THEN
I didn’t hear from Seth that whole weekend after McKinney Falls. I looked for him at school on Monday but couldn’t find him at his usual hangout spots either, which wasn’t completely unusual, but it was strange that he didn’t call or text me. He also didn’t respond to my texts. I was starting to worry it was me he was avoiding. On Tuesday I worked up the nerve to find Mitchell at school and ask about him.
“He’s, uh, sick,” Mitchell said.
Seth was fine on Friday. “What is it? The flu?”
Mitchell wouldn’t look at me. “No, it’s…it’s something else. I can’t really talk about it. Sorry, Hiroku.”
I watched him hurry off to class, which was something Mitchellneverdid.
I texted Seth,Mitchell says you’re sick. You okay?
I got nothing in response.
I pondered that exchange between Mitchell and me for the rest of the day. What illness did Seth have that he wouldn’t want to tell me about? If it was cancer or something like that, I’d have heard about it already. Maybe it was none of my business, and I should leave it alone, but I was worried about him. Seth’s mom wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, and Seth never said a word about his dad. What if he really was sick and feverish, and there was no food in the house? Or he needed a doctor, and there was no one there to take him?
What if he was lonely?
After school I biked to Pho Please and picked up some soup for Seth, then rode over to his house to deliver it, thinking even if he couldn’t come to the door, maybe his mom could give it to him and let him know I’d stopped by. I knocked on the door to his house, but no one answered. I tried texting him again.
I’m at your front door. I brought soup.
I stared at my phone for what seemed like forever. Finally, a response.
Soup?
From Pho Please. Still warm.
Again, his response took forever. Were his fingers broken or what? I was thinking I’d just leave the tub of it on his doorstep when finally Seth appeared. He looked haggard and withdrawn with dark purple rings around his eyes, greasy hair, and a vacant expression. He squinted a little, almost like he didn’t recognize me.
“You brought me soup?” He shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
“Yeah, Mitchell said you were sick.”
Seth’s mouth quirked a little, but not enough to be considered a smile. I couldn’t tell what it meant.
“Here.” I held it out to him. Meanwhile, my mind was working over what kind of illness he might be suffering from. Seth took the plastic tub and stared at it.
“It’s pho,” I told him because he seemed bewildered by it.
“I can’t believe you brought me soup,” he said again. He looked like he was about to cry.
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Seth, man, are you okay?”
His eyes drifted to meet mine where I stood two steps beneath him. I wished he’d tell me what was going on. I was really worried.
“I’m not contagious,” he said.
“That’s good to know. I’ve had all my shots too.”
He cracked a smile and reached out to me. I took his hand.
“Come on.” He pulled me with him, shutting the door behind us.
I’d never been inside his house before—we’d always hung out in his garage. Their house had a similar layout to ours—a split-level ranch-style house built in the 60’s—but the rooms in Seth’s house were very stark with hardly any furniture in them. The floor was wood plank that appeared to be the subfloor, and there were areas with gaps big enough you could squeeze a dime through. There were also a lot of his mother’s “sculptures” as Seth called them, decorating the place. They looked like elaborate papier-mâché objects with sticks and stones and broken glass and bits of what looked like horsehair incorporated into the design.
“My mom’s an artist,” Seth said by way of explanation.
