It Looks Like This (28 page)

My breath catches before I answer her:

I don’t care what you do, just stay away.

It comes out louder than I expected, and awkward, every word hurting. I rush through it to get it over with. My voice cracks a bit on the last word, and I turn it into a small cough, clearing my throat against the silence that comes.

It’s not that I didn’t want her to know. I just didn’t want to say it out loud.

Miss Dobbs-Shannon leans back in her chair.

She clicks the pen in her hand.

She writes down a quick note on her pad.

She looks up and says, Mike.

I say, What.

I’m looking at her pen and trying not to move. I’m sort of sitting on my hands.

She opens her mouth, then looks to the side and closes it.

Then, slowly, she says, I think we have our next steps laid out for us.

I frown.

I say, What are you talking about?

I know it sounds rude but I’m really anxious talking about this and I wish she’d just say what she means.

She says, We need to get you to understand that you’re not responsible for Sean’s death.

I sort of freeze.

She says, Mike, I’d like to speak to your parents about th —

I say, No.

She stops. I’m still looking at her pen. I can feel her eyes on me. I can hear her breath coming out slowly through her nose. The clock above and behind her ticks seven times.

She says, I won’t without your permission. But, Mike, listen to me.

I wait.

She says, You’ve been miserable for weeks, and I think this will help.

I wait.

She says, I just want to talk this over with them. I want to tell them about your message to Sean.

My fingernails dig into my thighs.

She says, I think you need to hear it from them. I think that’s what’s been missing.

I don’t say anything.

I breathe slowly, timing it with the clock. Three ticks for each inhale, three for each exhale. Miss Dobbs-Shannon waits again for me to say something. I try to imagine her talking to my parents, telling them what I just told her, and it makes me feel a little sick to my stomach. I hold on as long as I can, putting off the moment when I have to answer her. But then I hear myself saying it anyway.

I say, Just Mom. Not Dad.

When I look up, she smiles, just barely.

She nods slowly and says, Just Mom.

Jared and I are at Ronald’s house playing Halo.

Jared and Ronald are talking every few minutes, but not a lot. I’m not really listening. Mostly the only sounds are gunfire and explosions and the voice on the TV saying, Double kill! and Reinforcements! and Killing spree!

Over the noise we hear the front door open and close, and then Ronald’s mom call out, Turn it down a bit, would you?

No one really moves.

I follow the sounds of Mrs. Pilsner walking into the bedroom, dropping her purse onto the bed, the jangle of keys as she tosses them onto the end table, her footsteps on the carpet and then back on the tile near the front door.

She says, Ronald.

Ronald grabs the remote next to him and turns the TV down four notches.

The game says, Betrayal!

Ronald says, Goddamnit, Jared.

Mrs. Pilsner says, Ronald, come on.

Jared says, You walked into my line of fire.

Ronald says, I wasn’t even moving.

Jared doesn’t say anything back, and there’s just more gunfire.

But then I realize I haven’t heard Mrs. Pilsner move and think she’s probably standing in the doorway, and right when I think that, she says,

Hi, Mike.

I jump a bit, and my character dies.

I turn around while it restarts my life. Ronald’s mom is looking at me with the same smile she’s had the last few weeks. Thin-lipped. A little sad. But still kind.

I say, Hi, Mrs. Pilsner.

She looks at me a bit more and then says, Jeri.

I say, Hi, Jeri.

I watch her sad smile widen, making creases around her eyes. Then I turn back to the game and hear her walk out of the room.

I get home a bit late. We didn’t have pizza at Ronald’s, so I was supposed to be back for dinner. I’m barely in time. Everyone’s already at the table.

No one says anything. It’s just leftovers.

I finish eating first and pick up my empty dishes and carry them to the sink and rinse them and put them in the dishwasher and walk past the dining room table and upstairs to my room.

I have Algebra homework due tomorrow. It’s not hard but it’s a lot so it’ll still take a while.

I’m on the fifth problem out of forty when there’s a knock at the door. Not Toby’s knock, Mom’s.

I say, What.

She opens the door quietly, but it still creaks. She walks in and sits next to me on the bed, smoothing down the thighs of her pants and then putting her hands in her lap. She’s looking at nothing, at the carpet.

She stays that way for a few moments, then clasps her hands together and says,

It’s not your fault.

I say, What?

But my heart skips a beat.

She says, I spoke with your counselor today. We talked over a few things. She told me what you said to her. And I wanted to let you know that it wasn’t your fault.

My mouth is open just a bit and I’m breathing as slow as I can.

She says, Mike.

I say, No, wait —

She says, Mike.

I shout, No!

She stops and looks at me. Calmly.

I take in a breath.

I say, He just wanted to see me. All he wanted was to get out and come over and talk through the window. I told him to stay away.

But she’s already shaking her head before I finish.

She says, He’s dead because he drank eight beers and got in a car and drove. He’s dead because he didn’t get the support he needed from his family. He’s dead because his father made an awful, awful mistake —

Mom starts fighting back tears here, and it makes me start to tear up.

— An awful mistake, and his mother didn’t know enough to stop it from happening. He’s dead because everyone around him failed him, but you were not one of those people, Mike. You gave him what he needed and you were the only one to do it, the only one who did it right and the only one with an excuse to get it wrong, and I’m sorry, Mike, I’m so, so sorry that your father and I nearly made that same awful mistake with you.

I just stare at her, trying to breathe normally.

She looks back at the carpet and clears her throat. She brings a thumb up and wipes her eye.

Then I say, Would he still be alive if I had told him to come over?

Mom looks back up. She looks at me a long time before she says anything.

She says, I don’t know.

My breath catches.

She says, But that’s not the same as fault. You did what your father and I would have wanted you to do.

She smiles grimly, but she doesn’t look happy at all.

She says, It’s just that we were wrong in wanting that.

Then she stands up and turns to face me and looks at me.

She says, Mike. No argument now. You didn’t cause this.

She kisses my forehead and turns and walks out.

I watch the empty space on the door while I cry, as quiet as I can, for ten minutes.

That night I have a weird dream:

Jared and Ronald and Terry and I are building a house. All four of us even though in real life Terry’s never met the other two.

It’s a house in the middle of nowhere, and we finish building it and realize this, that we’re surrounded by trees and plains and nothing, no people.

So we build a city just so we have somewhere to live. We do this only because we’re afraid that if someone wants to send us mail, they won’t know where to address the envelope.

We build a city hall and a school and a mall and a fire department, and a lot of the dream is taken up by us arguing about where to put the library. Terry wants it up north because he has some friends up in that area who like to read, but everyone else wants it in the south because it’s closer to downtown.

It’s a dumb dream that means nothing. I wake up right as we’re about to strike a compromise on the library.

And walking to Geography the next day I realize that this was the first silly stupid dream I’ve had in a long time. The first one that wasn’t about everything that’s happened in the last month.

Mom picked Toby up today, but I walk over to the middle school anyway.

Colin’s hanging out near the choir room, looking at his phone, waiting for his sister. I wasn’t sure if he’d be here but I’m glad he is.

I walk up behind him. He doesn’t hear even though I’m not trying to be quiet or anything.

I say, Colin.

He jumps a bit and turns around, stares at me.

He says, Who are you?

I say, I’m Toby’s brother. Mike.

His eyes widen just a bit. Just enough for me to know.

I say, You need to leave my sister alone.

Colin says, Or what? You’ll try to kiss me too?

I start to take a step toward him. He jumps back a little and trips, but doesn’t fall or anything. I snort-laugh.

I say, If you see Toby, don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her. Or I’ll know.

I kind of think the threat sounds weird and wish I’d thought of something better. But he still looks a little freaked out. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.

I say, Leave her alone, douchebag.

And walk away.

A couple weeks later Charlie and I are hanging out with Toby in her room.

We used to do that a lot when we were kids in Wisconsin. Especially on Friday nights. I’d go down the hall to her room, and we’d hang out and talk until Mom or Dad came in to tell us to go to bed. I haven’t done it in ages.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching Charlie toss his squeaky toy in the air and pounce on it when it lands. Toby’s on the edge of her bed, playing with an old lump of Silly Putty she found in her drawer.

She’s telling me about a boy in the band who has a crush on her.

She says, He was there when we had our Christmas concert, that’s how we met.

I say, Holiday concert.

Toby gives me a look.

I say, So what’s wrong with him?

She rolls her eyes and says, He told me he loved me from the moment he first laid eyes on me.

I laugh.

She says, He said he couldn’t hear the percussion section over the beating of his own heart. Like he actually said that.

I laugh. Charlie looks up at the sound, then dives at his toy again. I scratch him behind his ear.

I say, I thought you liked it when guys are into music.

She says, He plays the bassoon. It’s like the dorkiest instrument in band. And band is already full of dorky instruments.

I say, I don’t even know what a bassoon looks like.

She says, Kind of like one of those T-shirt cannons they have in stadiums.

I say, That sounds pretty cool.

She says, No, it’s way too big for his body. He’s like smaller than me.

Toby giggles.

She rolls the Silly Putty into a ball, making it as perfectly round as she can. Then she says, When do you think Dad’s gonna stop being such a tool?

I laugh again. Partly because it comes out of nowhere, and partly because I’ve been wondering the same thing.

I say, I dunno, Toby.

She sighs and falls backward onto her bed.

She asks, Is he angry at you?

I say, Who gives a shit?

It comes out kind of annoyed.

I say, I don’t think so, though. I think he’s just . . . thinking stuff over. He’s been in his own head.

She says, Well, he needs to get out of it.

I look up from watching Charlie. I can’t see Toby’s face, but her arms are stretched out in the air above her. She pulls the putty into a long thin ribbon until it droops onto her stomach.

I think about Ronald’s mom again. About what she said.

I say, He does.

I close Toby’s door behind me. Walk past my room, down the stairs, through the living room, into Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

Mom’s in the attached bathroom. I can hear the water running. Dad is in front of me, hanging up his shirt.

He turns when he hears my footsteps and stops what he’s doing.

I say, Hey, Dad.

It comes out casual, much more casual than I feel. I’m actually a little nervous. It’s the first time I’ve spoken directly to him for anything important since I got back from the camp.

He looks at me. He’s still wearing his slacks, belted over a white undershirt. He looks tired and a little uneasy. But he doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to talk. And suddenly I’m not nervous anymore. I’m just annoyed again. It makes the words come out easier.

I say, You’ve had a few weeks. You’re making Mom do everything, and everyone has to pretend everything’s okay. It’s getting old.

The arm that was hanging up his shirt lowers slowly to his side.

I say, I don’t know what you need to do to snap out of it, but I wish you’d figure it out already.

He stares at me. I’m about to turn to go, then I say, That camp was awful, and you shouldn’t have sent me there. And I know you hated that I was at the funeral, but it was worse for me having to be there. This will always be harder for me than for you, so get over yourself.

I turn to leave and say, Good night,

and walk out and through the living room and up the stairs and into my room.

Two days later I’m watching TV and Dad comes into the living room. I can hear him walking up, but I’m watching so I don’t turn until I feel his hand on my shoulder. He looks at me and opens his mouth like he wants to say something.

After a second he looks down, gives my shoulder a small pat, and walks out of the living room.

I turn back to the TV.

Then sometime in March.

We’re at dinner. It’s quiet like it has been for a long time.

Mom’s still shooting her glances at Dad, but the disappointment there has become something else now. Almost like anger.

Mom says, Toby, what time does your choir concert start?

I know for a fact Mom already knows it starts at seven thirty tomorrow, that Mom is saying this just to have sound and conversation at dinner because that is what dinner should be like. Because she still hasn’t stopped trying after six weeks.