Brody’s parents are really into landscaping: The front yard has a winding path that curves between budding shrubs and flower beds. The first time you came over, the shrubs were full and green and carved into sharp lines, and the flowers had already bloomed and died, and the trees were starting to turn. Now the shrubs are budding, the flower beds have fresh shoots poking out, and the trees are starting to blossom.
You don’t want this to be the last time you come here.
You step up to the door and ring the bell and wait. Did Brody even get your message that you were swinging by? If heisgrounded, you hope his parents will let you talk to him anyway. Even if you have to do an awkward through-the-storm-door type thing.
You glance back at the street, but your brother has indeed gone down to the end of the block, one driveway away from the stop sign.
Brody finally opens the door. He’s in plaid pajama pants, which you’ve never seen him in before. But maybe he doesn’t have to show off his gains to anyone when he’s at home.
“Hey,” you say.
You can’t tell if he’s happy to see you or not. His hand is still on the door. And he hasn’t opened the storm door. So you reach for itand swing it open, though you have to take an awkward step back, off the front step, and then forward again.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk. Are you allowed?”
He shrugs, but he doesn’t let you in. Instead he steps outside, so you take another step back, and you have to let go of the storm door. He manages to step out of the way and let it close behind him.
“So talk,” he says, arms crossed over hisStar Warsshirt.
“You doing okay?” you ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Did you actually need something?”
“No! I mean, I really did want to see if you’re okay.” You scratch at your head. You know what you want to say, but you don’t know how.
“What do you think? I’ve got a seven-day suspension. My parents are furious. My grades are gonna take a hit, too. And the guy who did it to me showed up at my house like we’re still friends.”
You flinch.
“I’m still your friend,” you say.
“Friends don’t rat each other out.”
“I did what I thought was right.” No. “What I know was right. You’re my friend, Brody, but what you and Reggie were doing was wrong.”
“We weren’t hurting anyone,” he says. “Why, are you a homo?”
You sigh. “Brody…”
“Just get out of here. I’m done with you.”
“I’m sorry you got in trouble,” you say. And you are. But Brody wasn’t listening. You didn’t have any other choice. Not one you could live with, at least.
If you hadn’t told on him, things would’ve been worse. For Farshid. For everyone else like Farshid, too.
“I really am. But friends are supposed to make each other better. Keep each other from making mistakes. I hope you can forgive me someday. You’re my best friend. I don’t want that to end just because of this.”
His face softens, like he’s unclenched his jaw. Even his arms go a little slack, before he crosses them even tighter.
“Well, I don’t forgive you,” he says. “You screwed me over. Now leave me alone.”
You expected this, you think.
Or at least you had a feeling it would go this way.
Brody’s your friend. Well, he was. And he’s been a good friend.
