There’s a silent moment of shock. And then I start laughing, and I see her face relax, and she laughs, too, relieved. What she said was not that funny, but our laughter is like a ball rolling down a hill, gathering speed, and soon we’re both in hysterics, so much so that my belly starts to hurt and I have to lift my head up to catch my breath and calm down.
After a few minutes, Chita says, “That felt good.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling over at her, my knee knocking hers playfully.
Again, we sit in silence for a few minutes before Chita starts talking again. “You were always the one we went to,” she says. “When we had problems and stuff. Like when I came out to my mom. You always knew what to say. So when Sam came back, we just wanted to be there for you.”
“I know,” I say, the shame making my face burn. A breeze blows through as a cloud covers the sun, casting us in a brief cold shade. “I just . . . I wanted to deal with all that in private. At school, with you guys, I didn’t have to think about him and stuff at home. And then suddenly, I did. And you guys kept treating me like I was this fragile thing. It was so weird. And I just wanted you guys to be normal so that I could be normal. I don’t—I didn’t want you all to pity me.”
“It’s not pity, dumbass,” she says. “It’s like love, I guess.”
“You’re such a cheeseball,” I say.
“And you’re such a jerk,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why you love me.” I reach out and grab her hand and hold it and squeeze it, and she squeezes back. We both sit there like that, not looking at each other, because I guess this is all a little embarrassing, for both of us. “I’m a mess, but I’m getting better, I think.” I pull her in for a hug.
“Careful,” she says, “people might think you’re gay, too.”
I laugh. “Who cares,” I say.
But after a few more minutes, we unclasp our hands, because both of us can only handle so much corniness.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says.
“Me too,” I say.
“Because for a while there I thought you might join the cheerleading squad or something crazy like that.”
“Oh yeah, totally, I had my pom-poms and everything,” I say, laughing again.
Right then Coach yells for Chita, because there’s still some practice time left. Chita smiles at me and runs back out to the field.
===
Back at home, I set my bag down in the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. As I drink, the phone rings. I look at the caller ID on the landline, an Alabama area code. I’m about to pick up but then it stops ringing. That’s when I hear Mom’s voice down the hall, in her room. I creep down there.
“Yes, your mother called the other day. Uh-huh,” I hear her say. I stand by the door, straining to hear. “No, I’m sorry. It’s out of the question. . . . I’m sorry. He needs stability right now, and this would only upset him. You seem like a nice young man, but I wish you’d listen to me. He won’t be able to see you. Please, stop calling.” Mom sounds exhausted, but also angry. “Good-bye, I’m hanging up now. Don’t call back.” I creep back down to the kitchen. Mom walks in a few minutes later, carrying her purse and jiggling her keys. “Oh, you’re home.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to go pick Sam up at Dr. Saylor’s. You have a good day?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, we’ll be back in a bit.”
I listen as the car starts and pulls out of the driveway. Who would be calling for Sam? I grab the cordless and look at the number again, typing it into my cell phone. My heart starts racing as the line rings once, then twice, three times, and then a boy’s voice answers: “Hello?”
“Hi,” I say. “Who’s this?”
“Who’s this?” he says back.
“You just called here?” I say. “You spoke to my mom.”
Silence. “Oh, hi. Are you . . . who are you?”
“I’m Beth.”
“Sam’s sister!”
“Yeah,” I say. How does this kid know who I am? “Who’s this?”
“I’m Tony. Tony Johnson.”
I pause for a minute, searching my brain, but his name doesn’t ring a bell. “Who are you?”
“I was . . . I’m Sam’s friend. I live with my mom, in the same complex where Sam lived. In Anniston.”
Lived. You can’t call it lived. He sounds so nonchalant that I feel a flash of irritation. “Why are you calling?”
“Does your mom know you’re talking to me?” Tony asks.
“No.”
“Well, my mom called last week. We’re coming to Tuscaloosa this weekend. My aunt is getting married there. I thought . . . I thought it would be nice if . . . If I got to see Sam while we’re in town.” He’s quiet, waiting for me to respond. In a softer voice he says, “He was my best friend,” almost like he’s embarrassed to use those words.
“Best friend?” I say back to him. How could a boy who was held captive by a maniac have a best friend? It’s insane.
“We lived across the courtyard, upstairs,” he says. “I . . . I really want to see him. I never got to say good-bye. I mean . . . we were all . . . I had no idea what was really going on.”
I feel like shouting at this kid. Like, what do you mean you had no idea what was going on? How stupid are you? “I agree with my mom,” I say. “It’s not a good idea for you to see Sam.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Can I see you? Can we meet?”
I’m about to say no. Mom would never allow this. But, I realize, I don’t have to tell her. And maybe, I don’t know, this might help me understand something about what happened to Sam. “Yes,” I finally say.
“Thank you,” he says, “thank you,” sounding relieved and grateful. “Can you meet Saturday morning? We’ve got the wedding that night. It’s a quick trip.”
“Saturday. Sure.” Already I have second thoughts. What am I doing, meeting with this kid, this stranger?
“Where?”
The mall, I think, and then realize I might see someone I know there. I tell Tony to meet at Monnish Park, Saturday at one. I tell him where it is.
“Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Beth.”
But I don’t say anything. I just hang up and sit there for a moment. The house is quiet, I’m still alone. I walk to Sam’s room. I open the closet and I see the knapsack, same place it was the other day. It’s light brown, with a few dark scuff marks on the sides. I sit down on the floor and hold it in my lap. This backpack is all Sam brought back with him from that place, besides the clothes on his back, and it feels light. I know the sketchbook was in here. But there must have been something else.
I take a deep breath. I know what I’m doing is wrong. But after talking with Tony, I want more answers. I unzip the main compartment.
It’s empty except for a flash of baby blue. I feel inside and it’s cloth, soft and worn. I pull it out and unfurl it and see it’s a T-shirt. A Superman T-shirt. It’s small, like a kid would wear.
It’s the shirt Sam wore the day he vanished.
And in that moment I can see him all those years ago, smirking at me before he closed my door, before he left us, before our lives changed. I press it against my face and sniff. It smells kind of sour, like it hasn’t been washed in a while.
I wonder if this was Sam’s only connection to home.
I stuff it back in the knapsack, which I then return to the closet, as close to possible as where I found it. Right then I hear Mom’s car door slam, and I rush to my room and close my door.