“What the hell, Will?” says Fran.
He crosses his arms. When he speaks next, his voice is almost monotone.
“I didn’t put anything in. That’s true. But it’s not because I’m hoarding.”
“Then why?” asks Fran. “Why didn’t you add anything?”
He moves a lock of black hair out of his face.
“Because I’m not on any medication.”
“Liar!” says Troy. “You’re a liar.”
Will shakes his head.
“It’s true,” he says.
Troy just stares at him.
“Huh,” says Fran. “Must be nice. Look at you out here, just mainlining reality.”
“It’s not nice,” says Will.
And this quiets everyone for a second. There’s an odd look on his face, one you haven’t really seen from him yet. It’s a kind of pained half smile that doesn’t seem directed at any of you.
“I probably should be on something,” he says finally. “Okay? But I’m not.”
“Why?” says Troy.
Will chews his bottom lip.
“Too scared,” he says.
More quiet. But it doesn’t take long for curiosity to rear its head.
“Of what?” asks Diana. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t strike me as the scared type.”
“Not usually,” he says. “But this is different.”
No one interrupts him, so he just keeps talking.
“I was scared to tell my dad. And my coach. Once I toldthem, I knew they wouldn’t see me the same way again. And it would be real. This defect.”
“It’s not a defect,” says Troy.
“Oh really?” says Will. “Then what do you call collapsing on the court at State, and forfeiting the match I spent all year training for? What do you call crying in the fetal position for a week afterward with my whole body shaking? What part of that am I supposed to be okay with?”
Tears are running down his face, and you’re not sure if you should look at him.
“I don’t want to feel good about it! I don’t want a goddamn therapy dog and a bag of pills. I don’t want it. I just want to kick Eric Tulliver’s ass and get a big trophy and a scholarship and free sneakers and a private plane to take me to tournaments. I don’t want to be like you guys, and I don’t want to die in the woods. I can deadlift three-hundred pounds!”
He gets up and grabs the empty cooler then and throws it at a tree, and when he sits down again, he’s staring at the ground. The cooler is broken, the handle dislocated. It was a really hard throw. Will sobs into his palms. Time passes; you don’t know how much. But finally he seems to calm.
“I need help,” he says with a sniffle.
The sun is getting warmer, and it’s tempering the chill in the air.
“And this was supposed to be the help. This trip!” he says. “Leave it to my dad to send me on a stupid-ass nature trip instead of just sending me to a doctor.”
