“Here, have at it,” Mom says, throwing me a Hefty bag.
I start on the mailbox, unwrapping the soggy paper, which comes off in gloppy, messy clumps. While I do this, I keep glancing at Sam, but he never looks my way, and I realize he’s doing that on purpose. He can’t look at me. I feel my face flush, thinking of his hands on me. I turn away and grab strips of paper off the ground. Some of the streams of toilet paper, the ones high up in the trees, won’t be easy to get down. The rain or the wind will have to do that. For weeks, we’ll be reminded of this, and the neighbors, too.
I keep grabbing the toilet paper. It seems endless, but that’s okay. If I focus on getting every speck of the stuff then my mind won’t flash back to last night. How good it felt. How weird it was. How guilty I feel.
“Who could have done this?” Mom asks out loud, but I don’t think she expects or even wants an answer.
It’s not like this happens in our neighborhood. Looking up and down the street, all the other yards are untouched. Only high school kids do this dumb shit, to other high school kids. And only to people they know.
And then it clicks.
Nick.
Nick did this. And whoever he was with at that party. Because they knew I was with Sam, not with them. Because they knew Sam was here. Sam the freak. I feel a crackling in my chest as I grab yet another glob of paper and force it into the bag.
I look at Sam, he’s saying something to my dad, who pats him on the shoulder as they both keep collecting the paper.
When we get the yard as clean as possible, we go back inside and Mom toasts us some bagels and brings out the cream cheese. Sam and I sit on the stools by the counter and watch her, not talking, still not even looking at each other. When we’re done with our bagels, he packs his bag in my room while I watch TV downstairs. I see Mrs. Manderson drive up.
We all walk Sam out to the car and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Manderson kind of chat and laugh about obviously being toilet-papered, despite our cleanup efforts. “There’s been a rash of these lately,” Dad lies. “I guess it was our turn.”
I see Dad look over at Sam, like he’s worried about him for some reason, but Sam’s a blank. Mrs. Manderson’s gaze swivels, and a flash of recognition registers across her face, her eyes squinting ever so slightly. She clears her throat, says, “You’d think people would have better things to do with their time.”
“You’d think,” Dad says, clapping his hand on Sam’s back.
“Anyway, did you boys have a nice time?” Mrs. Manderson asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” we both say at the same time.
Sam looks over at me, for the first time that morning. He’s giving me a slight smile, but then it’s like he suddenly remembers last night and he frowns and looks away. Still, he sticks his fist out and we fist-bump, like we always do, like nothing happened between us. And when they drive off, Mom cups her arm around my shoulder and we walk up the front walk. She stops to stare up to the top branches of the trees where the toilet paper that was too high to remove is, little white strands waving around in the morning breeze.
“He’s a nice young man,” she says.
===
All day Sunday I cram for exams and try not to think about the sleepover, but I feel a guilt pressing down on me. Can you hate something and like it at the same time? Because I do. And it’s like these feelings are battling in my stomach—making me smile one minute, and then making me tingle with shame the next, again and again. And then I think of how Sam wouldn’t look at me this morning. Because he was embarrassed. Or maybe he was disgusted by me. Disgusted because I let him do it, even though I said don’t. Disgusted because I liked it.
The only way I can stop these thoughts is by studying harder, so I do. My eyes start to feel exhausted from reading my notes again and again. The book stacks on my desk, towers of information. I feel like my brain might explode.
When I wake on Monday morning, I sit in bed, immediately thinking about my exams for today—Spanish and algebra—all the formulas and rules and phrases and grammatical rules held in place, ready to spill out.
I jump in the shower and scrub and wash my hair and hope the water washes away any bad thoughts or feelings I have. I want to ace my exams.
I see Nick during the algebra exam, and I don’t even talk to him, and he doesn’t talk to me. And that’s all the convincing I need to know it was him and the rest of my friends. I see them all—Max and Raj and Ty and Nick—after the test is over and classes are dismissed. They’re at Raj’s locker, talking. Normally they’d wave me over, but they don’t and I keep walking. I don’t want to confront them about what I know they did.
While I wait for Dad to pick me up out front, I think about them out in the dark that night, rolls of toilet paper cupped in their arms. While they trashed our yard, was I asleep? Or was Sam next to me on the bed doing what we did?
Once back at home, I continue to study, cramming my brain with facts, nothing but facts.
===
I finish my last exam on Wednesday. School is over for the year. Christmas break. I should feel happy and free, but what I feel mostly is tired, and slightly uneasy. I’m chatting with Dad in the kitchen, eating mini pretzels before dinner. We’re waiting for Mom to get home, to see if she wants to eat out. And that’s when the house phone rings, and I know it’s Sam. “For you,” Dad says.
I take the phone and go into the family room. My heart thuds. Normally, Sam calling wouldn’t be so weird. But I haven’t heard a peep from him since Sunday.
“I have the portrait done,” he says. “Can I drop it off tomorrow? Mom has some errands after lunch and she can drive me over.” Hearing his voice, a tightness in my body eases. “Sure,” I say. I’d almost forgotten about the portrait.
“Okay then,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.
I stand at the window, with the phone still pressed to my ear, because when I hang up I know Dad will want to keep chitchatting in the kitchen. I’m glad Sam called. I just wish he’d said more. He sounded kind of cold, but maybe I imagined that.
Later that night, at home, in my room, I think back to the call. I’m not crazy—Sam sounded angry. And as I lay on my bed—in almost the same spot as the other night—I start thinking that it’s likely he hates me now. He hates me because of what happened. He will give me the drawing and that’s it, I’ll never see or hear from him again.
And I can’t call Nick or the other guys, because they hate me, too.