What They Always Tell Us (24 page)

He hears Alex sniffle and wipe his eyes. “I’m such a baby.”

“No, you’re not.” He pats Alex on the back. “I don’t want you to worry. Okay?”

Alex nods, sniffles some more.

“Because I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

“But Tyler…”

“You leave him to me,” James says.

“Okay,” Alex says softly.

James releases Alex and stands up. “It’s gonna be okay,” he says, before leaving abruptly. He walks to his room and locks the door. He lies facedown on his bed and does what he didn’t want to do in front of Alex: he sobs. One of those gut-wrenching sobs that seems to drain his body of strength. The pillows muffle his sounds, he hopes. And when it’s over, he feels lighter, almost at ease.

Because for a change, he feels like a good brother.

The weather on Saturday clears, just in time for the tennis match with Walker. The night before, James had called Tyler, offering him a ride to the match the next morning.

“That’d be awesome, dude,” Tyler had said.

So James picks him up bright and early. On the drive over to the high school courts, he lets Tyler do most of the talking. James will do his talking later, after the match.

“Our first match of the season. I hope we beat the crap out of them,” Tyler says.

When they arrive, Coach pairs everyone up for warm-ups. The sun is bright today. The air smells of wet grass and baking bread from the Sunbeam plant across the street. It is a perfect spring day. James hits balls back and forth with Tyler. On the other courts the Walker players, decked out in purple shirts and white shorts, go through their warm-ups. Some of them look like decent players, but some of them have the gawky and ill-formed strokes of beginners.

Eventually, just before the teams assemble and pair off for their singles matches, James sees his mother climb into the set of bleachers on the north side of the courts, socializing already with the other parents, including Tyler’s mom and dad, who both wear sunglasses and pastels. James had told her she could go to Anniston with Dad to watch Alex, that he didn’t need an audience, but she stayed, like it was her duty as a parent. Alex took off the night before with the team, picked up by Coach Runyon in the clunky white team van.

Today, James’s opponent is a tall, lanky guy with a shock of black hair named Jonathan. He is a decent player, with a solid serve and deep groundstrokes. But he makes a lot of errors. James’s biggest strength has always been his consistency. His teammates call him a backboard—someone who will hit back almost anything you feed him. It drives people nuts. He also has a strong, hard serve, and today he fires off powerful serve after powerful serve, which Jonathan has trouble returning. James makes quick work of him—6–2, 6–3—without expending too much energy.

Tyler, meanwhile, struggles with a lesser player whose groundstrokes float high in the air before landing deep in the court—a pusher, they call this type of player. The rest of his teammates all win their matches, so it’s already a 5–0 rout when Tyler finally pulls out his match. He storms off the court, frustrated that it took him so long.

League regulations require them to go ahead with the doubles matches, even though the match is already clinched. Doubles is much the same story, but it takes James and Tyler the longest to dispatch their opponents, mainly because Tyler is sucking big-time today, spraying his forehand well past the baseline, sinking easy volleys into the net. James has to play shrink on court: “It’s okay, Tyler. Calm down. Focus. Just hit your shots.” Eventually, he says, “Okay, just focus on getting the ball back in play. Stop trying to be fancy.” He tries to mask the irritation in his voice.

The rest of the team is assembled on the sidelines, clapping and cheering them on along with the scattering of parents and family and friends. In the last game, James serves the match out, hitting two aces and two other well-angled serves. He hasn’t played this well in a long time. When they win, Tyler gives him a high five and says, “Thanks for carrying my ass, dude.” They shake hands with their opponents and gather their stuff and join the team on the sidelines. The Walker team doesn’t waste much time piling into their vans, deflated and defeated and facing an hour’s drive home.

“Great match, guys,” Coach says. “I see some things that need improvement, but we’ll deal with that on Monday. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

Mom walks over and pats James on the shoulder. “Great playing, sweetie. Wow. You were on fire today,” she says.

“Thanks.”

Tyler’s parents have already jetted off, and he walks up to the two of them. “Hi, Mrs. Donaldson.”

“Hello, Tyler,” James’s mom says without much enthusiasm. “Good playing.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“Well, I’ll see you at home,” she says, leaving the two of them there by James’s Jeep.

“Man, I played like shit,” Tyler says once they are in the Jeep.

“Well, we won at least. That’s what matters in the end.”

“Amen.”

“Hey, you wanna grab some food?” James asks.

“Of course, dude.”

“How about Burger King?”

“Fine with me.”

So that’s where James drives, to the one that isn’t far from either of their neighborhoods. After they eat, it will be a quick drive to drop Tyler off, which is what James prefers.

Once they order and have their burgers and fries and sodas and are situated in a booth toward the back, James lets Tyler enjoy himself for a few minutes.

“I better not play like that against Vestavia Hills or Mountain Brook.”

“You’ll get better,” James says. “You were just rusty. You’ll get that match toughness back.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

James takes a few bites of his burger, then some fries, then a sip of his soda. And then he’s ready. “So I guess Alex is probably finished with his cross-country meet by now.”

“Oh yeah?” Tyler says, shoving some fries in his mouth, looking out the window, anywhere but at James.

“He’s gotten really good, really fast.”

Tyler sips his drink and nods.

“He’s doing better, too,” James says.

Again, Tyler busies himself with eating. James had expected Tyler to say something surly, insulting. He didn’t expect him to clench up in awkward silence.

“Nathen’s been a good friend to him,” James says.

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “I
bet
he has.”

There it is—the tone he was expecting. The knowing, smart-alecky tone. It’s just what James needs. “So, listen, Tyler. I know what you’re up to.”

“What?”

“I know you’re putting those notes in my brother’s locker.”

“What?” he says again.

“Don’t deny it.”

“Deny what?”

James stares at him silently. His dislike for Tyler only intensifies as he sits there, watching him squirm in denial. “He’s my brother, Tyler.
My brother.
”

“What’s your point, dude? I’m not doing anything. And so what if I was?” Tyler hesitates a moment, sips his soda. “Your brother’s a fag. A
fag.
Doesn’t that bother you, having a brother like that? A fucking faggot for a brother?” He shakes his head.

“Don’t ever talk about him like that again,” James says, more calmly than he intends. Because inside he is raging. He wants to reach over and clobber Tyler’s face. He wants to punch him the same way he punched Greer a few weeks back. This despite the fact that he has never been a violent person. He got in one fight as a kid, on the playground in fifth grade. Jared Potter was picking on him and James finally got sick of it and pulled his hair and clocked him. But ever since then, he’s never needed to get physical. He’s never really even wanted to, until lately. Until now.

“Or what?” Tyler says, though not with much confidence.

He wants to say,
Or I’ll beat your face in.
But he has a stronger weapon, he thinks. “I’ll tell everyone how you were staring at me in the locker room when you were naked. And then everyone will start calling
you
a fag.”

Tyler narrows his eyes at him. “Dude, they’d know you were lying,” he says, trying to sound calm. But James can hear the panic in his voice.

“But I wouldn’t be lying. You did do that, just the other day.”

Tyler tries to laugh this off, but his laugh is weak. “Dude, you’re nuts, just like your brother.”

“Maybe. But I don’t care. I just want you to leave Alex alone. Can’t you fucking do that, huh? Just leave him alone.”

Tyler shrugs and tries to laugh it off. “Whatever.”

“I’m serious, Tyler.”

“Okay, dude! I get it. Can we leave now?” he stands, his meal unfinished.

“When I finish,” James says, calmly picking up his burger again. He feels a rush, like he can do anything he wants. He knows it will fade, and he knows this hasn’t solved the world’s—or even Alex’s—problems. But it’s something.

Tyler continues to stand there, like a bratty kid. But James is going to make him wait.

When they finally leave, they are quiet the entire way. As he gets closer to Tyler’s house, James says, “You know, Tyler. I don’t hate you or anything. We still have to play doubles together. I don’t want it to be weird.”

“Okay,” Tyler says, quietly, sounding flattened and shell-shocked.

“But if you bother Alex anymore, you’ll regret it. I swear.” He could be in a movie, saying these words. He knows a lot of it is for dramatic effect, but it feels good because, at heart, he means it. And he thinks Tyler knows this.

Alex

T
he course in Anniston is in a hilly park on the outskirts of town. Luckily, the weather is nearly perfect—clear sky, light breeze, temperatures in the sixties. Alex stands with his teammates at the starting line, all of them wearing their gray shorts and red running shirts, their numbers pinned to the fronts of their shirts. He glances over and spots his father on the patch of grass that slopes down from the parking lot. So he did make it, Alex thinks, feeling a twinge of comfort and gratitude. His father spots him and waves like a goofball, holds up his thumb. He’s wearing sunglasses and talking with Mr. Blume, Jake’s dad, and Coach Runyon. Nearby are other parents from other schools, waiting and watching, shouting last-minute encouragements.

Nathen pats him on the back. “You ready?”

Alex breathes in. “Yep.” He smiles.

“Try and stick close to me for the first mile.”

“I don’t wanna hold you back,” Alex says.

“I won’t let you.” Nathen winks.

“These hills are going to be tough,” Jake says. He’s bouncing on his toes.

“No, I
love
the hills,” Joseph says. He’s tall and dark and always smiling, like all of this is just a piece of cake for him. Which, as the best runner on the team, it probably is. “You have to attack them, these hills.”

“Runners, take your places,” a big muscled guy shouts through a small megaphone.

Again Alex takes a deep breath, and before the big guy blows the whistle for them to go, he hears Pete say, “Good luck, Rookie.”

Then they’re off, the big herd of them, over a hundred boys running like dogs finally freed from their backyards. And it feels good, running in the jumble of everyone, collectively bound in the task of making it to the finish line. The run is a 5K, just over three miles. Normally that would be easy, but today Alex is a competitor, dodging other runners, negotiating hills, and trying to run as fast as possible without losing steam too early. He manages to stick by Nathen for the first mile, but then Nathen kicks it in and vanishes with the top runners, including Joseph and Jed, rounding a thicket and heading up a steep hill. Alex steals a brief glance behind him and sees plenty of runners. This spurs him on. Soon, he catches Jake and a few other guys from other schools. Jake looks over and smiles, quickly, then turns forward again to focus on the race. When they reach the crest of the hill, they are halfway done and begin circling back. Racing down the hill, he sees Nathen, chugging along, well behind the main pack of leaders, but still way ahead of the middle pack, where Alex still finds himself.

He pushes and pushes, even though it hurts, even though it feels like he’s never run this fast in his life. Some runners pass him, but then Alex passes other runners, guys who started out too quickly. As he approaches the finish line—Jake has sped on ahead, but Alex still thinks he’s in front of a few of his other teammates—he sees his father clapping his hands, shouting his name, cheering him on from the sidelines.

At the finish line there is a large digital clock set up on a pedestal, and when he passes it, the time reads 17:23. A record time for him, even with the hills. He slows his jog and starts the process of catching his breath, and before he knows it, Nathen has come up behind him. “You did it, Lex!”

Alex is still trying to catch his breath, practicing the cool-down exercises Coach taught them. He wipes his sweaty brow, then smiles. “I can’t believe it. It felt awesome,” he says.

“We’re doing well,” Nathen says. “Joseph finished second. And Jed wasn’t too far behind him.”

The two of them walk to the time-reporting table, and as they do, Pete and Jake and all the others gather around them and congratulate Alex, the Rookie.

After Alex signs the roster to report his unofficial time, he sees Coach Runyon walking toward him with his clipboard. Coach holds out his hand. “Well done, Mr. Donaldson,” he says.

“Thanks,” Alex says, smiling because the moment feels so damn good. Sure, he didn’t finish near the top, but it’s not about that for him. And then he sees his dad, walking over with Mr. Blume, holding a bottle of chilled Gatorade.

“Way to go, buddy!” he says, handing him the bottle and pulling him in for a hug, even though Alex is sweaty and gross. Alex fights the urge to break away, fights his embarrassment, because it actually feels good. His dad squeezes him tighter and, finally, Alex gives in and squeezes him back.

When they finally pull apart, Alex guzzles the Gatorade and listens to the chatter all around him. He’d want to collapse on the ground in exhaustion, if he didn’t feel so charged. Now he feels like he could run the whole course all over again.

Alex sleeps till noon on Sunday, which is very late for him. But the night before, he was exhausted—from the week of practice, from the cross-country meet itself. He had ridden home with the team in the van that Coach Runyon drove, rather than with his father, because that’s what teammates did—stuck together. On the ride back, they were rowdy and stupid and mostly jubilant because they placed second out of twelve schools. Not bad. “Last year we finished fifth,” Nathen said. By the time Coach dropped Alex off at home, it was late in the afternoon, and he was totally worn out.

But the practices and the meet and the drive home were not the only things that had exhausted him. There was also the stress of the notes that Tyler had left in his locker. His locker, once again, had become a menacing little corner of the school. This set of worries dragged him down all week, even after his talk with James. He was able to put it out of his mind when he was in Anniston, competing. But the minute they drove back into Tuscaloosa, a nervous, sinking feeling attached itself to him like a heavy animal.

This morning, lying in his bed, slowly rousing himself, he tries not to let those worries creep back in. After all, hadn’t James reassured him? Hadn’t he told him not to worry? Not to worry, in particular, about Tyler? Alex wants to believe him. He wants to believe that James can make everything okay. But after months of awkwardness between them, James’s offer of protection seems too good to be true. Besides, what can
he
do? Alex wonders. And it’s not like Alex can talk to Dr. Richardson about this. There would be too much to explain—stuff he’s not
ready
to explain. Not to an adult anyway.

Nathen is flipping out, too. Alex had debated not even telling him about the notes in the first place, but he did. He didn’t want to be alone in this.

“Holy shit,” Nathen had said as they chatted after school in Nathen’s Jeep earlier in the week. Then, after Alex told him he thought it was Tyler, Nathen said, “That little fucker.”

“What do we do?” Alex had asked.

“Let me think.” What Nathen ultimately decided was that they should play “wait and see,” to see if Tyler was just playing some prank, to see if he was trying to smoke them out.

So that is what they had done, even after the second note. And then James came into the picture, which Alex revealed to Nathen on the phone the night before they left for Anniston. He’d worried about Nathen’s reaction, but he also didn’t want to lie to him.

“You told James about us?” Nathen asked, his usual calm dissolving.

“Not exactly. I mean, not in so many words. I guess I implied it.”

“How did he react?”

“Mostly he was mad at Tyler. I don’t think he really cares. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet. Anyway, he’s on our side.”

“Okay,” Nathen says, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says.

“Don’t be sorry, Lex. You did what you had to do. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should kick Tyler’s ass.”

“Let’s just ignore him,” Alex said. “Please?”

Nathen had reluctantly agreed, but Alex knows that ignoring Tyler will be hard.

There is a knock at his door. “You awake in there?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, I’m up,” he says.

She comes in wearing her gardening attire—white shorts, a hat, and a ratty pink T-shirt. “Dad got doughnuts this morning, but we decided to let you sleep. We saved you a few.” She smiles, beaming.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m starving.”

“Well, I’m gonna be outside in the garden.”

“Okay.”

Before she leaves, she says, “Oh, I almost forgot: Henry came by for you earlier. I told him you were still sleeping. Then he came again, around eleven?” She chuckles and says, “He seemed a little agitated that you weren’t up yet. He may come by again soon, just so you know.” Then she leaves.

Alex climbs out of bed and walks to the window. He lifts a blind and peers out. And sure enough, there is Henry, walking along the curb of his yard, fidgeting and twitching his hands. The beat-up dictionary rests on the walkway, like an old friend.

Henry is still out there after Alex showers and dresses, so he goes outside. He walks across the street, and Henry stares at him without greeting.

“You sure slept a long time,” Henry says, sounding put out.

“I was tired from the meet yesterday.”

“Did you win?”

“We came in second, which is pretty good. Anyway, Mom says you came by to see me.”

Henry walks along the curb, nodding his head. “I did.”

He wants to ask, What for? But he figures that might sound rude or mean.

“Mom’s inside packing boxes.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “So you’re really moving?”

“I dunno. Maybe, maybe not. Every day she changes her mind.”

“Why move now?” Alex asks. “It’s April. Can’t she wait until the school year ends?” Isn’t that what most adults would consider? What most
normal
adults would consider?

Henry stops his curb walking and turns and looks at Alex. Then he looks down at his feet. “She’s mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked her something that made her mad.”

“What?”

“I asked her if that man was my father.”

Alex knows right away that he is talking about Jack Pembroke. What other man could there be? Alex hasn’t seen any boyfriends in weeks, maybe months. Still, he plays dumb. “What man?”

“That old man. Mr. Pembroke,” Henry says. “He’s always over here. They’re always whispering and looking at me funny. She thinks I’m stupid. Just because I’m ten, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Maybe he’s just a friend.” But do grown women have grown men as friends? It doesn’t seem likely or possible.

Henry starts to pace again. “I didn’t mean to snoop in Mom’s desk. I just needed a pencil, because mine broke and I forgot my pencil sharpener at school and I had math to do. And I found this folder under some other papers. It had all these things cut out from the newspaper. Stories about Mr. Pembroke. Even a wedding announcement for Mr. Pembroke’s son, from ten years ago.”

Alex continues to listen, because he is stunned. Of course, he and James had thought the exact thing. But he can’t believe Henry has figured it out. Henry seems older now, not like a kid.

“Then I kept looking at Mr. Pembroke’s picture, and he kind of looks like me. I mean, I kind of look like him.”

Alex has no idea if this is true, because right now he can’t get a good grasp of what Mr. Pembroke looks like, besides the dark gray hair on his balding head and the ruddy face. “So you asked your mom?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“She got mad and started crying, telling me what she’d always said, that my father was gone.” Henry’s voice sounds like a kid’s again, full of resentment and hurt. “She said I was stupid for asking such a question.”

“Henry, I’m sorry. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

“She asked me why I always want to ruin everything,” Henry says before he sits down on the curb and grabs his dictionary.

Alex wants to do something for Henry, wants to help him, comfort him. But all he can think to offer is his company. “You can come over to my house,” Alex says. “You want to? We can swing and stuff. Watch TV. Look up new words. We have doughnuts.”

“I guess so.” Henry stares up at him now, his expression a look of blank resignation. But Alex recognizes the sadness underneath it. Sadness about his mother, about whoever his father is. And he knows that Henry doesn’t want to go away again. He knows that even though Tuscaloosa isn’t the paradise or new start that Henry may have hoped for, he is tired of being unsettled.

Since the day is nice, they end up on the swings in the backyard, after gorging on the remaining doughnuts. Dad is in his workshop off the garage, banging his tools around. James is in his room, with the stereo blasting, doing who knows what; they haven’t really chatted since he got back from Anniston—not about Nathen, not about Tyler.

Mom, meanwhile, is still in the garden at the back of the yard, and when she spots them she waves.

“Your mom is nice,” Henry says.

“Yeah, she is,” Alex says. “But sometimes she can get in bad moods and stuff. Everyone does.”

They swing for a bit, the spring air rushing and retracting against their faces. It feels good to float like this, his legs sticking out.

“I always had a picture of my father in my head,” Henry says. “I never told my mom that. But I thought about him, about what he looked like and stuff. He was tall and had blond hair, and brown eyes, just like mine. He was real handsome and a good athlete, and he’d show me how to play sports and stuff. I mean, I don’t really like sports. I’m no good at them. But I thought if my father could show me how, then I’d be good.”