Love Somebody, page 16
Mr. Powell gives us a glance up and down. “Are we keeping it PG in here, Chris?”
Christian rolls his eyes. “Dad, I’m literally standing in the middle of the living room.”
“I’m messing with you.” He walks up and gives me a quick smile, holding out a hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you, Ros. Call me Bill.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Thanks for having me over.”
“No trouble at all.” He turns and glances back toward the kitchen. “Anna should be almost done in there. You kids hungry?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Good. She always cooks a little too much. Luckily, that means leftovers for the rest of us.”
With a sinking sensation in my gut, I start to realize that I’m in for a full evening of small talk. Should’ve seen that coming, really. Hopefully the food is good, because then I can get away with having my mouth too full to talk if something goes wrong.
* * *
All things considered, the dinner table conversation isn’t too painful. Christian’s parents seem nice, but they’re very surface-level. They don’t seem interested in talking about anything deeper than what classes I’m in or what I’m planning to do after college.
They seem a little surprised, actually, when I tell them I don’t know yet. Mrs. Powell raises her eyebrows at me. “What year are you in?”
“I’m a junior, same as Christian,” I tell her.
“Well, that time’s coming up. Christian mentioned that you’re on pace to be the valedictorian. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Oh, then I’m sure you could go anywhere! Any ideas about schools?”
“I’ve researched a few, but nothing concrete yet.”
I think that was the wrong answer, because Mrs. Powell looks baffled, and Christian shifts a little in his seat. I remember the conversation I had with Sam a while ago, when she seemed shocked I didn’t already know what I was going to do with my life. Apparently, that’s a more common opinion than I thought.
“Well, what do your parents do?” Mr. Powell asks, like that’s going to settle everything.
I pause. Christian hasn’t actually told me if his parents are, well, accepting of people who have more than one dad. It’s never come up, and I don’t want now to be the time when I find out if they’re homophobic. So instead, I say, “No mom, but my dad’s a professor at Clark University. He teaches history.”
Mrs. Powell seems embarrassed when I say I don’t have a mom, but Bill barely registers it. “That’s somewhere to start, then. Teaching’s always a good choice.”
I’m not interested in teaching. I’ve also learned enough about the Byzantines and Süleyman the Magnificent from Dad to last a lifetime, and I don’t think I’d enjoy making any of that my job. But somehow, that doesn’t feel like something I can talk about. There’s almost no room in the conversation for it, like Mr. Powell’s already made up his mind. I decide it’s not worth bringing up.
Opposite me at the table, Aimee shifts in her seat, picking at her barely eaten dinner. “Can we let Yankee in yet?”
“No, Aimee. He stays outside until we’re done with dinner.”
I give Christian a questioning glance. He smiles and mouths, “The dog.”
“How come? We have him inside when we eat dinner all the time.”
“Well, not tonight,” Mrs. Powell says. “We have company over.”
“Maybe Ros wants to meet him!”
“She can, but not until dinner’s over.”
Aimee frowns. “It’s cold outside. Can he please come in?”
“You just want him here so you can feed him the vegetables you’re not eating,” Christian says.
“Nuh-uh!”
“Both of you behave,” Mrs. Powell says with a loaded glance over at me.
“I don’t like mushrooms. You know I don’t like mushrooms. Can I just—”
“Aimee.”
Mr. Powell doesn’t raise his voice. In fact, his tone is perfectly even, and his face barely changes. But that one word is enough to shut Aimee up right away. She hunches down in her chair, cheeks going red and eyebrows knitting in frustration. Next to her, Christian works his jaw, uncomfortable. The tension is a sudden, awkward new presence at the table.
“Listen to your mother,” Mr. Powell continues, like the new energy isn’t there. “The faster you eat, the faster you can be done and we can let the dog in. Now, let’s change the subject. Ros, Christian tells me you went to your first soccer game the other day. Has he managed to convert you yet?”
My head almost spins at the quick diversion. It takes me a few seconds to pull an answer together. “Uh … not yet. But it was a lot more fun that I thought it would be.”
“That’s the spirit! The next thing to do is introduce you to the Premier League. You’ll be a Spurs fan like us in no time.”
Mr. Powell’s smile is wide and charming. I almost can’t help but return it. Mrs. Powell smiles at me, too. Across the table, I watch Christian recover his own grin. Aimee looks a little embarrassed. The ghost of that tension is still there, but apparently, we’re ignoring it. The conversation moves on to other subjects just as superficial and safe as the last, and while I’m able to keep up fairly well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t distracted for the rest of the dinner. At one point, I manage to catch Aimee’s eyes and give her an encouraging smile. She returns it, reluctantly, but I notice she glances at her parents before she does.
33
CHRISTIAN
The rest of the night goes fairly smoothly. Aimee eats her vegetables, Mom makes lots of small talk, and Yankee does finally get let into the house—and of course, jumps all over Ros in his excitement. After that, Aimee shows Ros her room, which turns into almost a full house tour, and then there’s a little more socializing before Ros has to head home. All in all, not a bad night. Aimee does get in trouble for talking back during dinner, but honestly, that’s nothing new.
The only weirdness comes later, when Ros sends me a text after she gets home.
ROS: Can I ask a personal question?
CHRISTIAN: sure, go ahead
ROS: I know you asked me not to talk about your brother while I was over. And that was fine, but I’m just curious: Why don’t your parents talk about him anymore?
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. Sam definitely couldn’t help me with this one, either, and I’m not sure I’d want her to.
CHRISTIAN: they never got along, i guess
ROS: “Never got along”? What does that mean?
CHRISTIAN: idk. they used to fight a bunch when he still lived here
ROS: Christian, there are no pictures of him in your house. I saw plenty of you and Aimee, but none of Will. Your parents never even mentioned him. You specifically told me not to bring him up. That sounds like a pretty bad fight.
I forget that Ros can be as perceptive as Sam sometimes. How am I supposed to respond to this?
CHRISTIAN: yeah, i guess it was pretty bad
ROS: Can I ask what it was about? The fighting, I mean.
CHRISTIAN: honestly, i don’t remember much. i always tried to stay out of it, and Will never told me
ROS: Do you still talk to him?
CHRISTIAN: no
ROS: So you agree with your parents?
I’m about to tell her that sure, why wouldn’t I, but suddenly it doesn’t feel true. Maybe Will and my parents didn’t get along, but I don’t like that they packed away everything that ever belonged to him. I don’t like that they never tried to contact him afterward.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I remember Dad telling Will that if he left, it was forever, that he’d better not hear from him again. Dad says stuff like that when he’s mad sometimes. It doesn’t mean he means it. So then, why haven’t they reached out? And why hasn’t Will?
CHRISTIAN: it’s complicated
CHRISTIAN: sorry, can we talk about something else?
ROS: Sure, of course. Sorry if that was crossing a line or anything. It just seems like it bothers you a little.
CHRISTIAN: it’s okay
Ros changes the subject after that, and I follow along as much as I can, but a part of me stays stuck on her last question. It’s not an easy door to shut once it’s been opened. Maybe I didn’t agree with my parents—maybe I still don’t—but I went along with them anyway. Isn’t that the same thing as agreeing? I never questioned anything they did back then, never argued or fought back. That says a lot more about me than it does them.
* * *
Another memory surfaces, and this time it’s of an emptier house.
Will is gone. It happens fast, with barely a week’s warning that it’s final. The arguments had been going on for longer, of course—Will threatening to pack up and go, Dad ordering him not to, Mom begging—but the crazy part is, I didn’t think he’d actually do it. He was such a constant of everyday life, fighting or not. But now he’s gone, and it feels like something’s wrong in the house. Everything’s quiet, and even the usual noises sound strange. The stairs don’t creak in the same way they used to. There’s an echo now, like an empty room when all the furniture gets removed.
There was no real goodbye. He left early one morning while I was at school, and in the days leading up to it, we barely talked. Something was different between us after the night he came to my room after the argument, like he was drawing away from me. I hated it, but I was scared to say the wrong thing again, or else make my parents think I was choosing a side. What if they started yelling at me next? So I let him go and tried not to think about how terrible I felt.
Mom and Dad don’t say a word about it. I try to ask, but Mom immediately changes the subject, and Dad gets so angry it actually scares me. He grounds me for the rest of the week, too. I don’t ask again after that.
Aimee’s too young to understand what’s going on, but I know she feels the change, too. She’s been fussier lately, and it takes longer to calm her down. Will would have been able to do it. He could make the funniest faces, and Aimee would stop whatever she was doing and laugh until her face went red. I can’t make those faces. I try, but I think it only makes her cry more.
They clean out his room the day after he leaves. Anything he didn’t take with him gets thrown into garbage bags, to be trashed or donated and put out of sight as soon as possible. By then I knew better than to question my parents or ask to keep something to remember him by. It would only upset them more. So instead, I watch Will’s stuff get taken away and then, suddenly, it’s over. Out of sight, out of mind. By the time Mom gets done vacuuming and cleaning his room, it’s like I never had a brother at all.
I go in there sometimes, though, to see if the room still feels like him. It never does. Weeks go by, and Will doesn’t come back. So eventually I stop hoping that he will. But one day, as I’m sitting in his room, avoiding my homework and staring out the window, I notice something stuck into the crack between the carpet and the baseboard. I dig my fingers into the crack, and after a minute or two I fish out a tiny round circle of plastic. It’s old, a little scuffed, but white and almost shiny. The vacuum missed it, and neither of my parents noticed it when they were clearing everything out, but I found it.
A Go piece. The last remaining piece of my older brother left in the entire house, and I just happened to find it.
Maybe that means it was lucky.
I stuff it into my pocket, then quickly leave the room and wash up for dinner before Mom or Dad can ask me what I was doing in there. I never tell either of them about the old Go piece. They’re happier that way, and what kind of terrible person would I be if I made them feel miserable?
I always feel a little better knowing the piece is in my pocket, like maybe it’ll give me an extra boost of luck right when I need it the most. Whether it’s actually lucky or not, I’ve kept it, for no other reason than it reminds me of the possibility of luck. No matter how slim the odds may be, there’s still the tiniest chance things might be okay. All you have to do is look in the right place at the right time, and you’ll find it. And even if you don’t, maybe it’ll come back and find you someday.
But I don’t believe that one as much.
34
SAM
I want to tell her.
I don’t see her in person often—which is maybe a good thing, since I don’t know how I’d react, especially to seeing her and Christian together. Even listening in to their dates now, the way they banter back and forth so easily, almost not needing my help anymore … well. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt just a little.
It’s been two and a half months since first contact, and Christian and Ros are getting along better and better every day. Soon he won’t need me, and their relationship will be just the two of them, without me listening in, the invisible third wheel. Christian deserves to be happy, to get the things he wants, and if what he wants is Ros, then that’s what’s going to happen. I don’t know what Ros wants. I’m telling myself it’s Christian, to make this easier on myself.
I can’t stop myself from texting her, though. Not as Christian. As me. We talk fairly regularly now, random banter back and forth. It isn’t always me starting the conversations, either. Once, a week ago, Ros texted me out of the blue a picture of the program for So Long, Toledo! It was bent in half, and a few of the corners were dog-eared, like she stuffed it in a drawer somewhere and completely forgot about it.
ROS: Remind me why I kept this again?
SAM: Because secretly, deep down, you actually loved the show?
ROS: Don’t push your luck, Dickson.
I should focus on so many things other than Ros right now. I have homework that’s piling up, extra-credit assignments I begged to do and then completely forgot about. Submissions have closed for the Greater New England Young Playwrights Competition, which means the announcement can’t be more than a few weeks away. I should stress out about that or use it to draw enough inspiration to write something else. I haven’t posted anything on Instagram in days, and I usually post every day. I can’t let this thing about Ros block all my energies like this. I went into this knowing that one day my job as Christian’s “love coach” would be done. Either we’d royally screw it up and Ros would be a lost cause or they’d be together and happy, and either way, nothing about my situation had to change. It seems like it’s shaping up to be the latter, but I can’t shake the fact that my impending victory doesn’t feel as sweet as it used to. I should be celebrating a job well done. Instead, I get a pit in my stomach every time I think about the two of them being happy together.
I feel like some sort of weird addict, vicariously living through Christian’s attempts at flirting. I know that Ros sees the same potential in him that I did, once upon a time. They might actually be really happy together. Christian’s going to realize he doesn’t need my help soon. I’m on a time limit, and that time is slowly but surely running out.
So I make the most of it. I give Christian things to say, little things, things that so easily could have come from him.
“I listened to that band you recommended. They’re really good! I’m glad you told me about them.”
“You deserve to be valedictorian next year. You’re smart without even trying to be, but you work hard, too. It’s kind of inspirational.”
“Did you know you frown whenever you’re concentrating on something? You’re adorable like that.”
It gives me a thrill of secondhand excitement to hear Christian say it, to hear Ros laugh and thank him, or see the screenshot of her trying to act like the compliment didn’t make her blush. I know, somewhere inside, that this is unhealthy. But I can’t help it. There’s a lot more I want to say—how beautiful her violin playing is, how the story about her dads made me understand so much more about her, how her laugh is rare and surprising but so rewarding to hear—and I don’t have much more time to say any of it. Christian will come up with the same kind of things to tell her on his own, I’m sure. But it won’t be me.
For a few days longer, I want it to be me.
35
ROS
I go into my support group meeting the Saturday before spring break with a lot to think about.
For one thing, it’s only another week until Dad’s and Charles’s birthdays. Dad and I plan to do our usual April Thanksgiving and watch Cinema Paradiso again. It’s always a good time, and we keep it lighthearted. But even still, Dad gets quieter around this time of year.
Second, Christian has invited me to a party tonight. Monty apparently throws a big one the weekend before spring break every year, and he asked—“totally no pressure, obviously”—if I wanted to go with him. I’ve never been to a high school party in my life. I know the stuff about them on TV can’t be accurate, but when that’s your only frame of reference, it’s hard not to be nervous about the idea. Besides, it’s not exactly like I have the same glowing reputation as Christian and Sam. I know what some people call me—The Shrew, as if the lazy twist on my last name is supposed to make me feel bad or something—so will anybody actually want me there? I don’t mind being an outcast, but it’s a whole other thing to intentionally put yourself into a situation where you know you won’t fit in.
Speaking of not fitting in, I should probably pay attention to the meeting.
I know all the routines in these meetings because I’ve been going since I was eight. Dad didn’t want me growing up maladjusted, I guess. We meet in a community center and sit in a circle of plastic school chairs. Because there aren’t enough of us living in Worcester, Massachusetts, a few people join in on video chat to make it feel more like an actual “group.” Some days there are topics, but most of the time, the leader sits back and lets people share stories or ask questions. I don’t share often. I don’t really feel like I should. Sure, I feel out of place sometimes, but how is that different from anybody else?
