Right now everyone is focused on the other parts of the float—the falcon (our mascot), which will be perched on top of a bobcat (the mascot of our rivals), and a giant football and then a goalpost. These constructions are spread out all over the gym, surrounded by small groups of my classmates trying to make it all come together. The float’s base—a long flat wooden structure, also surrounded with chicken wire—is the easy part, and for most of the night I’ve been the only one working on it. But I see Becca, our class president, walking over, bringing Hunter and Declan with her. I step away, like I’m trying to get a better look at it from afar.
Nick is around here somewhere. We haven’t talked much today, which is kind of weird. Even at tennis practice he was quiet. I do see Madison Jones—my date for the game and the dance tomorrow—working on the bobcat. Everyone calls her Madison Jones or Madison J., because there are about seven Madisons in our class. She’s pretty, I guess, and nice, though she kind of talks too much. She’s on the track team. I think she likes me as more than a friend. She glances over at me and smiles while she holds a stack of yellow tissue paper, and I quickly look back at the base of the float.
“Hey,” Becca calls out. “We need to spell out ‘Freshman’ on both sides of the base, don’t you think?” She’s really the one who’s handled all of this, rounding up people in the class to help, pushing the ideas through, giving us constant pep talks. Her boyfriend, Hunter, is on the football team, and he’s here mainly just to lend his football-star presence, wearing his stupid jersey to remind us that he’s more special than everyone else. And there’s Declan, too, who’s not on the football team but who hangs out with a lot of the players, and so he thinks he’s supercool.
“What do you think, Josh?” Becca asks. She’s got her dark hair up in a ponytail.
I walk over to them. “Yeah,” I say. “That makes sense.”
“I think the lettering should be white,” she says, “on a red background.” She’s always so decisive, which is why she’s a good president.
I grab a stack of white tissue. “I’ll start with the F. Freshman or freshmen?”
“Freshmen,” Becca says.
Hunter and Declan edge closer, watching us.
“Did you guys see that kid on TV?” Declan asks.
I start to work, ruffling the tissue, hoping to make noise to drown out the conversation. All day, people have been talking about the interview with Sam and his family, which aired last night.
“What kid?” Becca asks.
“That interview. That kid Sam Walsh.”
“Oh, that kid. The whole story is so insane,” Becca says. She’s squatting near me, marking out where the other letters should go.
I don’t chime in. I focus on making the F fat and even. But yeah, of course I watched the interview. We all did. At first Dad didn’t want to let me. But Mom said, “Honey, we can’t shield him from this.” Besides, anything I wanted to know about the case was all over the Internet.
Sam was only on for a little while, and he didn’t say much. He looked preppy in khakis and a button-down shirt. His scraggly hair, his piercings—all that was gone. I stared and tried to remember the Sam I knew. But it was like I was watching someone different altogether.
“My dad says that man probably raped him, like, all the time,” Declan says.
“Gross,” Hunter says.
“And he stayed there with him,” Declan continues. “He stayed all those years. He’s got to be a fag.”
“Declan,” Becca says, in a scolding tone.
I feel my face flush, and I turn away so they can’t see me.
“Just saying,” Declan says. “There’s something fucked up about him. You could tell just by the way he looked.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be messed up after going through something like that?” Becca says, sounding annoyed.
“No. I’d have kicked that sicko’s ass,” Declan says. “I’d have kicked his ass and gotten out of there.”
“Damn right,” Hunter says.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Becca says. I can’t tell if she finds it distasteful, or if she just wants to focus on the work at hand, but I’m glad she’s trying to change the subject.
“But think about it. He was, like, settled in there. Why would he have stayed unless he was enjoying it? He didn’t—”
“Shut up,” I say, louder than I mean to. I continue shoving the tissue paper into the slots, not missing a beat. “Just shut up,” I say again.
“Chill out, man,” Declan says.
“Yeah, what’s your problem?” Hunter asks.
I don’t respond. A few moments pass in silence. But I know it can’t last.
“His sister’s on the soccer team with me. Beth Walsh?” Becca says.
I almost chime in that I know her. That we were neighbors. That I was there when it all happened. But I don’t.
“She never talked about it—about her brother,” Becca says. “I only found out from some of the other girls. She’s pretty quiet.”
“I just hope that freak brother of hers doesn’t come to our school,” Declan says.
“He’ll probably be homeschooled,” Becca says. “After all he’s been through.”
“Besides being abused and stuff, I bet it was cool to just sit at home and watch TV and play video games all day,” Declan says, laughing.
“Stop,” Becca says.
“Dude, not funny,” Hunter says, probably just trying to please Becca.
“What? I’m just saying.”
I drop the tissue and sit there for a minute.
“You okay?” Becca asks. That question I’m sick of being asked.
I stand up and look over at Declan. “He was my friend,” I say.
Declan just gives me a confused look and says, “What?”
He’s dumb as a box of rocks. Not worth it. I just start walking toward the exit. I can hear Becca call out to me, but I don’t stop.
Outside, there’s a side parking lot, separated from the church’s main lot, but it’s mostly empty since no one here can drive. We’re all stuck until our parents or older siblings show up to get us. It’s dark out, but because of the nearby streetlights I see Nick at the edge of the lot, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, talking to this girl Sarah. Sarah is his homecoming date. She’s new to town and is on the tennis team. I guess I knew he kind of liked her, but he’d always been shy about talking to her until recently. I hesitate for a moment, but then I walk toward them.
“Oh hey,” Nick says, seeing me approach. “How’s the float going?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Hi,” Sarah says. She’s petite, with glossy shoulder-length blond hair. Nick calls her California, because she moved here from San Diego.
“Can I talk to you?” I say, looking at Nick.
“Okay,” he says, sounding hesitant.
“I’ll see you inside,” Sarah says, walking off.
“What’s up?” he asks. I can tell he’s miffed that I broke up this great romantic chat they were having. He flips his hood down and pushes his hair out of his eyes. He needs a haircut. I see him watching Sarah walk away.
“They were talking about him. About Sam.”
He looks back at me, like he’s aware of me for the first time. “So?”
“Declan called him a freak. He called him a fag.”
“So? Declan’s a tool. Just ignore him.”
“It’s not true.”
“What’s not true?” He looks toward the gym again, then back at me.
“What they’re saying about him.” I want Nick to agree, to say something, but he’s just quiet. “Nick?” I ask.
“Why do you want to bring up all that?” Nick looks down at his sneakers, kicks a piece of broken glass away, then looks back at me, fiddling with his hair again.
“I don’t know. Because we were friends with him? I mean—”
“I don’t want to talk about him, okay? He’s back and I’m happy for his family. But that’s the end of it.”