I inhale and my nostrils suddenly fill with the smell of burning, with hints of fish and feet. “What’s she making?”
“Gluten-free pasta and meatless quinoa meatballs.”
I take a beat.
“I thought you were hinting that I need to gain weight.”
He nods as he rises. “I do. That’s why I ordered your favorite from Malnati’s, just in case. Also, someone named Rico says hi. So we’ll be eating something in the next half hour, but I’m not sure what. You ready to come down?”
“I...think I’m gonna hit the shower first. Feelin’ kinda gnarly.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“It’s time?” I ask, afraid to verify exactly how gamy I am.
He’s smiling as he replies, “Oh, yeah, buddy. It’s time.” He watches me from the doorway as I gather up some clean clothes Mom must have snuck in here. “Listen, I don’t expect everything to be different overnight, Owen. Please don’t think your mom and I expect you to be magically better right away. You’ve been suffering for a while and it’ll take some time to get back to normal, or, to figure out what our new normal is. Just know that you’re our priority. We’re committed. Whatever you need. We love you, pal.”
I am not out of the woods, not by a long shot. But this is my first step in that forest. Like Desmond Tutu said, “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite the darkness.”
“Love you, too, Pops.” I hold up my fist in solidarity. “Team Foley-Feinberg.”
“Team Foley-Feinberg,” he repeats.
Suddenly, my mom’s voice comes across the in-house intercom system. “Hey, guys...do we own a fire extinguisher?”
Kent
8:12 PM
she’s here!! imma go work my magic, imma make her love me
Simone
8:12 PM
and by magic you mean...
Kent
8:13 PM
i mean give her liquor
Simone
8:14 PM
25
SIMONE
“Brilliant, Warhol, right nice job, mate!”
Earlier, I had to close my bedroom door after the hundredth positive affirmation. While I’m thrilled that Warhol’s taken to his dog training, the noise is interfering with my ACT prep. The test’s in the morning and this is my last chance to cram.
I feel ready. I hope I am, anyway. At the start of the school year, I didn’t care about university, but I must have become concerned through osmosis. Application fever has hit NSHS hard; it’s impossible not to be swept up in the frenzy.
I even begged off the Homecoming festivities tonight. Kent told me I didn’t have to miss it. He said I need to master time management during the test. That didn’t require staying home from social events so much as it just required a watch. Still, I’d hate to be sorry I didn’t give up one night if it makes a difference. I can’t pinpoint why I’m bothered it might make a difference, yet here we are.
As for Stephen, well...he hasn’t said anything to me. He has his MIT interview soon and Kent and I both fear it will go badly. He won’t talk to us about it, or allow us to help, and that does not portend good news. (Ten points for my use of portend. I feel like my prep has been efficacious.) (Ha! Ten more points for efficacious.) What I’m saying is that Stephen’s been more taciturn than usual. (Taciturn! I’m going to slay this test. Wait, is there even a vocab section? Or is that just the SATs? Shit.)
Anyway, I suspect Stephen is jealous of Kent for hooking up with the field hockey girl. Kent tells me he and Stephen have always been matched in every respect, from overbearing mums to performance on Common Core Learning Standards to “Call of Duty: Black Ops” scores, so Noell has tipped the scales, even though she started ignoring Kent the minute she sobered up. Kent insists that’s a bell you can’t un-ring, so he’s still gloating about having become a man.
What does become a man mean exactly? Don’t know. I’ve not asked for details, even though he’s dying to tell me.
“Well done, Warhol!”
I can hear their muffled voices downstairs, despite a closed door. It’s a bit shocking that my parents are involved with anything as mainstream or pedestrian as dog obedience, but I’m glad. When we found out that bringing Warhol back to England would be near impossible—importing pit bulls is banned—my folks sought out a loophole. Now they’re training him to be an emotional support dog. They’ve already bought him a snappy service vest and Warhol loves it almost as much as he loves wearing his sweater. I believe parading around in his support uniform makes him feel important and hard, like one of those tough German Shepherds you see patrolling the airport. (Wearing the sweater just makes him feel smart and fashionable.)
The trainer’s been buzzing the doorbell for the past fifteen minutes to get Warhol used to sudden noises. More unfortunate, my father realized he’s able to change the sound the doorbell makes so I’ve been subjected to the opening bars of “America the Beautiful” over and over. I find myself humming about purple mountain majesties while I’m trying to study and that needs to stop right quick.
The bell rings again.
“Oh, beautiful for spacious skies...”
Enough fruited plains already!
A moment later, Dad shouts, “Simba! C’mon down, love!”
“I’m busy. Listen, I’m glad Warhol sits when someone comes to the door, but I truly don’t need to see him do it again.”
“Well, he’s terribly clever so you should. That’s not it, though. You have a visitor.”
Who would be here? Stephen’s MIA and, besides, Mrs. Cho would never let him out after 9:00 p.m. the night before a meet. Kent was headed to the game and then the dance, in the hopes that Noell might get drunk and give him the time of day again. Owen’s been clear about his feelings, so...that’s it, the entirety of my inner circle. I have friends in my classes and on the newspaper, but we’re not tight enough for a late visit, especially unannounced.
Must be Kent. Suspect I’ll be hearing every dirty detail of his newfound manhood soon, whether or not I want to. Might as well be done now.
I tighten my robe and head down the stairs. Didn’t bother to dress after my bath or mess around with makeup, so I’m bare-faced with a towel still wrapped around my hair. Kent will have a tremendous laugh, seeing me like this.
Except it’s not Kent standing in my entry hall; it’s Liam.
!
!!
!!!
I spot him before he sees me and I fly back up the stairs before I’m noticed. “I’m just out of the bath!” I holler. “Down in two shakes!”
I quickly ponder the contents of my closet. What outfit makes me look the most nonchalant? The most insouciant? (No time to congratulate myself on my outstanding word usage, though.)
I settle on an old pair of Levis with holes worn in the knees and a faded black skull-embossed Misfits T-shirt from my dad’s punk rock days. Mum’s always after me to toss the natty old thing, but it’s so beautifully and genuinely tattered that I can’t bear to part with it.