“You won’t, uh…” and Tim motions to the open door.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “You boys have fun. I have twenty more bins to hunt down and empty.”
Becca heads for the loading dock, and I call Wheeler back. His dirty face appears a few seconds later.
“What’s back there?” Tim says.
“Just boxes of files and old floor hockey equipment,” Wheeler says. “Stupid stuff like that.”
“Maybe we come back when we have more time,” I say. “There might be something cool.”
“Like my balls,” Wheeler says.
Adleta starts laughing.
“What does that mean?” I say.
“Dude, you’ve never played Like My Balls? How do you survive the day? It’s all I ever do. Anytime the teacher makes a statement, try adding ‘like my balls.’ You know how like in history, Mr. Navarro is always saying, ‘History is a living breathing thing…’”
“Like my balls,” I finish.
“Exactly, man. It’ll change your life.”
“Like my balls.”
“See? You’re a natural.”
Since we’ve committed petty theft together and scrubbed toilets next to each other, I decide now’s probably a safe time to ask Adleta something that’s bothered me for weeks.
“Can I ask you a question? Why’d you show up at the water tower? You don’t seem the Chaos Club type.”
“What does that mean?”
“No offense, dude,” Wheeler says, “but he’s right. You’re more the organized-sports guy, not the cause-trouble guy.”
Adleta looks away for a few long, uncomfortable seconds.
Finally, he says, “Because I need something that’s just mine.”
Wheeler says, “Huh?”
Adleta leans against a box before answering.
“Everyone knows I’m good at lacrosse, right? That it’s pretty much all I do. But no one knows how Stranko convinced my dad to sign me up for an athletic trainer to keep me in the best shape possible so I can play in college and go pro. Or that now I have a dietician who tells me what I can eat. Or that I haven’t had a free weekend in three years because I’m always at some lacrosse camp or tournament. No one even asked my opinion. And when I tried to register for AP U.S. History this year, Dad wouldn’t let me because he said the extra work would get in the way of my training. Who does that?”
Wheeler and I look at each other, trying to figure out how to respond, but Adleta’s not finished.
“It’s like they’re forcing me into being this thing I’m not sure I want to be. Yeah, I destroy on the lacrosse field, and that’s cool and I like it, but I didn’t choose this life—my dad did. And you’ve seen my dad. It’s not like I can just tell him to lay off a bit. He’d lose his shit. It’s what he does best. With the water tower, I hoped I’d have at least one thing that was just mine. But even that backfired, and now my dad and Stranko are on my ass even more. Part of me just wishes I’d tear my ACL and be done with it all for good.”
It’s weird seeing Adleta being, well, human. And an AP class? I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years, which makes me feel like a dick.
“That sucks, man,” Wheeler says. “But at least you have us now.”
“Yeah, you’re part of a crew that’s going to take down the Chaos Club,” I say. “That’s a big plus.”
“Like my balls,” Tim says, and we all start laughing so hard it’s another five minutes before we start working again.
? ? ?
The rest of the school week is a continuation of tortuous ragging about the water tower, followed by three hours of slaving on work crew. The worst duty by far? Cleaning out grease traps in the kitchen. I may never eat again.
By the time Friday evening finally arrives, I should be exhausted, but the excitement of going out with Ellie has me filled with adrenaline. I do the best angry and bored grounded kid I can, slumping around the house with the occasional dramatic sigh while secretly readying for a date without my parents becoming suspicious. This is not as easy as it sounds. It’s hard to act normal when you drop your fork three times at the dinner table because your palms are so sweaty.
At six thirty, I put on a pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. I check the mirror, then switch the hoodie for a navy-blue T-shirt.
Then back to the hoodie.
Then a different pair of jeans.
God, is this what it’s like going on dates?
Am I even allowed to call this a date?
Screw it, I’m calling it a date.
I finally go with my original getup, and for my brilliant idea of the week, I don’t put on shoes or socks because I have to look unprepared.
A few minutes after seven o’clock, Dad calls up to me from downstairs.
My throat’s so dry I can barely get out a “Yeah?”
“You have a visitor.”
I do a quick check in the mirror, combing my hair with my fingers and breath-checking into my cupped hand. Coming down the stairs, I don’t just have a lump in my throat—it’s an entire watermelon.