Friday, July 15, 1994

Friday, July 15, 1994

10:08 a.m.

After his brother died, Russ thought the house would feel bigger. There was, after all, one fewer person inside, ceding more space to the others. Instead, the whole place seemed to shrink. The ceilings felt lower, the walls closer together. Russ found himself ducking when he passed through doorways, even though there was no need.

It took him awhile to realize what had happened. Johnny's presence was so huge in their lives that the house had expanded to accommodate it. Now that he is gone, it has reverted back to its intended form—a house of small people.

And Russ is the smallest of them all.

The only part of the house that still feels normal-sized is Johnny's old bedroom, which Russ assumes is because his brother's presence can still be felt there. Nothing about the room has changed in the year since his death. The same posters hang on the walls and the same academic trophies crowd the dresser. First place in the science fair six years running. Math bowl champ. Spelling bee champ. Quiz bowl champ.

Russ eyes them all as he quietly closes the door behind him and tiptoes across the room to the window overlooking the backyard. He's not supposed to be in here. His mother's orders. Ever since Johnny died, she's treated his bedroom like a shrine, and if Russ is caught up here, the punishment will surely be swift. It always is. Double the chores tomorrow. Maybe no TV for the night. Certainly no playing his SEGA.

But right now, Russ's mother is working in the flower bed that's become her pride and joy. He sees her from the window, elbow-deep in dirt, a floppy sun hat on her head. Now that she's returned from gossiping with the other wives of Hemlock Circle, she'll be gardening for the rest of the morning, giving him plenty of time to sit in his brother's room and inhabit the space the same way he imagines Johnny did when he was alive.

Russ first snuck into his brother's room a few days after Johnny's funeral, when his father had returned to work and his mother was still too grief-stricken to pay him much mind. Left to his own devices, Russ slipped inside, closed the door, and lay down on the bed, pressing his weight into the mattress and bringing the pillow to his face, searching for a hint of Johnny's scent. When Russ detected it—a small whiff of sweat and Calvin Klein cologne—it felt like his heart had been cracked wide open.

A year later, the heartbreak is less acute. A small ache instead of full-blown pain. Russ feels twinges of sadness as he roots through his brother's belongings. Clothes and books and CDs that had been tossed into dresser drawers, discarded in the closet, kicked under the bed. He's searching not for reminders of Johnny but for things that might show him how to take his place.

If he can do that—fill the Johnny-shaped hole in their lives—then maybe the house will start to feel its normal size again and the people inside it will return to their old selves.

Russ shoots another envious glance at the scholastic trophies Johnny accrued over the years, knowing he'll never come close to winning something similar. He's an average student, whereas his brother was a genius. But Russ knows he can emulate Johnny in other ways. His tallness. His confidence. His presence in the neighborhood. Everyone on Hemlock Circle knew and liked Johnny, coming out to say hello when they saw him roaming the cul-de-sac with Ragesh Patel, his best friend and next-door neighbor. Now that's something Russ can achieve. Not with Ragesh, who's older and, honestly, got meaner after Johnny died. But it might be possible with Ethan Marsh, their neighbor on the other side, although Russ has had little luck in the past. Although they've grown up next door to each other, Ethan seems indifferent at best, annoyed at worst.

"Why doesn't Ethan like me?" he once said to his mother. A mistake, it turns out, because her response was brutal in its honesty.

"He does like you," she said, adding after a pause, "But he'd like you more if you didn't get so angry all the time."

Russ hated that his mother made a good point, and reacted accordingly by proving her right. "I don't get angry!" he shouted before storming upstairs to his room and slamming the door behind him.

Thinking about it now fills him with shame and, yes, anger. Although Johnny was the smart one in the family, Russ isn't stupid. He knows what the other kids say about him behind his back. How quick he is to anger. How easy it is to get him upset. Wuss, they call him. Now that's stupid. "Russ" and "wuss" don't even rhyme.

What those kids don't understand is that Russ can't help it. There are always so many thoughts rolling through his brain that he gets overwhelmed and melts down. He imagines them as marbles, cracking into each other and careening off the inside of his skull. A near-constant stream of motion and color and distractions.

He knows it's a problem because his parents told him so. "Too many thoughts," his mother said, tapping her head. "Bad to have so many."

Russ cringes as he remembers that moment, just like he cringed when it happened. He wonders, not for the first time, if his mother can hear herself. If she knows just how stupid she sounds, with her clipped English and accent so pronounced that other kids at school make fun of it when they think he isn't around. One time, it made him so angry that he punched the wall in the boys' bathroom until his knuckles split open. When his mother picked him up from school, saw his bandaged hand, and demanded to know what happened, he lashed out at her rather than admit other kids were mocking her.

"Why can't you just sound normal?" he yelled.

"I do sound normal," his mother insisted.

But he also knows it's easier to blame his mother than to admit the truth: He does have mood swings and anger issues. He doesn't like that he gets so mad so often. He tries not to let it happen. But with all those thought marbles swirling through his head, there are bound to be violent collisions.

The only solution he can think of is to continue to try to be more like his brother. The good parts. The Johnny who never got angry. The Johnny who was kind and confident and smart. As for the other aspects of his brother's personality—addict, secret keeper, control freak spinning out of control—well, Russ doesn't want to think about those. He certainly doesn't plan on emulating them.

Having completed his search under Johnny's bed and finding nothing that would teach him how to be more like his brother, Russ takes a peek between the mattress and the box spring. He doesn't expect to find anything. He only looks because Petey Bradbury at school once said it's where his brother keeps girlie magazines.

Running his hand under the mattress, Russ is surprised to discover there is something there. Magazines, yes, but not the kind he was expecting. These have names like Muscle Fitness and Men's Health, and on the covers are men with gleaming pecs and sculpted torsos. Most of them are white. None are Chinese. But all of them are huge.

After a quick glance outside to make sure his mother is still in the garden, Russ smuggles the magazines from Johnny's room into his own. Although he's convinced their existence says something about his brother's life, he's unable to understand what that something is. Maybe Johnny, tired of being admired only for his smarts, had wanted to become more athletic. And maybe that's something Russ should aspire to as well.

Safe in his room, he flips through the magazines, spotting not just pictures but articles on proper diet, protein intake, the correct way to do a squat, the amount of weight required to make biceps bulge. Overwhelmed yet intrigued, Russ starts with the article that seems to be the most basic—a tutorial on the best way to do a push-up.

With the magazine spread open on the floor in front of him so he can follow along, Russ gets into position. Arms stiff. Legs straight. Back and torso rigid. He lowers himself to the floor, pauses, then pushes upward, arms straining.

One.

Five.

Ten.

When he's done, Russ feels exhausted but also oddly satisfied. The burning ache in his arms fills him with a sense of accomplishment he rarely experiences. Which is why he does another set, even though he's out of breath and his arms feel like wet noodles.

One.

Five.

Ten.

Russ collapses on the floor, the magazine sticking to his sweat-slicked cheek. He's breathing even harder now and mildly worried his arms might fall off from strain. Yet he feels good. No, he feels better than that. He feels strong. He feels confident.

Maybe this is the feeling Johnny was looking for when he took the pills that ultimately killed him. And maybe it's what Russ has been seeking all this time. Not a way to replace Johnny, but a means by which he can become his own person.

Russ peels the magazine off his face and starts another set.

One.

He knows what he'll do when he's done.

Five.

He'll go outside, ask Ethan to play, will him into becoming his friend.

Ten.

Then his anger will fade, he'll continue to get bigger, his mother will start to see him as more than just an inferior version of the son she lost.

And everything—his house, his life, his family—will feel normal again.