Get that out of the way quickly, as they always do, because they are never angry. No matter what he does. No matter how far he falls.
Mom says they knew he must have walked out in solidarity with Skye, and while she isn’t sure that’s the proper response, they understand. They always understand.
When he repeats that he needs to talk to them, he gets the looks of trepidation. Then, as he begins to explain, trepidation turns to bafflement.
Track? What could an incident with Skye possibly have to do with track?
He says the word.
Steroids.
Their confusion grows. Is he telling them that other kids are juicing? Is he feeling pressured? That must be it, because their son would never — Did he just say…?
They look at each other, searching for clarity, proof that they have misunderstood, because Jesse would not — Astonishment. No, he is clearly saying what they thought he was saying.
Their son used steroids.
Disappointment. Dismay. They cover those quickly – his father rubbing his beard, his mother glancing out the window – before recovering. Disappointed? No, no. Surprised. That’s all. They’re just surprised.
He finishes. Then he waits. They have spoken volumes with their eyes and their faces and their gestures but haven’t said a word since he began.
His father opens his mouth. It takes another moment for the words to come, and when they do, they’re slow, the thought still forming.
“I don’t understand. How…?” He trails off. Jesse knows what would have come next.
How could you?
His father would never say that aloud. He’s quieter than Jesse’s mother. Dad leaves the big conversations to her and sits in the background as support. Yet it is always support. His father would no sooner accuse Jesse than his mother would, and so he lets that “How…?” hang there, the rest booming inside in Jesse’s head.
How could you?
Jesse wants to explain. Wants desperately to explain.
You guys missed Jamil. You missed going to his games. I couldn’t give you back Jamil, but I could give you back your place in the stands to cheer on your son, to be proud of your son.
He says none of that. They’ll feel it as blame, even if that isn’t what he means. Starting track was a gift to them, not fulfilling an obligation.
So he says nothing. But his gaze slips, only for a second, to the wall of trophies, and that’s enough. His mother gives a sharp intake of breath and his father exhales at the same time.
“Was this about —?” she begins.
“No,” Jesse says. “This was about me. All me. My mistake.”
“But —”
“I screwed up,” he says, rising. “And I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
His mother rises to hug him, but he sidesteps, his gaze averted so he can pretend he didn’t see her reach out.
“I’ll be in my room,” he says.
He has to pass the trophies. He stops and looks at them, beside his brother’s.
“Could you take these down?” he says. “Just… get rid of them. Please.”
Skye
It doesn’t take long for Mae to come to my bedroom door. She wants to talk. I don’t. I’ve heard enough.
We might not be close, but it never occurred to me that she’d actually think I did this. That hurts more than I could have imagined.
“I’d like to be left alone,” I say.
“I just want to talk.”
“I don’t. I’m going to ask you to respect that, Mae.”
Silence. Long silence.
“I just want to talk,” she says again.
I sigh softly. “If you insist, then I’m going to walk out that door and continue straight through the front one. I don’t want to storm off. That’s what a child does. I am not a child. I don’t want to argue anymore, so I’m trying to do the mature thing and just stay in my room. Okay?”
A few minutes pass before her footsteps recede.
I want to call Gran. I want to talk to someone who will believe me. But I can’t bring my grandmother into this. While I’ve been doing my daily calls – to her and Mom – I haven’t mentioned any of what’s been happening. They don’t need my problems on top of their own.
I check my phone. Jesse asked me to text when I was done, presuming my talk would take longer than his, but…
I look at the clock on my phone. Nope, mine didn’t take long at all.
I do have a message, though. From Tiffany.
Tiffany: Can we talk?
I hesitate, but I don’t want to be too quick to text Jesse, in case I interrupt his conversation with his parents, so I send Tiffany a quick: What’s up?
My phone rings twenty seconds later. I sigh. While I really didn’t want to tie myself into a phone conversation, I can’t pretend I’m away from my phone mere moments after texting her.
I answer, and she says, “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
There’s a pause, and I get the feeling she’s been anxiously awaiting my reply so she can apologize, and now she’s confused. But she’s not the only one, and I’m racking my brain to figure out why she’d be apologizing.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t speak up with Mr. Vaughn,” she says. “Jesse had your back, and I didn’t.”
“That’s fine —”
“It’s not. I know you didn’t post that video. Instead of saying so, I got on Jesse’s case, and he didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not okay, Skye. I’ve been a bitch to him, and I’ve been weird about you guys getting back together. I kept telling myself that I must sense an ulterior motive. I finally realized that’s not it at all. How does the cliché go? It’s not him, it’s me.”
Before I can speak, she continues, “Jesse stood by you. That’s what a friend does. Stands with you. Doesn’t hide in the newspaper room while you get chewed out by a VP for something you didn’t do.”
“It’s —”
“I don’t like Jesse because he’s a reminder of the shooting,” she blurts. “Of the fact that my boyfriend killed his brother, and I should have seen it coming. There must have been signs with Isaac, and I missed them and Jamil died, and if Jesse’s messed up, that’s why. Because of something I failed to do.”
“You didn’t —”
“But I feel that way. Right or wrong. Isaac was my boyfriend. I knew he had issues, and I —”
She takes a deep breath. “I was glad when Jesse went to Southfield. One fewer person in the halls to remind me. I already had to see Chris and Owen and others. That was hard enough. Maybe that’s why I don’t care for Chris. In his case, I do get the feeling there’s more to it – he’s too nice, too smooth, and it rubs me the wrong way. And Owen?”
Another deep breath. “Owen was my softball coach the year of the shooting. He had a crush on me, and I thought he was cute, and after the shooting that was just… awkward. But this isn’t about Owen. Or Chris. It’s about Jesse, who has never been anything but nice to me. I feel like he’s another victim, like Isaac and Harley took a good, brilliant kid and wrecked him.”
“Jesse isn’t wrecked. He’s having problems, but he’ll be okay.”
“I didn’t mean – Anyway, that’s my apology. And it’s not just empty words. I’m going to fix this. With the newspaper and with Mr. Vaughn. I’m going to prove you and Jesse didn’t do anything.”
“You don’t need to —”
“I know the newspaper system better than anyone, and I have a few ideas. I’m going to work through them and let you know what I find.”
Jesse
Jesse lies on his bed and stares at the empty walls. His shelves are almost as bare – he prefers to keep his belongings in drawers.