“Nah, I’ll get Katie to do it later.”
I grumble to myself because here’s the thing: I have no idea if that’s true or not. JP is north on the compass, no doubt about that, but there’s no way of knowing if anything he says is the truth or just him exaggerating. He’s been caught doing both, so I let it go.
JP claims he’s done it, but he says it was with a girl he met while he was at baseball camp. Wait, there’s girls at baseball camp? Oh, no worries, she was at the softball camp. Same fields, different buildings. Sure. Why not? And she was from California, where they have no email or phones, so there’s no need to keep in touch. Sounds good.
Oddly enough, now I’ve got the same problem. I want to tell him about Jamie, but there’s no proof. No number, no email address, no glass slipper, no nothing. Jamie’s real, but she sounds too good to be true. A girl—no, wait—an interesting girl, who even JP would think is hot, bought me (yes, me) a cup of coffee and we talked. For a couple of hours on a perfect fall day, we were a We. I never knew what that was like before (it was awesome) and I might never know what it’s like again, which is depressing.
“Hey, uh, Adam Michaels? Talk to him yet?”
“Shit.” I totally forgot. And/or slightly hoped Adam Michaels had paid up by now. He’s kinda older and not as big as me but big enough to leave a mark. I like it better when they can’t fight back. “Will do.”
“Thanks, man.” JP jerks to launch another round of flame bullets at the little baddies protecting the big baddie in the corner. “How’s the Wormhole?”
“Amazing,” I say, because it is. Then I chuff to myself because it’s funny, the stupid things we do for each other, JP and I. But fine, I’ll go talk to Adam Michaels.
Mom leans in from the kitchen, bringing the smell of simmering spaghetti sauce with her. “You guys ready for dinner?”
“Yeah,” JP answers for both of us.
JP puts the game on pause, hops up and out of the beanbag chair, and trots into the kitchen like a dungaree-wearing farm boy whose mama done rung the dinner bell. Left for dead, I lug my corpse up from the deepest depths, mentally scream in agony because my leg freaking hurts like hell whenever I move, and hop stupidly to my place at the table. Even if I’m not supposed to be up and about just yet, I have no choice. My wheels are folded up and left by the door like an umbrella because our house is too small for me to actually use it indoors. I have to use a cane to hobble around the house instead. I try to gently bumble, but when was that possible back when I had two working legs?
The wooden chair groans under my weight. I lift my cast for elevation and wait for the pain to stop. It doesn’t and I wish I could rub the bones straight. Mom ladles organic, grass-fed meatballs onto the plates heaped with pasta and sauce. Two for her, five for JP, and twelve for me. Fair is fair. “Ready?” Mom asks.
Both her and JP bow their heads. Mom thanks the Universe. JP thanks God because unlike me, he’s an actual Catholic and not going to St. Lawrence because it’s the best education in town. While they say their own version of grace, I pretend to. Although I never know where to send prayers, so I just think: Hi, Dad.
Their heads pop up and we begin to eat. “Go easy on the cheese,” Mom says to me.
I lift the Parmesan from the grater. “Why?”
“Because that’s the last of it for the month.”
Money. As in, as soon as I finish dinner, I’m off to go study so I can get a full ride to Stanford or Yale or Harvard or MIT with all the bells and whistles. One day this mutt will have a pedigree.
But as I shovel food in my mouth (from the ever-rising food bill we never ask JP to help pay because apparently lost boys eat for free), I wonder…would I change places with my best friend? The answer is yes. In a heartbeat.
I imagine waking up in his body. One smile from my perfect teeth that align one perfect row on top of the other, and I’m wrapping up girls in my new lean arms. My brains in his body with all his money? Unstoppable. The world won’t know what hit it. I’d never give his body back. He’d be stuck inside my old one and man, would he be miserable. But I bet, dollars to donuts, he’d take my body and do something real stupid with it. He wouldn’t turn to a book to keep it in check. He’d go whole hog and end up in prison. No doubt.
My hand squeezes into a fist underneath the table. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if my fuse really lit. I haven’t punched anyone since last year. Some junior. JP had asked me to do it, like he’d done a thousand times, but this time I enjoyed it. Way too much. It’s not my size that scares me. It’s what I’m carrying inside. My secret Hulk is always crouching under the surface, needling me. But I know the tricks to keep it locked up.
JP doesn’t have control. He’s all id: I want, I want, I want.