How to Say I Love You Out Loud (15 page)

My breath catches in my throat at the harshness in his words, the repressed emotion underlying them. My heart picks up, pounding loud and insistent against my chest. I look up at him, thankful
for the cloak of darkness that gives me half a chance of standing this ground.

Alex stares right back at me. “Listen, Jordyn . . . ,” he begins.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else.

Dan, Mitch, and Jason appear over the crest of the small hill to our left. They are sweaty and laughing, and Mitch has a basketball cradled in the crook of his right arm. They must’ve
squeezed in a quick game on the courts after calling it quits on the playground.

Alex had been reaching toward me. His hand still hovers awkwardly near mine.

They must all notice. Jason, who is dating Dana, Leighton’s best friend, surely must notice.

I step away from Alex and turn toward them. I force myself to wave heartily and adopt my cheeriest voice. “Have a good night, guys!” I call loudly. I turn back toward Alex, voice
still loud and artificial. “You, too, Alex!”

I jog toward my car, not bothering to wait for a response from him, trying to erase from my memory the disappointed look I’ve left on his face in my wake.

There are twenty-four days left after today in my countdown to when everything starts to unravel. I guess I’m thankful I’m not there when the pivotal thread is
first tugged.

I leave school early for a dentist’s appointment. The chaotic office is running on time for once, and I get back home a half hour earlier than I’d expected to when I told Coach Marks
I’d be missing practice.

The lazy thing to do, the thing I
want
to do, is stay at home and relish an unexpected afternoon off. Not for the sake of being productive and getting my homework done or anything. I
have visions of sour cream and onion Pringles and watching
Awkward
reruns on MTV2 before Phillip shows up and reclaims the television.

I open the front door and sigh as I stare at my gym bag hanging in the mudroom. Forget the chips and bad TV. The right thing to do is get changed as quickly as possible and head back to school
in time for practice. If I hurry, I’ll only miss opening stretches. We do have a game tomorrow.

But before I can dash upstairs, my attention is drawn into the kitchen. I walk toward the back of the house, hovering behind the doorframe, eavesdropping on my mom’s phone
conversation.

Her back is to me and her shoulders are hunched, but I can tell she’s tiredly rubbing her forehead. It’s obvious she’s upset, but her voice is defeated, unsurprised.
“Right, right . . . mmm-hmm . . . I understand.”

She shoves carelessly at the tendrils that have escaped her low ponytail. “And no other ideas as to what led to this? It was just the iPad situation that stood out today?”

Hidden in the doorway, I stiffen. It isn’t hard to guess what, or who, had caused her insta-migraine.

My mom listens for another minute, her hand still on her forehead. She clears her throat. “As always, I’m so terribly sorry. I’m sorry this isn’t easier for all of you
there.”

My fingers tighten around the doorframe and I roll my eyes. We hadn’t decided to send Phillip back to school—what is she apologizing for?

“And as I’m sure Mrs. Akers and Anne saw in his daily log today, his medication was tweaked last week, but we started the dosage adjustment over the weekend so that we could keep an
eye on him. We didn’t notice anything different on Saturday or Sunday, so I’m not sure if that could’ve had something to do with his heightened agitation or not.” She braces
herself on the island and shakes her head back and forth. “Anyway. Where is he now?”

Another moment passes and then she is nodding her head again. “No, certainly, I understand. That’s okay. I can come pick him up.” She grabs the car keys off the hook near the
phone receiver. “I’m walking out the door as we speak.”

My mom hangs up the phone without bothering to say goodbye. I don’t anticipate how quickly she moves, grabbing her down vest and purse and spinning in my direction within seconds. She is
distracted and nearly crashes into me. A muffled gasp escapes her, and her hand flies to her chest. “Jordyn. Lord. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

She forces a smile, but her eyes are all over the place and I can tell she’s not going to listen to my response before she even asks the question. “You’re home early, so I
assume no cavities?”

I ignore the question, and ask one of her instead. “What now?”

I’m sure I don’t want to know, but all things considered, I’d rather hear the story from her than the kids at school.

She struggles to meet my eye, twirling her keys with a shaking hand. I see her throat bobbing as she considers what to share, or how to share it. She comes up with six silly words. “His
iPad ran out of power.”

There is a sardonic edge to her explanation, which I’m not used to. But even she gets frustrated sometimes.

“His iPad ran out of power, right in the middle of reward time, when he’d just reached a new level in his game. He went ballistic.” She shakes her head and sighs. “You
just never know with the med adjustments if the increases are actually going to help, like they’re supposed to, or end up making things
worse
.”

I steel myself. “Define ballistic.”

“He threw the iPad, and then he eloped.”

Eloped.

I’ve always hated this clinical term, one of the silliest of the bunch, which conjures surprise getaways to Vegas and weddings with Elvis. What it actually means, the way my mom uses it,
is that Phillip tried to run away.

“He went out the side of the building,
right
by Route Thirty.”

Her eyes look stricken and her throat tightens again as she relays this information. A main route into Philadelphia, Route 30 is a busy two-lane highway with perpetual volume.

“Three staff members took off right after him and got him under control, but you know how fast your brother can run when he’s trying to escape.”

She covers her eyes with both hands, imagining the worst, the unthinkable. When Phillip’s running, Phillip’s not paying attention to anything other than getting away. If he’d
made it all the way to the road . . .

A moment later she brushes the hair out of her face and raises her chin. She takes a deep breath. Then another. “No sense in thinking about what could have happened, right? He’s safe
now. That’s what’s important.”

I don’t want to think about what could have happened, either. It’s awful and I shut it out of my mind as quickly as possible after a quick, silent prayer of thanks for his
safety.

“You’re going to pick him up?” I ask instead.

She nods. “They felt he was still too agitated to safely ride the bus. This all happened only about twenty minutes ago.” She purses her lips and looks at me. “Don’t
suppose there’s any chance you’d want to ride along with me? Keep me company?”

I stare at the floor and shake my head no, shoving aside my feelings of guilt. Just minutes ago, I’d had the best intentions about going to practice. Now? After my mom’s report? No
way in hell I’m stepping foot back on campus today.

More gossip. I can count on it.

I close my eyes and say a second silent prayer in thanks that I missed the latest Phillip debacle at Valley Forge High School.

My mom doesn’t press the issue. She shifts her purse strap on her shoulder, and wearily steps forward. “Alright. We’ll be back soon.”

She stops by the door, hand on the knob, calling over her shoulder to me. “I’ve gotten all of his applications submitted, and put in all the requests to have his records sent. We
have two intake appointments at different schools set up next week, so he won’t be in school next Tuesday.”

“Do you think one of them will take him?” I ask.

My mom looks back at me, her eyes still haunted. As hard as she’s trying not to, I can tell she’s picturing the busy road again. “I hope so.”

Practice forgotten, I’m into the sour cream and onion Pringles before her wheels have even left the driveway.

I hope the timing of Phillip’s elopement left ample opportunity for kids to stand around at their lockers and make “OMG” comments about what they might have
witnessed. I hope there was plenty of time in the locker rooms for the football players to rehash the latest bout of “crazy,” and for my teammates to do the same before practice.

The next morning, I’m trying not to worry about Phillip, or more truthfully, trying not to worry about conversations about Phillip. We have an away game against Lower Merion, and per our
usual routine the team is meeting for breakfast at the diner down the road to “fuel up”—Leighton’s term—for the day.

It means getting up forty-five minutes earlier than usual, but I typically really like team breakfasts. Erin and I always drive to the diner together, and by the time we leave to head toward
school, we’re hopped up on team enthusiasm, coffee with lots of sugar and milk, and the lollipops we buy at the counter when we pay our bills. We crank the radio way up as we drive, and
I’m always in a great mood by homeroom.

I don’t want to think about anyone’s stupid comments ruining the tradition.

Erin and I enter the diner as mirror images, both already in uniform, wearing plaid kilts, our matching hoodies, and colored ribbons in our ponytails. It’s an added bonus of game day, not
having to plan an outfit the night before, knowing we’ll be wearing the right thing without even trying.

Leighton has secured the long table in the middle of the main dining room. She is seated at the middle of it, drinking orange juice instead of coffee, with Dana seated to her left. She greets
Erin brightly and compliments her new sneakers, but offers me little more than a half smile. I swear she stares at me a second too long as I find a seat down the table.

Instantly, I’m on edge, fearing the worst, that her lukewarm greeting is very purposeful and has something to do with what the guys reported from the playground. I mean, if Jason said
anything to Dana, she inevitably reported it back to Leighton.

Then I tell myself to relax. If Leighton heard anything, if Leighton suspected anything, I’m sure I’d get worse than a weak smile.

I sit down, scoot closer to the table, and order coffee from the waitress. But the playground incident is back in the forefront of my mind, even though I’ve shoved it out of there
countless times already.

I sigh and stare darkly into the oily surface of my coffee when it is set before me. The idea of Alex not loving Leighton doesn’t make me feel particularly satisfied. It doesn’t mean
anything for me, and it doesn’t change anything about our situation. Maybe he was just confiding in me as the friend he believes me to be. Maybe he just needed someone trustworthy to unload
on.

I draw in a breath as I remember the way he looked at me in the bathroom, and I feel my cheeks flush.

Alex wasn’t just unloading. I know it in my gut. I’ve been ignoring the realization all weekend because I have no idea what to do with it, but I know it all the same.

Through my distracted haze, I order my usual—sesame bagel with cream cheese and a side order of sausage, for protein. Our order arrives within minutes, but I’m still trying to
process my feelings about the Alex situation, chewing thoughtfully on my bagel as I stare into space, quiet and checked out.

The chatter around me is loud and vibrant, but even with these factors at play, I hear the words loud and clear through the racket. I don’t catch who says them, but I pick up on them right
away.

“So I heard the cray-cray kid was at it again yesterday. Does anyone even know his name?”

Before the subject of Phillip is introduced, there are six different conversations taking place. All of a sudden, there is only one topic on the table.

Not that anyone is able to answer the question about Phillip’s name, which is sad in and of itself. He doesn’t even get a name, just an awful nickname, “the cray-cray
kid.”

Leighton polishes off her orange juice and slams the glass down on the table. “Yeah, it’s getting totally ridiculous,” she says. “I’m a senior. I’m sending in
my college applications soon. Grades count now. I’m sitting there, trying to finish my calculus test yesterday, look out the window, and see
this
nonsense. Straight out of
One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, that god-awful old movie we had to watch for psych/soc. People chasing this kid, whoever he is, back and forth across the side green, and he’s laughing
and grinning like it’s some kind of game, before he drops to the floor with his legs in the air, like a bug.” She pauses for shock value. “And that was all before he took off his
shoes and pants.”

My cheeks blaze and I wish I could disappear.

My mom hadn’t mentioned the
disrobing
, another stupid clinical term. My instinct told me that Leighton wasn’t lying, and that my mother had chosen to spare me some of the
gorier details of Phillip’s display.

I cringe, picturing his SpongeBob boxers from the laundry basket. What are the chances he wasn’t wearing something
totally
mortifying yesterday? What are the chances I can find
any
way to perceive this situation as less than totally mortifying?