The tone of this get-together has taken a somber note, and I intend to fix that.
“Cannonball,” I yell, jumping and tucking my knees into my chest.
By the time I resurface, both guys are mid-air. They sink down into the water and pop back up, grinning. Finn shakes his wet hair at me like a shaggy dog and I squeal. Brady rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing.
Swimming over to the steps, I prop my elbows on the top step and lie back. Brady and Finn each assume their positions on either side of the long end.
“On your marks,” I shout. “Get ready. Go!”
And they’re off, treading water, using their power to propel them. After the third lap, I get up and go back to my chair, draping the towel over my body, and settle in. Sheer exhaustion will be the only thing to stop them.
Years of dancing this same dance has told me so.
10
Now
Finn
This place smells like shit. Even worse, it smells like familiar shit.
Tangy sweat and years of cigarette smoke have settled into the walls, the couch, the pores of the entire trailer. It’s a smell I can conjure up just by thinking about it, no matter where I am.
And here I am, back in it. When Uncle Jeff called to pass along the news from the “little shithead doctor,” I didn’t run back to Agua Mesa. That was a month ago.
I haven’t told Jeff why I’m here now. He assumes it’s out of concern for him. It’s not that it’snot, it’s just... who the hell am I kidding? It’s not Jeff. I’m building a cabin to take him away from this place, I had no plans to come back to it.
It’s for her. Lennon. The girl whose hand I can feel in mine when it’s not there, the same way I can smell sweat and cigarettes in a fragrant garden. Lennon is an enigma. Better yet, our whole situation is one giant fucking enigma.
But I want to solve it, to crack it open and watch the gooey insides of our relationship trickle down.
Unlike Brady, I haven’t loved Lennon from day one. She showed up wearing that shirt with the stain on it, and I felt an immediate dislike for her. It was the stain that did it. Every last article of clothing I owned was stained, but on her it was repugnant.Iwas the one who didn’t have enough money for nice clothes.Iwas the poor kid. That wasmyrole. Who was this girl with the short hair like a boy, coming into my classroom and shaking my stability? It wasn’t a stability to be proud of, but it wasmine.
Lennon grew on me. Quickly. As much as I didn’t want to like her, it was impossible not to. She watched more than she talked, a trait I realized I appreciated. When she ate her sandwich at lunch (homemade, and I imagined she had a nice mom who wore an apron and smiled while she married the peanut butter half with the jelly half), her tongue darted out of her mouth to grab the crumbs on the corners. I sat there, slurping from my carton of milk, stabbing at the rubbery green beans and Salisbury steak I ate for free thanks to the school lunch program. I was a watcher too, and the longer I watched Lennon, the more I liked her.
When Lennon joined me and Brady, when we became three instead of two, it rounded us out. We were too young to know we were missing her all along, but when she became our friend, the whole universe felt right. I felt it, even if I didn’t have a name for the feeling until I was older. Lennon gave me my first taste of hope. She made me think maybe I could be better than the poor boy being raised by his uncle.
Brady believed in me, encouraged me, wanted to raise me up to his level. That’s what Brady does. Brady’s the kind of person who runs into a burning building to see who needs to be rescued. But growing up, it was hard to look at Brady’s shining face, his Ralph Lauren polos and khakis, his easy smile and confident demeanor. He’d extended a hand so many times, offered me a chance to be more like him, and I never took it. After a while, when you’re used to smelling the shit, it no longer smells like shit.
Rolling over, I pick up my head and look at the small white clock on the chipped, particle-board desk. The time is wrong. It’s not eleven p.m. It was wrong yesterday too, and the day before that. Spoiler alert: it will be wrong tomorrow.
Rolling back over, I reach for my phone to see the time. 6:52. With a swipe, I take the phone off airplane mode and a message from Brady pops up. Sent twenty-one minutes ago.
Do you want to meet me for a run?
My gaze falls to my duffle bag, my brain mentally sifting through what I packed. I brought running shoes, but clothes for running? Nope.
Looking down, I survey my white T-shirt and cotton-blend shorts. They’ll have to do.
I text Brady my response, brush my teeth, and get in my car.
* * *
“Fuck, man,”Brady says, stopping on the corner of Valley View and 165th. We’re both breathing heavy and dripping sweat.
“Did you forget how hot the sun is?” I hit the crosswalk button and rest my hands on my hips.
“It’s different here,” Brady responds, reaching down to tighten the laces on his shoes.
