

He gets in the passenger seat and pulls his seat belt on tight. He shakes his head to dry off. He’s soaked, which sucks, because he’s wearing really nice clothes today. Not nice as in formal, I mean, his black jeans have holes in both knees, but in the way that his hat looks like something he meant to wear and not something he tugged on as an afterthought and his shirt is gray in a way that looks silver.

He shivers while he puts out his cigarette. He should have worn a raincoat like I did, though I wish I’d brought an umbrella instead of a raincoat so I could share it. Once I get to his house, I’ll hold my arm over his head on the walk—probably the run—in, so he won’t get any worse.

“You okay?” I say.

He nods. I find the heat and turn it on. He sneezes quietly, and it might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. It’s so stupid, but that sneeze makes me entirely not mad at him anymore. Maybe most of my anger was already gone, or maybe it’s the look on his face afterward, staring straight ahead while he emanates waves of Craig hug me.

Damn it. I need to focus.

“Can we talk while I do this?” I crank the key in the ignition. “It’s just, I mean, I’ve only driven like twice, and it’s kind of hard for me to concentrate when it’s all quiet. So if you could talk? Alternately, you can make noises like animals. That’ll help.”

Lio meows for a minute, and I nearly die from so many feelings.

I ease out of the parking lot. He’s stopped meowing by now. I say, “But seriously, talk?”

“You talk,” he says. “I’ll answer. Promise.”

I say, “So are you gay or whatever?” I watch the other cars for a minute to remind myself which side of the road I need to be on. It’s not something you think about when you’re not driving or when there isn’t someone you give a shit about in the passenger seat.

He says, “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know. I mean, I kind of assumed, but I kept leaving you places to drop it into conversation or whatever and you never did.”

“I thought you knew.” He pauses, and I try to think of something else to say, and then he says, “I’m sorry.”

His voice is so quiet and naked.

I say, “You really made me so mad. And I really just don’t feel like being mad, you know? And I don’t want to be thinking about all of this, but last night I was thinking that if you ever got sick, it would really freak me out.”

He doesn’t answer.

I say, “When you sneezed just now, it reminded me, that’s all.”

“Because of the cancer?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have cancer anymore.” I hear him pick at his jeans and I want to check on him, but I need to concentrate on the road. I can see him a little out of the corner of my eye, so I see when he turns toward the window and fusses with his hat in this way that I can tell he doesn’t notice he’s doing it.

He says, “Every time I get a cold, it’s like my dad is holding his breath. Or if I get a nosebleed. Or a bruise.”