I’d thought it was bad before, his being around. But the weird long looks, the way his eyes followed me around the room—none of it compared to suddenly having him in the house. Though he’d arrived with only a suitcase, a duffel bag, a few boxes, and a computer, he’d already managed to fill much of our shared living space. What began as a pack of cigarettes by the garage door became a damp U basketball towel I had to step over on our shared bathroom floor. That, then, morphed into the sound of talk radio flowing constantly from Peyton’s speakers right on the other side of my wall. Voices, all day and into the night. I dreamed of roundtables and panels, when I wasn’t having nightmares.
Then there were the constant drop-ins: Did I have a spare tube of toothpaste? Where were the lightbulbs kept? Did I feel like it was too warm up here, too? And that was just in the first thirty-six hours. It seemed like he was always passing by my door, peering in at me, stopping to chat while leaning against the door frame. When I started shutting it regularly, he knocked: a soft three raps, one slow, two fast. If I opened it, he always came inside.
“Serious cram time, huh?” he’d said to me the previous evening as I was finishing up an essay for English on Wuthering Heights. I was at my desk, and he on my bed, flipping through a magazine I’d left open there. Normally by this point, I’d have put on my pajamas, but I’d taken to doing that at the last minute. “I should have been more like you in high school. Could have avoided a lot of trouble.”
As was my way, I responded to this with a single nod, pretending to be laser-focused on my closing paragraph.
“Peyton used to say the same thing,” he continued, turning another page. “How you were so different from him, and he was glad of it.”
It had always made me uncomfortable when he talked to me like this about my brother. For my mother, though, this had always been the main reason to keep him around, especially with Peyton’s ongoing silence toward her.
She’d tried to reach out, every way she could, since the debacle of the ceremony. Calling was impossible, so she wrote daily, and enlisted the connections she’d established—the liaison, the family outreach officer—to pass her pleadings along. The only response she ever got was from Ames, whom my brother still contacted.
“He just needs some space,” I’d heard him tell her in yet another of their coffee-fueled discussions at the kitchen table. “He’ll reach out when he’s ready.”
“I just feel like if I could explain myself he’d understand,” my mom replied. “If only he would call you when I’m nearby, I might be able to talk him around.”
“I want that, too,” Ames told her. “And it very well may happen. But for now, you’ve got to respect his wishes. You know?”
At this, my mom had only looked glum. It struck me as odd, since Ames was at the house constantly—he claimed to be “on the job market,” not that I saw him doing anything about it—that one of these many calls from Peyton he reported hadn’t occurred with my mom nearby. Apparently, though, I was the only one to wonder about this.
Now, with Mac on the other end of the line, I got up and walked to the door, opening it. The hallway was empty, but the door to my brother’s room was ajar, light and the sound of talking spilling out from it. Looking the other way, I could just see my mom in the War Room on her computer.
“I’m hoping,” I said, shutting the door again, “that all this good behavior might make my mom ease up a bit. I really want to go to the showcase.”
“If I were you, I’d lower my expectations,” he replied. “Maybe aim for, you know, getting to choose where you eat lunch once in a while.”
“That will come, too,” I said, more confident than I felt. “But this is a special occasion, a one-time thing. It’s an early show, and I’m doing everything I can to stockpile points.”
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t happen,” he said. “I mean, I want you there. You know that. But it’s not everything.”
That was just the issue. I knew not to expect everything; I never had. All I wanted was this thing. Even if it was a long shot, at least it gave me something to aim for during all those long afternoons at Kiger, or here in my room at night, staring at my unlocked door with only my Saint Anything for welcome company.
“Just think a good thought for me, okay?” I asked him. “And step away from the chips.”
He exhaled; I’d made him smile. “I’ll do my best.”
When we hung up, I looked at the calendar I kept on my desk. On it were my school and work obligations—my personal stuff I kept on my phone—and I scanned the various items: SAT practice test, college night, Kiger payday. Then I picked up a pen, moved to the date of the showcase, and drew a circle around it, then another. I didn’t write anything, as that did seem too confident. But just putting it in there made it seem possible, and anyway, I knew what it was.
CHAPTER
22
MY DAD cleared his throat. Because I knew from experience this meant a subject change, announcement, or important remark was to follow, I gave him my full attention. So did my mom. Ames, however, kept eating.
“So. What’s the latest on the job front?”