Chapter 6

Six

Josh

T he next morning, I hear a truck rev before I open my eyes. When I drag my ass downstairs, already bracing for an encounter with my step-dick, Mom tells me someone picked him up for practice.

I frown at the oven clock. "Wow. It’s only eight."

She laughs. "I know, right? Coach wants them playing till midday, and not again until five."

Makes sense. It gets fucking hot here in the summer. People die and stuff from getting overheated.

I can feel Mom watching me as I pour cereal and the lactose-free milk she buys for Carl.

"Well, how was it?" she asks. "How was last night?"

She sounds bubbly.

"What did he say?" I ask as I walk over to the breakfast table.

"He stopped to talk to us as he came in," she says, smiling as I pull out a chair for myself. "He said it went wonderfully. Everyone was nice and welcoming. He said he saw you there, that you offered to lead the way home but he had so much fun, he wanted to stay."

I nod. "He was having fun."

Mom ruffles my hair, and she steps over to the sink to water all the flowers in the window sill beside it as she asks about my plans for today.

"I've got soccer from ten till noon,” I tell her. “Then an hour in the band room."

"Oh, I forgot that starts today, too. Too bad you boys can't ride together."

"Yeah," I say, in a tone I hope is neutral.

"So what do you think? Do you like him?"

I shovel more cereal into my mouth so I don’t have to look at her. I nod as I chew and swallow. "Yeah, for sure."

"Yeah?" When I look back up, Mom’s eyes are narrowed.

"He's cool. Don't know him that well yet, but he seems cool."I cross myself with a fingertip under the table.

"Good.” She lets out a breath. “Carl is so worried."

My heart skips a beat. "Why's he worried?"

She makes a face like there’s a lot more to the story, but instead of telling me anything, she just says, “Oh, I think he’s just…hoping Ezra will do well here.”

"You just think ? You don’t know why?” Now that she’s started, I want to hear everything there is. I’m tired of that fucker having a leg up. And anyway, it’s clear that something must have happened back in Richmond. “Must not have gone well back with his mom, because he had been going to a fancy private school, right? And he was the star quarterback, with college scouts and all that?”

Mom gives a small nod, wiping at a spot where one of the succulents has overflowed its pot.

“I guess something must have happened. Who moves for their senior year?” I say. “And why? Was it his mom’s divorce? I heard you and Carl talking about that…how she divorced or something.”

"Well, that's not our business,” Mom says, giving me a tight smile. “We just want him to be happy."She smiles again, this time more genuinely. "Thank you for being so kind to him."

I trudge back up the stairs, trying not to feel guilty for being...not that. Family problems or not, Ezra is definitely no angel.I’ve done nothing but try with him. Maybe the best thing I can do for now is just avoid the guy.

Ezra

Never know what to make of guys like DG. Dude’s a goodie two shoes, as my mother’s second husband used to like to say. That guy was old as hell; I think the term “goodie two shoes” is from the fifties or the sixties. Maybe the bad kids only had one shoe? Who the fuck knows. But yeah, Miller seems, outwardly, like a good egg.

He’s got a temper hidden just under his clean-cut surface, but it seems to mostly only flare up when he’s near me. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but already I feel like I understand who’s who and what’s what in Fairplay. So I know he’s part of the “in” crowd. For one, he’s lived here forever. In a place like this, that matters. Got that local street cred.

People think he's a nice guy. Not just adults like Coach Nix, but the other students, too. When they hear that I’m his stepbrother, they nod like okay, well that's good . People talk about how he's great at soccer. And he's in the band. So all-a-fucking-merican, this guy.

What no one talks about is if he's gay.

Not that I care. It’s not relevant. In fact, none of this shit really matters. It’s all temporary. I’ll be here until I’m not, and while I am here, I’m not looking to make connections.

One thing I hate about DG is he won't actually be an asshole to me. Not anymore. It’s all shuffling feet and averted gazes when I see him on the stairs or in the kitchen. The other night, our parents forced a movie night and we all watched this Japanese film called Spirited Away . It was all fantastical and shit. The premise of it...let's just say I wasn't a fan. I spent half the time watching DG as he watched it. Seeing him get all wide-eyed, like an animated film is some kind of real adventure. Then when shit went sideways, he'd look genuinely shocked—near devastated, as if he'd never seen a cartoon character suffer before.At one point, his mom laughed and asked if he was okay and he said, "Yeah." But he made a funny face, and she told me, "Josh is a little...sensitive."

"I am not," he snapped.

But I guess she's right. He's sensitive, but somehow volatile, too. His feelings are like strings. Just a little pull, and the whole damn marionette moves. It's strangely satisfying.

That's why I'm out here on the roof at 1:30 in the morning. I plant myself right by his window, reach over to crack the thing open—looks like Aristotle doesn't keep it locked—and light a cigarette.

Truth is, I don't even want it, but I don't want to sleep yet. I can push myself till around 2 and still get up at 7 ready to play. Any later, and I'm fucked, and I get hit too much, and Coach Nix gets impatient. The other day, after a night I hardly got a wink of sleep, he asked how much I want to start, as if his ass didn't promise to re-organize the team for me, to let me help with strategy and all that shit.

I kept my head down, though, and took it. That's the way it's gotta be, at least in high school. Probably in college, too. Whatever the coaches say, you do it. They say jump, you ask how high.

Does it matter that I hate that shit? That taking orders makes my skin crawl?

I take a long drag on the cigarette and hope it doesn't get out that I'm smoking. High schools draw up all these little contracts, acting like they'll really bench us if we violate the rules. Mine says I won't smoke or drink or use illegal drugs. Wouldn't want to hurt the coaches' trust in me or "disadvantage teammates."

I blow some smoke into his window, draw my knees up while I wait for sleeping beau to appear.

If I look down at the roof’s dark shingles, I can zone out for a little while. I've got all kinds of shit in my room. Took some of Dr. Katz’s cocktail before I came out here. That shit stops your dreaming—especially if you take all three of the meds—which is the only reason I haven't flushed them, along with the rest of my stockpile. That and the fish. I heard flushing that shit can send it to the ocean, where it poisons fish. Doesn't seem good.

Just a few more drags and puffs, and I can hear his footsteps.

I hear his "What the fuck" like it's a mile away, which is how I know the Lamictal is starting to hit. Haven't used it in a while, but tonight—

"I know you heard me. What the fuck?" he says, now closer. "Are you blowing this shit into my room?"

For some reason, it's super funny. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, which sort of blink and wink down at me. I inhale the smoke and let it do its thing. And then I lift my heavy head and blow it toward jackass here.

"DG," I murmur, correcting myself.I turn my head to see him climbing out the window."What the fuck yourself?"I ask.

He's too close, too fast. He looks massive standing over me. His eyebrows draw together, and he sniffs the air. "Are you drunk, Masters?"

"No." I blow more smoke toward him, and he coughs.

"That shit is toxic, man,” he bitches. “You can feel the chemicals draining your life force."

I get a good laugh from that. "Ahh, a pity."

"Not a lover of life, Masters?"

"Please don't call me that."

I feel his eyes on me as I sit up and rest an arm on my raised knee. "Nothing special, DG. Just don't like it."

"What do you like?"

"I have a name," I point out.

"Yeah, but I'm not calling you that. All the football guys say Masters," he starts.

"Poor Mills. You wanna be a football guy?" I mock him.

"I can't play." He says it simply.

The words trickle through my extra slow brain. "Why?" I ask. But he's already speaking at the same time. "Ezra's just...it's unapproachable and...I don't know. Like, cold."

This guy is all about the laughs. I end up grinning at him, sort of high and really digging how damn cute he is—the slightly curly, dark brown hair with his blue eyes. He's got little dimples, and those freckles I noticed the first day we met.

"Unapproachable and cold," I say, giving a shake of my head.

"I mean, it does suit you,” he says, “but Masters is better. Maybe I'll go with NF."

"NF. What the shit does that mean?"

"New fucker."

I smile. "The new fucker. I'll take it."

"It's down to that or Ezzie. Bet your mom calls you Ezzie."

I inhale deeply, trying to keep my face neutral as I blow it quietly out. "Nah. She uses my middle name."

"What is it?"He asks.

"Who's asking?"

Mills laughs. "I am."

"I'm not telling you."

"What's wrong with me?"

My gaze moves to his face, where a soft smile tells me he's teasing."What's not," I toss back.

"Owww." He grabs his chest like I just stabbed him."Ezra it is."

I chuckle at that.

“I’ve seen your school papers on the counter,” he says. “So I know your mom calls you Christopher."

"She does.”

“Why that over your actual first name?”

I shrug, which makes the roof tilt. "Who the fuck knows."

"Sounds more like a kid name,” he says.

I take a drag of the cigarette. "Maybe that’s why."

"You get along?" DG asks.

"Did someone tell you we don't?"My heart pounds a little offbeat.

"No, I was just wondering. Since you moved and stuff."

"Just normal shit." It's all I can come up with.

"So that's a...sort of?" he asks.

"You always so fucking nosey?"

"Is this nosey?" Mills asks. He's got both of his knees pulled up to his chest. He's looking off into the night, over the lawn that rolls out, dark, behind two big trees.

"You look like a fucking sentry right now,” I say.

"What?" He smiles, looking puzzled. Then he stretches his long legs out. "No I don't."

I check out his sleep pants. "Fan of plaid, huh?"

“My mom likes plaid. She thinks it's masculine or something. I remember she told me that one time. She got me all these plaid night pants from Old Navy or somewhere. Wait, you have some, too. Did you see them in your dresser?”

"Not a plaid guy,” I say.

"Oh. Okay."

I blow another puff of smoke out, this time away from Miller.

"When did you start that?" he asks.

My throat lumps up so I can't talk. I can't even swallow. Slowly, I blow my breath out. Drag another one into my lungs. "Recently," I manage.

I can feel the pills keeping my chest from tightening. I feel heavy, like there's something pressing on me—in a good way. I lie back again and shut my eyes so I can give into the feeling.

"My bud Brennan said you want to play for the pros,”Miller remake.

That’s right. I remember Brennan, one of the wide receivers, is a good friend of the Do Gooder here.

"NFL," I tell him.

"And you're good enough."

He's not asking. I guess he's heard or something. "My arm." I crack my eyes open and take the last drag of the cigarette. I lift my hand and wave it slightly.

"You mean your arm is good enough," Miller clarifies.

I shut my eyes and stub the butt out. "Yes."

"It's attached to you . Not sure if you were aware."

I smile before I tell my lips to stop, and when I peek my eyes open, I see him smiling too.

Josh

The guy's high or drunk. There's a dozen ways I can tell, but the weirdest one is how his hand—the left one, resting palm up on the shingles as he lies sprawled on his back—keeps on twitching. It's almost seizure-like, which makes my stomach flip until I tell myself of course it isn't.

Ezra is high. I'm sure it must be that. Despite all this NFL potential I've heard about, he's clearly not concerned with what he puts into his body.My face flushes at the wording of my own thought, going places it shouldn't.

He's been here a little shy of two weeks, and school starts in about one more. He spends every day practicing, and sometimes in the evenings he goes out with Marcel or Thomas. He's been at a party where I was one other time after that first time; I barely saw him, but I heard he was guzzling beer from a funnel.

His fingers twitch again, and he says, "Yeah. I'm not an arm though. Better to remember that."

Oh, I get it. He doesn't want to see himself as just a football talent."That makes sense. I guess it is better not to base your life on only one thing."I look down at him. His eyes are closed. He's so still that he seems asleep.I see his hand flex, so I know he isn't.

Are you okay? It's right there on the tip of my tongue. I can't ask, though. I sit there by him for what feels like an hour—as a warm breeze ruffles my hair, and his; as the muggy air makes my palms feel sticky. I'm not sure if he's awake. His chest rises and falls slowly, like maybe he isn't.

I didn't bring my phone out, or even plan to come out, so I'm not sure how late it is. The moment feels outside of time. I can't keep my eyes from moving over his long body. If I let my eyes feast on him, I could see the bulge in his gray sweatpants. He's wearing a long-sleeved, dark T-shirt with a pocket, and a surfboard on it. I can see his pecs, the outline of them. I can see a swatch of skin—the “V” at his hipbone—between the shirt's hemline and the draw-string top of his pants.He's got the shirt's sleeves pushed partway up. I look at his arm. It's the left one, lying palm-up by me. He's got thick, curved forearms and big, if slim, hands. That's a QB prerequisite, I'm sure.

I'm a sucker for a guy's hands. No one even knows, but I love the squared angles, the thick bones and wide-planed palms. One day, I'll hold a man's hand as we walk down a sidewalk. It won't be in Alabama.

I think of dragging a fingertip down the inside of his forearm. It would be soft. He has a tan from practice in the sun, but everyone's arms are pale on the inside. I could trace the veins I see.

I look at his face just for a second, wondering about him. I've been avoiding him as much as I can. I don't want to be a dick, but he's one, so I can't not. At least that was true until tonight.

Nothing happened tonight, Miller. He's passed out, and you're just staring at him like a freak.

Still, I can't seem to pull my eyes away from him. The roof is slanted. Not much, but a little. If I go inside, he might roll off, or step on that weak spot. I'm pretty sure that he's asleep now. I sit beside him, feeling warm and strange and like there's an anchor someone just dropped down in my chest.

I want to touch him. I want to brush his hair off his forehead and fold my palm around his cheek, and after that, I want to lie beside him on the slanted roof and pull him up against me.

Why?

Because I just...feel like he needs it.

Why?

There's something about him.Something that seems almost fragile.

Or maybe you just want there to be.

Either way, I'm fucked in the head. I let myself be fucked for another half an hour before I shake his shoulder.

"Ezra?" I whisper. His name is foreign fruit—a taste I've never known but want to.

His eyes open, and he frowns as he squints up at the sky.

"Don't move," I whisper, finally allowing my fingers to touch down on his arm. "We're on the roof. I think you fell asleep."

He smiles like that's crazy. Then his eyes find my face and he pushes up on one elbow. He frowns, and everything about him ices over .

"We're still out here?"he asks gruffly.

"You fell asleep."

"Fuck." He doesn't even look my way as he gets on his hands and knees and then he rises, crouching like a werewolf on its hind legs.

When he reaches his window, he grips the sill and glances over at me.He gives me a slow blink, and then I swear, his mouth curves downward in a frown. He says “goodnight” like he’s distracted, in a monotone.

And then he’s gone.