The Long Run, page 11
He held out a hand. I smiled and gave him the glass. “Just doing Bash a solid. He’d do the same for me.”
“Would he now? Interesting.”
Del filled up the glass and gave it back to me. It felt like the natural end of our talking. I could feel him giving me an out. But there was an offer there too. What he wanted me to take him up on. Bash always said Del wasn’t a talker. But maybe Bash just didn’t know how Del talked.
“What do you mean? Interesting?”
Del raised a brow. I think he was surprised I was taking him up on something. I have to imagine it’s something Bash never does. He put the pitcher away.
“Just that you’re the first friend that kid’s had over since the eighth grade.”
I made a face. “That can’t be true.”
“It is. It is very true.”
“C’mon. What about Lucy?”
“Well, Ms. Jordan’s family. This is just as much her home as ours.”
“What about Matty?”
Del leaned against the stove and shrugged. “Who?”
It took me a moment to realize that Del wasn’t kidding. When Bash told me he’d been distant with his stepfather lately, I thought I’d understood. I get being distant with your family, I have the scars to prove it. But ask anyone about Sebastian Villeda, nine times out of ten Matty Silva will be the second face they think of. The guys are a package deal in Moorestown. How could this man not know about his stepson’s dickhead shadow? I get being busy or distant or whatever but how detached can you be from a kid’s life?
I got it in my head then that this man was just one more adult too busy to care.
“He’s some kid. Track kid. No one important.” I toasted the glass of water. “Better get this to Bash. The internet said fluids were key. Nice to meet you, sir.”
Del nodded and watched me go. “You didn’t.”
I stopped in the door. Del smiled a little. “Huh?”
“You didn’t meet me.”
I must’ve looked confused. Del pointed a finger at himself. “Del. Del Branch. I’m Sebastian’s stepdad.”
“Oh. I know.”
My stupid brain snapped to and I realized I’d never told the dude my fucking name. “Oh! My name is Alessandro Miceli. I mean...just Sandro. I don’t know why I said the full...thing.”
Del nodded and went back to the fridge. He pulled a beer out and smiled my way. “Well. Just Sandro. It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for taking care of Seb. Making sure he’s okay.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
This time I took the out. I nodded and was about one step from the doorway when Del called after me. “Is he?” I turned back around. Del opened his beer and sipped it. “Is Seb...do you think he’s okay?”
“For sure. The dentist said—”
“Not his teeth. Him.”
Del’s eyes drifted up. The thumps and thunks from on high had stopped. It had been silent for a while.
“Is my kid okay, Sandro?”
I swallowed. Del didn’t look so groggy anymore and I saw it then. The care. I saw care on a father’s face. Something simple and innate and obvious. Something I had no clue what to do with. Because what did I know about a father’s care? I didn’t know about that. But I did understand that whatever distance there was between Del Branch and Sebastian Villeda, it might not be Del’s fault.
“You don’t gotta tell me anything out of school. I get that Seb wouldn’t like that. But...if he’s in trouble—”
“He’s not.” I reentered the kitchen. “Really. He’s not in trouble, Mr. Branch. He’s just...working through something.”
That seemed like something Bash would be okay with me saying. Because it was true. He was working through something. I didn’t need to say what. Or with who.
But Del seemed relieved. Just a little. He nodded. “And you’re helping him? He’s letting you help him?”
I just nodded back. Del smiled. Just a little. “Well. That makes me happy.” I smiled back. He looked at my glass of water. “Go. I’ll make him something to eat. Thanks for talking to me, Mr. Miceli.”
“Thank you, sir. Soft foods.”
Del chuckled and started on dinner. I headed back upstairs. Bash was asleep and hugging a pillow when I came back in. His shoes had been chucked to opposite sides of the room and I have to assume that was the thunking. He stirred when I closed his door and sat up a little when I put the water on his nightstand.
“You still here?”
“You still high?”
“Mm-hm. I don’t like it anymore.”
He took the glass and swallowed the whole thing in two big gulps. It was jarring. “Jesus, dude.”
Bash wiped his mouth on his pillow and squirmed away, making room for me on his bed. He pointed at the edge of the mattress so I sat.
“How you feeling, bud?”
“I can’t get to sleep. I just...wanna sleep.”
“Want me to turn a show on? A movie?”
“Can you read to me?”
“Read?”
Bash tried to rub a headache out of his temples. “I just wanna listen to something, dude. Can you?”
“I don’t have a book. But Del’s making you dinner. Maybe we find something after?”
“You talked to Del?”
His eyes opened. I nodded.
“I told you not to talk to him.”
“Uh, no, you told me not to let you talk to him. We barely spoke, Bash. But he wanted to. He’s actually pretty chatty if you give him—”
“It’s fine. Whatever.” Bash closed his eyes then turned away from me. Made a big point of showing me his back.
“Bash.”
“You don’t gotta stay, Dro. You can go.”
“C’mon.”
“I appreciate the favor, Sandro, I do. But I just wanna sleep now. Okay?”
“...Fine.”
I didn’t stand up. I just stared at his back. Watched his breathing. Because it didn’t feel right to leave yet. Bash asked me to look after him and I wasn’t done doing that yet.
“Anywho.” I dimmed his lights and plugged in his phone. “I think Phil Reyno and Ron DiSario asked me to be in a band with them today.”
Bash didn’t budge. I pulled his desk chair close to his bed and sat. Gave him his space. Got comfortable.
“They’re in my music class. I think they took it to hunt for guitarists. That must be the reason ’cause they can’t play for dick. We were doing these chord progressions in the first half of class and I just heard them behind me plucking away, all off time. They were kind of hopeless, honestly.”
I just kept talking. Talking and talking and talking. I talked about A minor 7. The C major chord. I talked about the day I got my guitar and the night I lost it, just waiting for him to tell me to go. But he didn’t. Bash let me talk like I knew he would. Because I know how noisy guys like us can get when it’s just us and our heads and I knew he didn’t want to be alone with that noise that night.
I was starting to understand that Bash didn’t want to be alone. No matter what he did to keep himself that way, Sebastian Villeda was tired of being so far from the world. Exhausted. And he had no idea how to tell the world he missed it. He’d lost his tools. He’d forgotten how to fall back to earth.
“You know, I usually avoid guys like Phil but Ronny can be funny. They want me to play bass which, I mean, I’ve never even picked up one before. They don’t even want me, really, they just want my hands. I’d just be a walking instrument to them. I don’t know. It’s interesting though. Would definitely be a way to fill out my fall. And I do like music.”
Bash kept his eyes closed but eventually he turned back around. Listened to me talk. I knew he understood what I was doing for him and he drifted off to sleep while I told him about my day.
“Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll join a band. Maybe that’s what fall’s supposed to bring.”
Bash’s face went from tight to still in the matter of minutes. The stress faded from those big, bushy brows and his jaw stopped looking like it might shatter. His breathing got easy. His cheeks got soft. His eyelids fluttered and I had to smile. Because not a lot of people must know what I know now. I must be one of the lucky few. It’s got to be a short list of people who know how beautiful that boy looks when he sleeps.
I thanked him for trusting me enough to see it.
bash
oct. 7
eyes
The Micelis have this driveway that rivals the New York Marathon. They live on the edge of town and the only street that leads there devolves into gravel about a quarter mile away from the place. You’re driving along the road then BAM, once you pass their mailbox it’s this long stretch of rocks with a big ol’ farmhouse looming on the horizon. Very pastoral. Very tiring to walk down.
Yet every morning, rain or shine, Sandro insists I park by their red, rusty mailbox. At first, I thought it was for my sake. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want to be seen escorting him to and from school every day. Maybe he thought I’d find that too risky. But lately, I’ve started to suspect that it’s more for him. That the risk he’s worried about isn’t “Me re: the World.” He’s more afraid of “Me re: the Micelis.”
My suspicions started last Tuesday, after school, when I offered to drive him all the way to his door. I’d never questioned the perimeter he was keeping between me and his homestead before but it was raining and crutches plus umbrellas don’t exactly mix. I asked him why he wouldn’t just let me take him all the way to his front door and he got all flustered. Sorta cagey. But before I could press him about his sudden shift in mood, he uttered what I’m now realizing is Sandro Miceli’s trademark catchphrase.
“Anywho.”
The second there’s a lull in the convo, whenever things get a little too close to home, the moment Sandro considers talking about some of his own shit, I see this switch flip in his head. Some ad-blocker in his mathematical robo-brain that seems to scream:
ERROR! ERROR!
BASH IS THE ONE WITH BAGGAGE HERE!
REROUTING! REROUTING!
And he’ll give a little sigh and a shrug and move the conversation onto something less personally invasive. Weight lifting. Hoagies. My relationship with God.
“Anywho.”
Just covering up all his worry with a smile. I mean, hey, it’s a great smile. A great cover.
Today was a foggy kind of morning. Everything was moving slower and my windows were misting up after a minute of idling by that rusty mailbox. I spotted Sandro halfway up the driveway so I turned the radio down and unlocked the passenger door. Dro tossed his crutches into Birdie’s bed and climbed into shotgun, looking like he’d just rolled right out of bed and into my truck.
“Morning.”
“Morning. You sleep well?”
“You know I didn’t, dick.”
I laughed. Sandro smiled and buckled up. Last night, the Miceli family had some big funeral or wedding thing in Philly, leaving Dro on babysitting detail for his nieces and GJ. It wasn’t the first time he’d been assigned the role of de facto parent/warden for his niblings, but apparently his baby niece Lexi was crying her eyes out from sundown to sunup and, by midnight, Dro was ready to leave the children in the woods. I was up half the night distracting him with phone calls but the sound of Lexi’s wailing on his end kept my efforts nice and short.
“Want the second half of my coffee?” I offered up what remained of my large Wawa to-go cup. Sandro’s eyes lit up.
“Did you go to—”
I nodded at the glove box. He opened it up and just about cried. Every so often, if I’m out of bed early enough and feel up for the extra stop, I’ll swing by the Wawa on Main before heading to Dro’s. This morning, I’d grabbed him a bacon-egg-and-cheese along with my coffee. He once told me he could probably survive solely off bacon-egg-and-cheeses for the rest of his life, which is funny because he’s always skipping breakfast.
Sandro was three bites in before taking a breath. “You’re a fucking prince, Bash Villeda.”
“Thought you might sleep through brekky. Extra salt, pepper, ketchup.”
“A fucking prince.”
I smiled and looked up the driveway. Someone was standing outside the house. Sipping his own coffee. Watching us. Even with the world’s longest driveway between us, I could feel the man’s eyes.
“Hey. Who’s that?”
Mouth full, Sandro looked where I was looking. His chewing stopped. With one hard swallow, he nodded at the steering wheel. “My pop. C’mon, we should go.”
“Why’s he watching us?”
“Come on, dude, seriously.”
I raised my brows and shifted into Drive. The gravel crunched under us and we pulled away from the foggy farmhouse on the edge of town. As we drove away, I kept a watch on my rearview. Mr. Miceli’s eyes stayed on us until the very end.
“Your dad looks tall.”
Sandro’s eyes were still on his window. He was taking his time on the final bites of his breakfast sandwich. “I got his height. And his feet.”
“Huh?”
“We both got flat feet. None of my brothers got them, just me.”
“Aww. Lucky.”
“Yeah, I’m truly blessed.”
Sandro polished off the last of his roll and shrugged. “Anywho. You finish chapter twelve?”
I had to keep myself from snorting. King of segues, Sandro Miceli. He fished his copy of Daniel: Last Forever out of his backpack and found his spot in the book.
“I think Ms. Morgan’s gonna quiz us today.”
There was no use trying to ask about Dro’s family. I never pushed past an anywho. Because we’re getting really good at this whole conversation thing. The way me and Sandro talk, that shit’s simple and easy. I’ve never had that with another guy before. We get what the other wants to talk about and we respect what the other doesn’t. I don’t push Sandro on the way his brothers bully him. He doesn’t push me on my silent shit with Del. I don’t ask him about the scar on his eyebrow. He doesn’t ask me about the kiss in the woods. Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll get there but for now I’ll settle for simple. Because nothing else in my life stays simple for long. If Sandro needs to anywho his way out of sticky conversations, that’s fine by me. Because we can always find better things to talk about.
After eleventh period, I dropped my books off at my locker and headed to the senior locker room for a run. It wasn’t a cross-country day but some of the older guys and I were planning on getting some laps in during senior privilege. To be honest, though, I hate running in a group. Having to keep pace with people. Slow down for them. Running is a solitary activity, that’s what’s so great about it. You can be the best all on your own. If it weren’t for what that Rutgers coach told me last spring, I would’ve just spent my fall running on my time but if Cross-country Captain looks good to the eyes of Rutgers admissions, you can bet I’ll be the fastest lemming in the herd.
Matty was midchange when I got to my locker.
“Yo, bitch tits. Tryna light up?”
“It’s a Thursday.”
“You used to be fun.”
“Mm.”
Matty has gotten into a big “running while high” kick since school started up again. I never took him up on his offers though. I made a hard rule with myself that, whatever bullshit Matty roped me into, I would never do it on Moorestown High property. Maybe it’s my mom’s influence. She always made sure I got the lines clear in my head. School is for school. It’s where you go to work, it’s a job. A lot of kids don’t get to go to school, much less one as nice as Moorestown, so keep your head down, keep your nose clean, and keep it off school grounds. I was also keenly aware that if I got caught doing half the sketchy shit my friends get away with, I’d be punished twice as hard. Because Bash the Flash has a lot of eyes on him. That’s his point. His purpose. But in a town like Moorestown, a name like Villeda catches eyes too. All it takes is one wrong eye. My mom made sure I got that line clear.
I took off my prayer bracelet and zipped it up in my backpack. I always worried I’d lose it on the track. I yawned into my hand for the thousandth time that day, really regretting staying up so late with Sandro on the phone.
I guess I’d been quiet too long because Matty snapped in my face. “Yo. Stares. What, you smoke without me?”
“Nah, man. Just thinking.”
“’Bout?”
“Thursday.”
“What?”
“Thursday. I’m thinking it’s Thursday.”
I shook off another yawn. Matty rolled his eyes and laced up his shoes on the bench. “You’ve been moody as fuck lately, dude. What gives?”
I rolled on some deodorant and shrugged. I could’ve said more. Could’ve made a joke. Kept this dead end of a conversation going. Because that’s what Bash the Flash does. Stokes the flame. Talks his shit. Backs his boy Matty up. But I was tired. And I felt eyes on me. Anthony Lewis and the rest of the cross-country guys were filing into the locker room and I needed to keep it chill. Matty didn’t press me. He had entertaining to do, after all. He left me to change and bopped over to Ant Lewis and the gang to compare running shoes and dick sizes.
Our group finally finished dressing and headed out to the track. It was always empty during the last period of the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays because there were no gym classes. The rest of the guys stretched out in the lanes but Matty told me to wait back around the captain’s entrance gate. I swallowed my sigh. I just wanted to start running but ignoring Matty would’ve only caused a bigger conversation.
“Sup, man?”
Matty looked at the herd of guys talking shit and messing around on the track. “Ant asked about the shit with Cinnaminson. Heard there was a fight.”
“Was that supposed to be a secret?”
