“I needed to see you.”
He clears his throat and gestures at the couch. We sit. I scan the walls—he’s hung a few pictures of friends. I spot one taken in Mexico, when he, Oliver, and Jenna were on that mission trip in high school. I smile when I see one of me, him, and Chickadee as a baby chick.
“Your couch is really comfortable. Did you buy the furniture yourself?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs a little. “I had some money left over from graduation, and construction pays okay… So what’s going on? Why’d you stop by?”
At his look of deep concern, I lean over and bury my face in my hands. “You saw the news today.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah. That sucks.”
Somehow, he knows the right thing to say. He doesn’t tell me it will all blow over soon or that my dad’s just saying this shit because he wants to be reelected. It is what it is.
“People at school were such dicks today. I hate it there. And now my soccer coach is questioning whether I should still be on the team, because parents think I’m gonna give their kids drugs. God!”
His hand continues to massage my shoulder.
“I fucked up. My future is over.”
“It’s not.” He gently rubs my back; it feels so good. “You can do anything you want. Unlike me…”
That’s new.
His comment makes me think I don’t know the whole story about him leaving school.
“Why’d you take a leave of absence from Cornell?” I ask. “For real this time.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Taking his hand, I weave our fingers together. “You can talk about anything with me, Ez. You know that.”
“Not about this.”
“Why not?”
“My father…he would get pissed.”
“So what? You’re an adult. You don’t even live with him anymore.” I check out the little apartment. It’s not bad. The privacy and independence seem great. A bag of potato chips sits on the coffee table. I love the idea of having potato chips in the house.
“C’mon, tell me what’s up,” I plead.
“It’s not easy for me to talk about.”
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You can trust me.”
He cups the back of his neck, his green eyes filling with tears. I’ve rarely seen him like this. He’s always cheerful and in control. This is the opposite of the Ezra Carmichael I know. The only other time I’ve seen him so upset was the Monday after my birthday party. But I sure as hell didn’t care about him that day.
I squeeze his hand, and it must give him the strength he needs to speak.
“I’m pretty sure that I’m dyslexic.”
How could I not know this? Ezra didn’t take special classes or get any extra tutoring that I know of. Does my brother know?
I grip his hand harder, trying to show I support him no matter what. “Have you talked to anyone about it?”
“My father told me not to tell anybody.”
“Wait, so Cornell doesn’t know?”
He shakes his head.
“Is that why you were having problems with your classes?”
“Yeah.” He drops my hand and folds his arms across his stomach, looking ashamed. “I couldn’t remember what I read half the time, even after reading the material over and over. At St. Andrew’s, the teachers just let me skate by. They knew who my father was—hell, the library is named after him. So they passed me.”
It makes sense. If Dad had made a fuss, I bet St. Andrew’s wouldn’t have expelled me.
Ezra goes on, “That didn’t work when I got to Cornell. I couldn’t keep up with the homework, no matter how hard I tried. I’d study all night long, and I’d still fail tests. The highest grade I made my first semester was a C.”
I rest my hand on his knee, worried if I let him go, he’ll never talk to me again like this.
“You’ve never been tested?” I whisper.
“No. Dad says that there’s no way I could have dyslexia, because I’m a Carmichael. According to him, it’s genetically impossible. He says my problem is that I’m lazy, but I know that’s not it.”
“Of course you’re not lazy. But why didn’t you just get the tests yourself?”
“I was embarrassed…and scared, I guess. And even with doctor-patient confidentiality, you know how people gossip.”
“Why do you think you’re dyslexic?”
“My writing is fine, but I misread things…I forget a lot…and I’ve fucked up some really important things in my life because of that.”
“Such as?”
He looks into my eyes. “I missed your sixteenth birthday party.”
Out of This World
“What do you mean?”
He stands up from the couch, folding his hands behind his head. He pads to the front window and looks out, then walks to the kitchen, seemingly for no reason. I let him pace; he needs to work through this at his own speed.
“I misread the date on your invitation,” he says. “I know your birthday is November 15, but I got confused about when your party was. I read the invite a few times, but I wrote down the 25th on my calendar instead of the 12th. I made a stupid mistake.”
He mixed up the numbers? He wanted to come to my party? “Wait, but didn’t you go to Chattanooga that night? With Mindy Roberts?”
“I did.”
“I heard you hooked up with her, and that’s why you didn’t show.”
He shakes his head. “We were just friends. I never hooked up with her. She was helping me pick out a birthday gift for you… I wanted it to be just right.”
He wanted my gift to be just right.
I place a hand over my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. For nearly two years, I’ve thought the worst of him.
I slowly get to my feet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t admit I’d messed up the dates. Dad told me never to tell anyone about my…problem…and it was a lame excuse. The day before, Oliver had even mentioned he was heading home for the weekend, and I still didn’t put two and two together. I was so mad at myself. How could you forgive me?”
I slide my fingers onto his hip and look up at him. “I would have forgiven you then. I forgive you now.”
He smiles sadly. “Stay right here.” He turns to jog down the little hallway to what I presume is his bedroom. When he returns, he hands me a box wrapped in silver paper. “Happy late birthday. This is what I meant to give you that night.”
“Thank you.” I open the card first. It’s a picture of a golden retriever.
Happy Birthday, Tease.
Love, Ezra
I rip off the paper and slide the box open. Inside, I find a pair of soft, pink, silk pajamas—a tank top and shorts with a delicate strawberry print. How intimate. I understand now why he took Mindy to buy my gift. He wanted a girl’s help in picking out a present that would show he was interested in me.
Tucked under the pajamas, I find a bunch of notepads, pens, and pencils decorated with cartoon soccer balls and dogs, and a homemade “gift certificate” written on an index card. One coffee on me! it reads.
He knows me so well.
“Thank you,” I say, running my fingers over the pajamas.
“You like it?”