o 0df2dc86c31d22a8 (5 page)

 A Pluto-teer (or whatever they call those people in Pluto costumes) scared you so badly you shrieked until you fell asleep in your stroller from exhaustion.

 You used to have nightmares about the Pirates of the Caribbean, and for months

afterward, anyone with an eye patch made you cry.

When you mention Haunted Mansion, she says, “Ducky, are you SURE you want to go in

there?” As if you’re STILL scared of it.

Ted’s teasing her.

That’s OK. Mom’s cool. She can take it.

She’s got his barbershop quartet singing debut on tae.

Blackmail is the best revenge.

Frontierland

Tom Sawyer Island

The caves have gotten so much smaller.

So have the keelboats.

And you can’t actually steer them with poles.

Didn’t you used to be able to do that?

Or did you just imagine it? The way you imagined you were Davy Crockett and Alex was Mike Fink, battling it out on the river?

Or did Alex play Davy while you were Mike?

Whatever.

C U real soon!

Y? Because we like U …

And so, the McCraes depart the Kingdom, bellies full, smiles on their faces.

How was it?

Weird. Fun.

Wrong. Right.

Ted’s happy. He met a girl and got her phone number.

Mom and Dad left the park holding hands and smiling.

You didn’t mind it, overall.

Tomorrowland was a little tough. That was Alex’s fave. Especially Space Mountain. You felt a little guilty that you didn’t ask him to come along.

But don’t kid yourself.

He would have said no.

Besides, this was a family outing.

You need them once in awhile [sic].

Sunday

Writing Fast

In Alex’s room. Alone.

He’s in the shower.

He was supposed to be ready for rock climbing by 9:30. You got here on time. But Mrs. S told you he was asleep. “You go wake him up. I can’t.”

You climbed up here. You knocked and opened the door.

The smell hit you first. Musty, stuffy, like he hadn’t opened a window in ages.

You couldn’t believe your eyes.

Piles of clothes. Scattered papers. Magazines. Empty cups & dishes.

Pigsty.

Worse than Ted.

Alex was never NEAT, but he NEVER used to let things get this bad.

You woke him up. He seemed surprised to see you. Then he apologized and slouched into the bathroom to get ready.

You felt sorry for him, so you started to clean up.

No big deal. A little pile management. Floor liberation.

A jeans jacket was on the floor, scrunched by the foot of the bed, so you picked it up.

And a bottle fell out.

A fifth of vodka. Half empty.

You bent down to pick it up.

And you saw another one — totally empty — under his bed.

You put the jacket back. With the bottle.

Now what?

You are freaked.

Should you TELL him?

Even though he wants you to LAY OFF?

WHAT SHOULD YOU

Alex, Part 2

At the Monfort Quarry

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Back again.

Had to stop writing, because you heard the shower turning off. You’re alone here for a few minutes. Alex is off to the convenience mart to get some sports drink and trail gorp.

You hope that’s ALL he’s getting. …

You didn’t write that.

BAD thing to say, Ducky, about your best friend.

BUT YOU CAN’T HELP IT. How can you trust him now?

You try to be close, open yourself up, you let him confide in you. You ask him what’s wrong —

YOU GIVE HIM EVERY CHANCE TO TELL THE TRUTH. And he tells you nothing’s

wrong, nothing CONCRETE, it’s depression, he’s dealing with it — when all along, that’s NOT

it at all.

He has a drinking problem.

All you can think is, WHY DIDN’T I GUESS THIS? The slurry speech, the tiredness, the

depression — it makes sense, because alcohol is a DEPRESSANT, isn’t it?

Then he walks into his room, his hair still wet from the shower, and you’re sitting on the bed, arms folded like a guilty little kid who’s done something wrong.

He’s groggy. Yawning. He looks around the room.

“You cleaned up,” he says.

“I’d forgotten what color the carpet is.”

“You didn’t have to clean up. Things will just fall back into a mess.”

His eyes fix on the jeans jacket.

Out of the corner of your eye you see that the tip of the bottle is sticking out.

STUPID. You were too rushed, too careless.

“You found the bottles,” he says.

But he sounds calm. Matter-of-fact.

You stammer and sputter.

“No big deal,” he says. “I’ve always had them around. Haven’t opened them for ages.”

You don’t believe him for a minute.

You didn’t talk about it on the way here.

But you haven’t stopped thinking.

Alex makes no sense. You don’t know him anymore. You don’t know what to expect.

The possibilities?

1. He WANTED you to find out. He knew that if you came to his house, he’d be asleep and you’d have to wake him up, and once you were in his room you’d see the bottles. It’s his way of crying for help.

2. He didn’t mean for you to see them. In fact, today’s plan — the rock climbing — is to convince you he doesn’t have a problem anymore. He wants to fool you into thinking

he’s getting better. Then you won’t BOTHER him so much.

3. He IS getting better. He HASN’T touched the bottles in a long time. And he wants to go rock climbing.

4. None of the above. Or parts of all.

OK, nothing you can do now. Except CLIMB.

Try to enjoy it. The way you used to. It’s the only athletic thing you and Alex were ever good at.

Just make sure the ropes are secure and the pitons are tight.

And TRUST him.

You have to.

The rocks are pretty steep.

One false move, and you could be in serious trouble.

Sunday Night

Still Alive

Alex comes back from the convenience mart.

You load up the snacks and drinks. You double-check your Polaroid camera to make sure it has film.

And you start up the rock.

Right away you know this isn’t going to be easy.

You’re worried — not about yourself but about Alex.

You choose your handholds extra carefully. You jam your pitons extra securely. You make the first climb, while Alex waits. You call “On belay!” loud and clear. No room for error.

Then, when it’s Alex’s turn, you hold on for dear life.

His.

And yours.

One slip, and you bear all the weight. You’re the only one keeping you both anchored to the earth.

You watch his every move. You try to anticipate every change in direction, every shift of weight.

Just like life.

Think about it: You’re holding on for two, never letting up, whether Alex is moving or slipping or standing still. Knowing that whether or not he makes it depends on YOU.

The difference is, you reach a peak at the end of a climb. You rest.

You’re bruised and aching and tired. But you feel great.

And your ropes are intact. Strong, not frayed.

You wish life were that simple.

Anyway, you make the climb. You scramble over the crest and help Alex pull himself up.

You’re exhilarated. You feel INVINCIBLE.

Alex is taking off his gear. Looking back down the rock.

The smog has lifted, and the air is sweet and cool.

Time for a photo op.

You wedge your camera in the crook of a tree and set the self-timer.

“Quick!” You run to Alex and pose, your arm around his shoulder.

“No, Ducky — ” Too late. The camera snaps.

As you run to see the picture, Alex sits on a flat rock and pulls his food from his pack.

You watch the image appear.

Next to your grinning jack-o’-lantern face, Alex looks washed-out and ghostly. As if he’s seeing something through the camera lens that you can’t see. Something terrifying.

You pocket the photo and move to sit near him. He’s staring out over the valley, the breeze sweeping back his hair.

He doesn’t ask about the snapshot.

D [with a deep, satisfied sight]: “Isn’t it great?”

A: “As good as it gets. Which isn’t too good.”

D: “Hey, come on, we DID it. We’re sitting at the top. THIS is what matters.”

A: “Nothing matters.”

D: “That’s just not true, Alex. SO MUCH matters.”

A: “Like what?”

D [this is hard]: “Like FRIENDS.” [All 1 of them, who doesn’t seem to be doing a great job.]

“Family. [What’s left of it.] “Simple stuff — the smell of the morning air through your bedroom window, the end of school on Friday, the beach on a weekend, a drive along the coast — ”

A: “You’re a hopeless optimist.”

D: “I have my ups and downs. But I keep my eyes open. I let the good things in. What’s wrong with that?”

A: “Whatever gets you through the night.”

D: “What gets YOU through the night, Alex?”

A: “You don’t want to know.”

D: “What does THAT mean? Alex, look where we are. You wanted to do this. You suggested it! Are you so depressed you can’t enjoy this? Is it like a tape running in your brain — ‘No matter what, I WILL be gloomy’? Just turn it OFF for a moment. Let your senses take over.

Look at the view, feel the breezes. This is IT, Alex. This is LIFE. If you can’t enjoy this, what’s the point?”

A [nods; then, softly, under his breath]: “Yup. What’s the point?”

That hits you hard.

It makes you think.

It brings up the unanswered questions hidden away in the back of your mind sing Jay’s party —

WHY did he hide himself in a locked bathroom that night, and WHY was he fully clothed in the tub with the shower running?

Even back then you had a suspicion — you must have, because you didn’t want to let him out of your sight, and even after you left, you watched from outside the house until his bedroom light was out and you were reasonably sure he’d gone to sleep.

And now you have to face it, at the rock summit with your lifelines still tied and unfrayed. You have to ask him.

You wait until you’re back in the car, driving down the freeway with your windows open and the radio off.

D: “Alex, when you say nothing matters — you’re not speaking literally, right?”

A: “Huh?”

D: “Like, it doesn’t mean you would want to stop living?”

A: “No! What’s with you, Ducky? You think just because there’s no reason to live a person should want to kill himself?”

D: “No. I was speaking theoretically — ”

A: “I mean, that’s the LAST thing I would do!”

D: “OK, Alex. OK. You just said some stuff that concerned me — ”

A: “I mean, just because there’s no reason to LIVE, doesn’t mean there’s a reason to DIE!”

D: “Right. I won’t mention it again.”

A: “Don’t even THINK about it.”

Alex flicks on the radio.

You drive home to the Top 40 countdown.

Feeling much better.

* * *

OK, you feel like you’re attached to him. Like you have to pull the weight of two.

But cut the guy some slack.

You’re on solid ground now.

Monday

Study Hall

He wasn’t at his locker this morning. Not at lunch either.

After lunch you saw Ms. Krueger in the hallway. You turned and went to class the long way.

You couldn’t face her. You knew she was going to ask how Alex is doing.

As if you have any idea.

And Now

a Word from Our Sponsor:

YOU.

Ducky.

The guy whose name is on the front of this journal. Whose life is supposed to be chronicled faithfully here.

Forgot about him, huh?

Forgot to mention you managed to pass the math test last week.

Congratulations. Thank you.

As usual, you’re so wrapped up in Alex, you don’t even think of yourself.

After school today, you give Amalia a ride home, and she’s talking away, mentioning something about Maggie and her new therapist — an that makes you think about Dr. Welsch and your rock-climbing trip and the fact that Alex isn’t in school today, and as you pass the turnoff to his house, you start debating whether you should call him or pay a visit — and suddenly you notice the car is silent.

“Ducky, are you OK?” Amalia asks.

“Yup. Fine.”

“Do you need to talk?”

You’re so preoccupied, you don’t hear the words right, most specifically the word YOU.

Somehow you’re hearing HE, meaning Alex, and you reply, “He does, really badly. But I think he’s stopping seeing his therapist.”

Amalia’s looking at you weirdly. “Not Alex. You.”

You laugh and say no, not me, not Good Old Ducky, I don’t need to talk. I’m fine. Just have my head in the clouds, that’s all.

Because what ELSE can you say — I think my best friend is an alcoholic depressive who hates life? No. It wouldn’t be fair to put that on her. And it CERTAINLY wouldn’t be fair to Alex.

So you chat about nothing and you drop her off and you pretend it’s a hap-hap-happy day.

It’s not until you’re around the block that you start realizing how good it would feel to talk to Amalia — to anyone — about all this.

And because you don’t — because you CAN’T — you feel rotten and alone.

Just the right mood for your shift at Winslow Books.

On the way to the store, you stop at Alex’s. Paula answers the door and tells you he’s asleep. So you say good-bye and head to the store, feeling relieved that at least he’s THERE, although you can’t imagine where else he’d be.

Alex Speaks

You catch him on the phone after dinner:

A: “What’s up, Ducky?”

D: “Hi. Nothing. I mean, I didn’t see you today at school and I figured I’d call.”

A: “Uh-huh.”

D: “So … I’m calling! Are you OK?”

A: “As much as I ever am.”