Teddy’s gone slightly pale. “You maxed it out?”
“Well, Mikey crashed the Jet Ski, which didn’t help, and we got table service at a few of the clubs, and there was the whole thing with the jeep we rented—”
“Sorry, dude,” J.B. says, giving Teddy a slap on the back. “But it’s just a drop in the bucket for you these days, right?”
“Right,” Teddy mumbles, his eyes on the turquoise surface of the pool.
“Anyway, good luck with”—J.B. gestures at our boat—“this.”
“It’s no Jet Ski, but I’m sure it’ll do,” Chris says, and they both laugh as they head off to join the rest of their friends in the bleachers, which are filling up fast.
“They’re jerks,” I say, turning to Teddy once they’re gone.
He looks away. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I say, suddenly outraged on his behalf. “They’re taking advantage of you, and—”
“It’s fine,” he says again, more firmly this time.
He looks up at the bleachers then, and I follow his gaze to where his father is lifting a hand to wave at us. He’s wearing the same suit and tie, but he’s shaved, and without the stubble he looks more like Teddy, an older, thicker version of the boy sitting beside me.
“He came,” Teddy says, clearly relieved. “I wasn’t sure…”
There’s no need for him to finish that sentence. We both know the part that’s been left unsaid: he wasn’t sure if his dad would actually come, wasn’t sure if he’d still be in town, wasn’t sure he’d actually follow through with a promise for once.
But he has, and I can see the flush of color in Teddy’s cheeks as he turns his attention back to the boat. It doesn’t matter how badly he’s been disappointed in the past. It doesn’t matter that he’s spent six years being alternately heartbroken and furious. It doesn’t matter that his dad has missed a hundred football and baseball and basketball games. It only matters that he’s here now, and I can tell by the set of Teddy’s jaw that he’s newly determined to win this race.
“You ready?” he asks, and for his sake I muster a smile.
“Ready,” I say, wondering if this is true.
By the time it’s our turn, not a single boat has sunk, and you can almost feel the crowd waiting for it. They’re tired of watching a series of makeshift cardboard contraptions successfully bob across the high school swimming pool. What they want is fireworks. What they want is a catastrophe. What they want is a show.
As Teddy and I step up to the edge of the pool, a murmur passes through the bleachers. The audience has been growing increasingly noisy all afternoon, but this is something different. There’s only one other boat in our heat, a sleek-looking vessel that Mitchell Kelly and Alexis Lovett have painted to look like a submarine, periscope and all. But I know instinctively that the shift in energy has nothing to do with them. This is about Teddy, and it’s clear from the set of his shoulders that he knows it too.
A jeering voice breaks clear of the din: “Last timeyou’llhave to paddle, Moneybags!”
This is followed by a roar of laughter, and Teddy hunches down further, looking bewildered. All his life he’s been the good guy, the unlikely hero, the one everyone roots for on the football field or the basketball court.
Now his story has shifted. He’s no longer the underdog. Instead he’s suddenly the luckiest guy in the room, in the school, maybe even in the whole city. He’s the luckiest guy anybody knows, and there’s no need to root for someone like that to win. There’s nowhere for him to go but down, and that’s where they want to take him. Because guys like that—lucky guys, fortunate guys—they don’t need any support. And the audience knows it.
I’m crouched at the edge of the pool, one hand on the boat, which seems flimsier now than it did in our basement. My eyes are already swimming from the chlorine, and the back of my neck prickles; I can almost feel the way the crowd has turned, can feel their impatience for the balance of the world to right itself again, even if it’s just in something as inconsequential as a failed science project.
I scan the bleachers for Leo because I could really use a thumbs-up from him. But when I finally spot him, his head is turned, watching something higher in the stands. I raise my eyes to see two men on their feet, talking angrily.
One of them is Teddy’s dad.
I whip back around to see if Teddy has noticed and find that he’s squinting up in that direction too, his arms slack at his sides, his face a study of indecision.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, but he doesn’t answer me.
The rest of the crowd is getting quieter now as their attention shifts, and the voices of the two men are audible. Charlie shakes an arm off his shoulder.
“Just pay up, man,” the other guy says, and my heart sinks as a gym teacher steps in, trying to appease them both. It’s almost completely silent now, more than a hundred people watching the spectacle unfold as if they were in a theater.
“I’m not leaving,” Charlie says to the teacher. “I’m here to see my kid.”
I glance at Teddy again; his ears are turning pink as he watches. From across the bleachers, I’m relieved to see Uncle Jake pop up. He’s been sitting beside Aunt Sofia and Katherine—who is watching all this with a horrified look—but now he dashes past the rows of rapt students and over to Charlie, who is still shouting.
