“Yeah, I know. You’ve told me that a million times. So what?”
“But I never told . . .” And then I stop. The first year, after Sam was gone, while Nick and I started playing tennis, while we started becoming friends, there were moments when I wanted to tell him everything. About how Beth and I let hours go by before we told anyone where Sam and I actually had ridden our bikes. About the man in the white truck. I would always start forming the words in my head. I would practice and then I’d say, “Nick?” And he’d look at me, totally unsuspecting, and then I would chicken out.
Like right now.
“Never told me what?”
“Nothing,” I say.
There was one night when I told Nick the full story. It was a sleepover, at his house, just the two of us. I remember it being cold out, so this was many months after Sam had vanished, like January or February. We had tried to play tennis outdoors that afternoon, but our hands and ears got cold so we went back to his house and drank hot chocolate and watched TV. Later, we were both in sleeping bags, in the family den, watching a movie. His parents were asleep. Outside, I could see the trees blowing in the cold wind. The movie wasn’t too loud, but loud enough. I looked over at Nick and his eyes were closed.
“Nick?” I said in a whisper. Then, in a normal voice, “Nick.” He stirred, slightly, but his eyes stayed shut. I lay there, wide awake, and watched till the movie ended. Then I turned the TV off.
“Nick?” I asked again. Nothing.
I looked out the living room window. A car drove by, the lights flashing against the wall of the room. Then silence, except for the sound of the trees rustling. After a few minutes I had an eerie feeling that someone was watching me, that someone was out there, about to peep in the window. I waited and watched, my heart thudding, and then Sam appeared, cupping his eyes against the glass. I wanted to scream but nothing came out, and then I woke up with a jolt. I don’t know when I’d fallen asleep, but when I woke I could hear Nick snoring.
I didn’t want to fall back asleep, so I started talking quietly. “That day, Nick,” I said, “this man in a white truck came after me. After I’d left Sam. After we had our fight.” I looked over at Nick again. Still asleep. “He came after me and said he’d give me a ride home, and I knew something was off. So I said no and rode my bike home, and—he followed me.”
I looked at the window again. My heart pounded, like I was actually back on that day, in the hot sun along that road. “I hid in someone’s backyard. He drove by, he didn’t see me, and he didn’t stop. And I went home and I just waited for Sam to come back.”
I looked over at Nick again, hoping his eyes were open, but sort of relieved that he was still asleep. “But he didn’t come back. And then I thought about the man in the truck. Like maybe there was a connection. But I didn’t say anything. I mean, the more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe it was just some adult trying to be nice. I didn’t want to get some innocent person in trouble, you know? So I didn’t say anything about that. It seemed like it didn’t matter.” I let a minute pass, almost lulled to sleep by Nick’s rhythmic breathing noises. My heart was slowing down. “Do you think I did something wrong?”
He didn’t say anything back. But I felt better then, because it was like his silence was all the approval I needed.
===
It rains on Saturday, all day. I feel like I’m trapped in my room. I’m standing at the window as the rain falls outside, when Mom knocks on the door.
“Phone for you,” she says.
I take the cordless from her and she shuts my door. I think it might be Nick, though he never calls the landline, or calls at all—only texts.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Josh?”
I recognize the clipped, cautious voice. “Oh, hi, Sam.” My heart beats faster, but I’m not sure why.
“Do you think you might still want to play tennis tomorrow? Like we talked about last weekend?”
I look out the window again. “It’s raining.”
“But not tomorrow. It’s going to stop soon. Tomorrow’s supposed to be nice.”
“Oh,” I say.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says.
“No,” I say. “I mean, yeah, sure, I can play.”
“Okay, good.”
We make a plan to meet at the public courts at Bowers Park, at two.
“You can use one of my rackets,” I say.
“It’s okay. I have one. A sporting goods store donated a bunch of stuff to us.”
“Okay,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”
Later, when I tell Mom and Dad at dinner, they’re quiet at first. Dad finally says, “That’s so nice of you.” And then he looks at Mom and I’m not a fool, I can see it. They’re worried.
“I want to be his friend,” I say. And I mean it. I actually do.
===
Just like Sam said, the next day is really nice—clear skies, warm temperatures. A beautiful day in the middle of November.
When Dad and I drive up, Sam’s standing beside his mother’s car with his racket hanging limply at his side. “We’ll come get you at four.”
“Yep,” I say. I get out and walk over to Sam while Dad waves to Mrs. Manderson and then drives off. Sam’s dressed all wrong—neon-yellow running shoes instead of proper tennis shoes—and he’s wearing those mesh basketball shorts that don’t have pockets. You really should have pockets in tennis, to hold the balls. But I guess it doesn’t matter.
Mrs. Manderson sits in the driver’s seat with sunglasses on. “You boys have fun, okay?”
“Sure,” I say. We walk to the court and I unpack my tennis bag. “Let me see that.” I grab Sam’s racket. It’s not a bad one—an older Dunlop model, nice and light. No telling what tension they strung the racket at. I realize all the stuff that matters to me—grip size, racket-string tension, racket-head size—doesn’t mean anything to Sam.
I see Sam looking over at his mom’s car. She’s still parked in the lot, watching us. He frowns. “Just a second.” He walks over and leans down into her window. They talk for a few minutes, before she finally drives off. Sam gets back and says, “Okay, ready to play?”
We start hitting and because Sam’s a total beginner it’s not much of a challenge for me, but that’s not the point. The point is for me to help Sam, so after we hit for a bit I cross the net and show him a few things—like how to hold the racket better, and how he needs to swing through with his stroke and swivel his hips and step toward the ball. I’m just used to doing this stuff now, so I’m not a great teacher. But once we start hitting again, it seems to come naturally for Sam. It’s not graceful, his form is kind of bad, but he starts connecting on shots and playing decently. Which is kind of annoying. Honestly, some guys are always good at any sport. Sam was sort of like that as a kid, from what I remember.
At one point, Sam sprays a ball over the fence and I run to get it. When I get back, he’s sitting against the back fence, in the shade of some tall shrubs that grow outside. We’re the only ones out here now. It’s peaceful.