flung over their shoulders like capes—clomped in complaining about adult swim.
The two of you never talked about it again, which made you feel even sorrier for him and the girls he dated. But senior year, when Phoebe Fisher transferred to ETHS, all of those things didn’t seem to matter much anymore.
Braden played QB at the University of Colorado for a few losing seasons but injured his shoulder junior year in a skiing accident. As soon as Alicia Washington called you from the hospital, you flew out from Chicago, even though you had finals the next week.
“All these girls and his teammates, they all wanted to come, but you were the only one he wanted.” Alicia hugged you in the waiting area while surgeons tried to put Braden back together again. Even though she hadn’t been in catalogs for quite some time and her hair was probably only mahogany from dye, she still smelled so good. “He’s so lucky to have you, Oliver.”
Remembering the slick feel of Braden’s hair when you tried to drown him, you looked away.
That whole first week you stayed at his off-campus apartment. You went to his classes, took notes for him when he couldn’t go, lugged his backpack for him when he could. A part of you thought he would shatter, break down completely, but the closest he ever came was six days after surgery when the two of you were carrying groceries home.
Most of the bags were in your hands, but Braden insisted on taking a few. “I’ve got a gimpy arm; I’m not an invalid.”
At his front door, Braden tried to balance the bags on his bad arm while searching for his keys. The thin plastic straps slipped from his grasp, and a jar of Prego tumbled out, cracking on the chipped tile. Marinara sauce oozed out, and you felt it, all of it—your obsession with Alicia, the jealousy in high school, the undiscussed kiss—in the expanding red puddle on the floor.
“This isn’t right,” you said, bending down to clean up the mess. “You … this shouldn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it; it’s spaghetti sauce.” Braden adjusted his elbow in the sling.
Shaking your head, you said that wasn’t what you meant. Braden blinked and nodded.
“It’s cool, I wasn’t gonna go pro anyway.” He shook his head. “Now it can be the thing I blame everything else on. I can blame my whole life on a wrong turn down the bunny hill.”
That wasn’t what you had meant either, but you thought about the plane with your father when you were seven, wondered if everyone had some origin story they used to justify and rationalize and validate.
Two days later you went back to school, took your makeup exams, and did fine without the hours of studying you normally would have put in. Braden, likewise, went on being Braden, even though he had six pins and limited mobility in his right shoulder.
* * *
Your stepmother:
You suspected it was going to happen with your stepmother years before it actually did. A senior at Northwestern, you were home for Christmas playing Mr. Potato Head with your two-year-old half sister, who kept chewing on the assortment of noses.
Behind the two of you, Maura collected crumpled red and gold foil paper from the living room carpet and menacingly shoved it into a drawstring garbage bag.
“Maura?” you asked, and she looked away.
“It’s not even noon yet.” Though not the albino your sister claimed, Maura did look as if she were painted in watercolor. Everything about her was nearly translucent, from her flaxen hair to her blue eyes, so light they almost appeared to have no color at all. “And Christmas Day, Christmas Day. I can’t believe he had to leave.”
No one in the world understood that better than you.
Setting aside the plastic potato Natasha had put you in charge of decorating, you touched Maura’s slender shoulder and offered a sympathetic half smile.
“You’re so good with Natasha.” Maura put her hand on yours.
And you knew what was going to happen even before she let her
The two of you never talked about it again, which made you feel even sorrier for him and the girls he dated. But senior year, when Phoebe Fisher transferred to ETHS, all of those things didn’t seem to matter much anymore.
Braden played QB at the University of Colorado for a few losing seasons but injured his shoulder junior year in a skiing accident. As soon as Alicia Washington called you from the hospital, you flew out from Chicago, even though you had finals the next week.
“All these girls and his teammates, they all wanted to come, but you were the only one he wanted.” Alicia hugged you in the waiting area while surgeons tried to put Braden back together again. Even though she hadn’t been in catalogs for quite some time and her hair was probably only mahogany from dye, she still smelled so good. “He’s so lucky to have you, Oliver.”
Remembering the slick feel of Braden’s hair when you tried to drown him, you looked away.
That whole first week you stayed at his off-campus apartment. You went to his classes, took notes for him when he couldn’t go, lugged his backpack for him when he could. A part of you thought he would shatter, break down completely, but the closest he ever came was six days after surgery when the two of you were carrying groceries home.
Most of the bags were in your hands, but Braden insisted on taking a few. “I’ve got a gimpy arm; I’m not an invalid.”
At his front door, Braden tried to balance the bags on his bad arm while searching for his keys. The thin plastic straps slipped from his grasp, and a jar of Prego tumbled out, cracking on the chipped tile. Marinara sauce oozed out, and you felt it, all of it—your obsession with Alicia, the jealousy in high school, the undiscussed kiss—in the expanding red puddle on the floor.
“This isn’t right,” you said, bending down to clean up the mess. “You … this shouldn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it; it’s spaghetti sauce.” Braden adjusted his elbow in the sling.
Shaking your head, you said that wasn’t what you meant. Braden blinked and nodded.
“It’s cool, I wasn’t gonna go pro anyway.” He shook his head. “Now it can be the thing I blame everything else on. I can blame my whole life on a wrong turn down the bunny hill.”
That wasn’t what you had meant either, but you thought about the plane with your father when you were seven, wondered if everyone had some origin story they used to justify and rationalize and validate.
Two days later you went back to school, took your makeup exams, and did fine without the hours of studying you normally would have put in. Braden, likewise, went on being Braden, even though he had six pins and limited mobility in his right shoulder.
* * *
Your stepmother:
You suspected it was going to happen with your stepmother years before it actually did. A senior at Northwestern, you were home for Christmas playing Mr. Potato Head with your two-year-old half sister, who kept chewing on the assortment of noses.
Behind the two of you, Maura collected crumpled red and gold foil paper from the living room carpet and menacingly shoved it into a drawstring garbage bag.
“Maura?” you asked, and she looked away.
“It’s not even noon yet.” Though not the albino your sister claimed, Maura did look as if she were painted in watercolor. Everything about her was nearly translucent, from her flaxen hair to her blue eyes, so light they almost appeared to have no color at all. “And Christmas Day, Christmas Day. I can’t believe he had to leave.”
No one in the world understood that better than you.
Setting aside the plastic potato Natasha had put you in charge of decorating, you touched Maura’s slender shoulder and offered a sympathetic half smile.
“You’re so good with Natasha.” Maura put her hand on yours.
And you knew what was going to happen even before she let her
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