The Boy Most Likely To

  “Well, it isn’t rational.”

  Her tone is mad huffy. Why? What’d I miss?

  “All this emotion over cereal? What do you care what I eat?”

  “You’re all thin and pale, Tim. You look like you’re not sleeping. People worry about you.” She lobs her droopy, too-big purse back over her shoulder. “I should get going. I’m on babysitting call tonight.”

  I move between her and the door before I can think. “Okay, Alice. I’ll grant that worrying people has always been a talent of mine. But my family’s pretty much given up. You’re the one who came all the way over here to save my ankles and so on. Are we talking worrying people . . . or are we talking worrying you?” The words rush out, hover in the air. I’m noticing again how little Alice is, aside from those curves, barely coming up to my shoulders. Five two? Five four?

  She yanks her purse onto her shoulder again, looks down. Her cheeks go pink.

  “Well?” I ask, because I’ve pushed it this far already.

  One finger after another, she ticks things off. “You’re my little brother’s best friend. Though sometimes I have no idea how or why he puts up with you. You’re a minor. You’re a potential, if not an ongoing, disaster. You—” Then she sighs, shuts her eyes. “Listen, I have a long day tomorrow. Three classes, a clinical. When I get through it”—her voice drops to a low mutter, like even she doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying—“could we just meet for dinner? Like a . . . sample date?”

  This goes through me like an electric shock.

  A date.

  With Alice Garrett?

  Wait.

  A sample date?

  “What would we be sampling?”

  She looks like she might laugh. Doesn’t. “Not that. I don’t do hookups.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I never thought that for a second.”

  She gives my shoulder a shove. “Of course not.”

  “Okay. But it was like a millisecond, a nanosecond. Then I remembered how much I respected you and that I would never—”

  Alice puts her hand, her fingertips, over my mouth. “Tim. Stop talking now.”

  I snap my mouth shut.

  “We’d be sampling dinner.”

  Then I remember a certain two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boyfriend. Who apparently already hates my ass. “Wait. Is this a setup? Are you trying to get my ass kicked by ol’ Brad?”

  She shakes her head quickly, pulling her hand away from my face and burying it in the pocket of her scrubs. Her purse strap falls down again. My hand goes to slip it back up, but then no, I shove it back in my pocket.

  Alice hesitates for a second, then: “This has nothing to do with Brad. He wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

  “Then he’s even more of a putz than I thought. Hard to believe.”

  Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “It’s not like that.”

  It’s not? Okay. So that makes me . . .

  Dinner.

  “Meet me at Gary’s Grill in Barnet. Six thirty. Tomorrow night.”

  Barnet is three towns away. Apparently Alice isn’t prepared to be seen in the immediate vicinity with her underage, recovering alcoholic sample date.

  I say I’ll meet her there. She nods, gives me a subdued version of her sexy, crooked smile, then her lips brush my cheek. That Hawaii smell. Oh, Alice.

  “See you then.”

  I nod, speechless, and shy-Alice morphs back into take-charge-Alice, jabbing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare be late. I hate it when guys pull that, like my time doesn’t matter. Like they’re all casual and time is a relative thing while I’m sitting there with the waiter pitying me.”

  “Should we synchronize our watches?”

  “Just don’t let me down.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  TIM

  Waiting out in front of Hodges, school number one of my three, is bizarre. I’ve been back for Nan’s this-or-that achievement awards, but my neck still starts to itch as I stand there, like I’m stuck in the old uniform, gray flannel pants and stiff white shirt.

  Here to pick up Samantha, offered to walk with her to the condo she and her mom moved into a week ago—ol’ Gracie’s brilliant plan to get her away from Jase and the Garretts next door, by relocating across town. Out of sight, etc.

  She comes out of the big-ass oak doors, down the steps with the stone lions, spots me, waves, then halfway down the path, gets called over by this cluster of girls. They’re laughing and gesturing, and in their matching outfits, long straight hair, prep-clean looks, Hodges could slap ’em right on the cover of the school catalog.

  Sam’s not like that, but she blends.

  Then I see something else. My sister, walking with her head down, rooting through her bag like she’ll find the Ark of the Covenant in there. She’s so preoccupied, I think she’s gonna crash right into the girls, but she makes a wide, careful path around them. So I get it. She sees them, but doesn’t want them to see her.

  Sam does, though, raises one hand, hello. But Nan keeps walking, rummaging away, because that treasure in her bag must and shall be found.

  She’s not short, Nan, five seven or so, but from here she looks it.

  Text her: You okay?

  I think she’s gonna look around and spot me, propped against the magnolia tree only a few yards from the brick pathway, but she doesn’t.

  Nan: Why wouldn’t I be?

  Chew my lip, try to figure out whether to say I’m right here or not. Nan would be . . . not happy with the Sam pickup—I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

  I settle for: Just checking in.

  Nan: That’s out of character.

  She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

  Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

  Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

  Me: Ha.

  Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

  Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

  As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my time before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Tim? The apocalypse, much?”

  Her tone is light, but the look she shoots me isn’t.

  “The apocalypse? Come on. I ask for stuff.”

  “Tim, I’ve known you since we were five. Cash, yes. Excuses, totally. But not this.”

  “Well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

  I haul her bag off her shoulder onto my own, hunting around for Nan, but she’s blended somewhere into the girl herd.

  We walk. “It’s left up here.” Sam points to the road up the hill, the summit of Stony Bay, fanciest, richest part of town. “So, this is an actual date you’re going on.”

  “Just—just something I’d rather not screw up. So—hit me with your best. Like, for starters, what the hell do I even wear?”

  Samantha grins.

  “Don’t,” I say. “I know exactly how lame I sound.”

  “Start by passing the sniff test,” she says, smelling the air exaggeratedly, like some crazy bloodhound or whatever. “Which that shirt doesn’t, by the way. And”—she smacks me on the shoulder—“if she’s older than you, like you said, no shirts with school insignias. No point in rubbing it in that she’s a cougar.”

  “She’s not a cougar. Jesus God.”

  We’re a little over one year apart, me and Alice. It’s nothing.

  Samantha studies me for a sec, then continues lightly. “Shower. Take her someplace low-key. Listen when she talks. Ask questions but only if you actually care about the answers. Don’t keep trying to interrupt with stories about the last time you got drunk.”

  “Believe me, I?
??m not gonna touch that.”

  Besides, Alice has been there. I puked all over her and she took off her shirt, calm as moon-low tide, owning this black lace bra with this tiny red ribbon and . . . it’s the one thing I remember perfectly about that night.

  “You’d be surprised at how many guys do.”

  Samantha’s shoulders stoop a little as we hit a bend in the road, cut off by huge black iron gates, tacked all over with signs: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO TRESPASSING, you are not welcome here. “Here we go, home sweet home as of last week. The code is 1776.”

  “Sorry, kid. Should have given you a housewarming present. A casserole, at least.”

  “Believe me, nothing could warm this place up. The condo makes our old house look festive. We’re right up by the clubhouse.” She gestures to this low building with a Swiss-chalet-looking roof, surrounded by a golf course spattered with dudes in pastel, knocking away at tiny white balls. It all looks like a retirement village.

  “Wow,” I say. I got nothin’ else.

  “I know.” Samantha shakes her head. “I haven’t even let Jase see it yet. I mean, did you notice the streets? General Dwight D. Eisenhower Drive, Lady of the Lake Lane, Pettipaug Peak? The names aren’t even consistent! And check out the houses. You could walk into the wrong one and suddenly find yourself living someone else’s life.” She waves her hand at row after row of identical houses.

  “What time do all the handsome husbands pop out of their doors with their matching briefcases?”

  “Leaving their blond wives to take their Valium, at the same second, elbows bent just so? Not sure. We’ve only been here a week. Give me time. It’s over here, Wolverine Wood Road.”

  I squint. “Are there any actual woods? Or wolverines?” The landscape is green and grassy and flat, except for an unnatural-looking lake.

  “Right? No, they took down all the trees to build this. I’ll keep you posted on the wolverines. We’re here.” She points past a narrow row of hedges. “By the statue of the nonspecified Revolutionary War soldier.”

  “Do I need to lay a wreath?” I ask as we head past the scarily smiling iron statue. “Or salute?”

  “Why couldn’t we have stayed put?” She sighs.

  Samantha knows the obvious answer to that, so all I say is, “Cheer up, kid. College next year.”

  Gracie, Sam’s mom, is out on the porch of Clairemont Cottage, planting some brassy orange flowers in big stone urns. She jolts to her knees when we turn the corner, trowel in hand, then, seeing it’s me with Sam, beams, waves, settles back down on her heels again. For reasons known only to her and God, Grace persists in thinking Jase is the delinquent and I’m the upstanding citizen.

  Samantha studies me for a sec, then says, “One more thing. The most important. On this date? Just be, you know, smart and funny and sweet. Like you are.”

  “Pretty sure that’s not actually me.”

  “It is.” She flips her hair out of its braid, sliding her fingers through to shake it out. “If she’s going on a date with you, she probably thinks so too. Do I know her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tim, c’mon.”

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a”—I have no idea what it is—“thing.”

  Not buying it. All over her face.

  But Samantha smiles, tugs her bag off my shoulder, puts her hand in its place. “Two more things, actually—but they’re crucial. Don’t wear that stupid Axe stuff clueless guys think is sexy. It reeks of desperation.”

  I fake-scribble on an imaginary pad. “Noted.”

  “And don’t let her break your heart, okay?”

  “Sammy-Sam, I think that’s already a given.”

  ALICE

  “I get to ride on the feet!” George squeals.

  “Bro. You can’t ride on the wheelchair feet. I’d lose my job,” Brad says, maneuvering Dad out of the hospital room, skillful and grounded in his transporter role. We’re a parade to help move Dad to the rehab part of Maplewood. Joel’s got the duffel full of the clothes we brought so Dad would feel semi-normal. Mom’s arms are bundled full of his books. Andy’s carrying a stack of artwork the little guys made, carefully detached from the Scotch tape on the wall. Duff has the Xbox and the video games. Harry, the old deck of cards, the pick-up sticks, the dominoes, the old-fashioned games we rediscovered to make time pass.

  I have all the paperwork, most of which my parents don’t know about.

  It would be Brad they sent to do the transfer, of all the ’porters in all of Maplewood Memorial. He’s ignoring me. I’m ignoring him. This is fun. At least he’s been decent to the kids, even though George keeps giving him sidelong glances, no doubt worried the tears will start again.

  I check my watch—plenty of time to do what I need to do, get home, and get ready to go out with Tim, as long as this all goes quickly.

  Two and a half hours later—twice as long as it was supposed to take—Dad’s in his room, everything (more or less) sorted out.

  Mom leaves with the kids, Joel heads to cop class, I linger. Sticking the pictures up on the wall, stacking the games in piles, making the bare room a little like home. Dad shut his eyes the instant they all left, “just for a moment.” But he immediately dropped off to sleep.

  I sit down on the side of the bed. Really, I want to lie down too, put my head on his shoulder. I was up late last night studying, and George had a wake-up-screaming nightmare, something about a supervolcano under Yellowstone Park. After I convinced him it was absolutely nothing to worry about and he finally fell asleep in my lap and I carried him back to bed, I googled it.

  There is one.

  Looking at my father’s face, worry lines smoothed out, faint smile, his big hands brown against the white hospital sheet, air siphons out of my lungs for an instant. Black spots collect at the corners of my vision.

  Deep breath.

  Deep breath.

  The spots scatter and fade.

  On to the next thing, because what else can I do?

  I brought a change of clothes for tonight along with me, just in case.

  I mean, I’m not dressing up. Not for Tim, for God’s sake. But, I’ve been wearing this black V-neck and skirt all day long, and Harry squeezed his juice box too hard and—

  Anyway.

  I shower in the bathroom off Dad’s new room, crowded in by the walker, the quad cane, and the commode chair. Tiny hospital-issue soap and body wash and shampoo, because I forgot to bring my own. Hospital towels are rough and tiny, it takes two to dry off, and still my dark blue sundress clings in a few wet patches. No blow dryer, so my hair will dry curly. So be it. When I look in the mirror, I recognize myself again.

  There’s a sharp sound from the other room, like air through teeth.

  Sweat stands out on his forehead, and his face is chalky white.

  “Dad?”

  “Al,” Dad says gently, “come back a little later, okay?”

  “Not happening. What do you need?”

  My hand is poised over the call button. He sets his on top of it. “They’ll only dope me up. Not what I want.”

  Dad shifts in the bed with a crackle of plastic hospital mattress pad. He sucks his breath in hard, again blows it out. My own breath snags.

  “Scale of one to ten,” I say, groping to find the professional in me.

  “I’m not your patient, tiger,” Dad says. “Luckily for both of us.”

  Without warning, my eyes fill. I don’t cry. I never cry.

  Which Dad knows. His hand shoots out, squeezes my shoulder. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know that.” Now he’s batting at the box of tissues at the side of his bed, which is slightly out of reach, and something about that, my dad, who can do anything, who can fix everything—

  “You look gorgeous, Alice,” Dad says. “Hot date?”

  “Just a thing,” I say, my face going hot.

  He studies me, saying nothing, waiting for information to come to him. Mom and Dad have that one down to an art. r />
  “How’s Tim these days?”

  These two questions are not connected. He’s making conversation. Distracting me from calling the nurse and another debate about pain medication. “How Mom and Dad Met” is a family fairy tale—Mom’s told us the story so often, we can all fill in words when she pauses. But there’s a part she leaves out when we’re younger . . . that charming, perceptive Jack Garrett had a dark side back then. He was, as he tells it, “mad at the whole live world” because his mother had died the year before, and his little sister and brother, my aunt Caroline and my uncle Jason, had stayed behind in Virginia with their grandparents, while his father had taken my father, alone, since he was sixteen and old enough to bring in a paycheck, up to Connecticut. Dad had a drinking problem, which got worse until his twenties, when he realized he could go that route, or have a life with Mom, and turned his around.

  I have never seen my father drink alcohol. He doesn’t even have soda, although he’ll be the first to tell you that entire coffee plantations are supported by his caffeine habit.

  It could go that way for Tim. Or it could go the other way.

  “Oh . . . you know. The usual.”

  Dad laughs. “That kid has no ‘usual.’”

  Out in the hallway again, I rub my neck, close my eyes, flip back my hair. I’m looking forward to Tim—Tim!—like a steaming hot bath after a long, cold day.

  Still, I pull Dad’s chart from the plastic holder outside the door, page through it. Standard entry, expected procedure, the usual blah, blah, blah.

  But then . . .

  Holy.

  Holy Mother of God.

  Chapter Fourteen

  TIM

  I’m doing push-ups as a healthier alternative to a pack of Marlboros, wondering when the hell the magic powers of the nic patch will kick in, when I hear the knock at my door—so faint, it’s not really a knock, more like a scratch or a tap. I’m at that top-of-the-push-up, arms-shaking point, right before I exhale—

  Collapse.

  Wipe my arm across my sweaty forehead. I’m wearing Ellery gym shorts and a sweaty black polo. Not exactly poised to receive company. But I’ve still got time to get it together for Alice.