“The older kids on the bus would imitate him. They would whisper or draw back when he walked by. And the whispers weren’t just about Phillip. They were about me, too. I can’t tell you how many freakin’ times I heard ‘that’s his sister’ being whispered when I walked by once people put two and two together.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know those kids, so I told myself it didn’t matter that much. And I had friends.”
Caroline.
I usually try not to think her name.
I remember Caroline clear as day, with her feathery brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and deep dimples. She’d been my best friend since forever.
“But it was, like, one day during third grade, out of nowhere, who my brother was meant something. It meant something bad.”
Between kindergarten and third grade, Caroline had spent countless hours at my house. There were sleepovers with Pizza Hut on Friday nights and watching the Saturday morning lineup from our sleeping bags when we woke up. There were fall afternoons spent in my tree house “cooking” meals of leaves and acorns as we played house. Most memories from my childhood involved Caroline.
“One day,” I explain to Alex, “my best friend was over during a really bad time with my brother. It got kind of scary, he was really out of control, and she started crying.” Caroline actually wet her pants, but I don’t tell that part out of some silly lingering sense of loyalty, I guess. “She wanted her parents to pick her up. By recess on Monday . . . everything had changed.”
A painful knife slices through me as I remember walking out onto the playground and finding all of my so-called friends whispering under the monkey bars. Caroline was in the center of the group. I smiled as I scampered toward her, but stopped in my tracks at once as I assessed her behavior further. Caroline was giggling and whispering in their ears. She pointedly turned her back to me. Then she wrapped her arms around two other girls’ shoulders and led the whole group away from me.
“My best friend actually formed a club against me,” I admit. “How stupid and juvenile is that?” I shake my head. “But it wasn’t then. It didn’t feel stupid. It felt awful. It was the worst thing a girl could do to another girl. They had rules, for crying out loud. No one was allowed to talk to me. No one was allowed to sit next to me at lunch. No one was allowed to trade stickers with me anymore.”
The tears are blurring my eyes again, even though I’m talking about something as ridiculous as sparkly Lisa Frank stickers, but I don’t care. I wrap my arms around my torso, shivering. If it’s from anger, sadness, or the cold of being away from the fire, I can’t really tell.
“It’s how girls hurt each other in third grade,” I explain. “I wasn’t the first victim, and I wasn’t the last. And Caroline, my supposed best friend . . . she tried to act like it was about a million other things. That I’d beat her in the spelling bee that morning. That it was ‘annoying’ how I wore a ponytail every day. But I knew the truth; I could just feel it inside. It was about Phillip. We’d reached a certain age when people were just aware of things, and she didn’t want to be associated with my family anymore. Maybe she was just scared, or embarrassed of how she’d acted at my house, or didn’t understand that Phillip wasn’t contagious or anything, but for whatever reason . . . all of a sudden being Phillip’s sister was an unforgivable offense.”
Alex remains silent at my side, glaring toward the ground. I’m glad he’s keeping his mouth shut. I’m glad he doesn’t have the nerve to act like it wasn’t a big deal.
I laugh bitterly as I remember the rest of it. “And you expect adults to set a good example, right? Not so much. That same winter, my mom volunteered to be Cookie Mom for our Girl Scout troop’s cookie sale. Except our troop leader, who just happened to be Caroline’s mom, came over to ask my mom to ‘reconsider.’ ”
She’d been so patronizing and gentle with the request, acting like it was in Phillip’s best interest, how the near-constant ringing of the doorbell and parade of unfamiliar faces would “disturb” him. Really, she just didn’t like having Phillip associated with her troop, and she didn’t feel like dealing with the fallout. It was easier to exclude us.
Stellar example she set for her daughter.
“Those are just a couple of the stories,” I tell Alex, “but trust me, there are plenty. Before I went to middle school, Phillip got placed somewhere else, and when I met a new bunch of kids, without his being on the scene, some of that faded.”
I shudder, though, because I never forgot what it felt like. The humiliation and despair of being outcast. The gutting realization that someone I thought cared about me could abandon me over something that had absolutely nothing to do with me. It has lingered; it has impacted so many of my relationships, or lack thereof.
“Anyway. I started here last year and no one knew about Phillip. I was just Jordyn. I guess I just sort of liked that feeling. And it’s hard to trust that people would be different from what I remember. I decided not to let anyone know that much about me.”
The words get caught in my throat and I can’t meet his eye, as I reference the building blocks of the wall I put up between us.
Alex tilts his head and I feel him studying me for a long time. “It’s a shame you never gave anyone here a chance. Kinda sucks you chose to handle it that way.”
My back stiffens defensively. I’ve always known that Alex would think less of me if he knew the truth. He would want me to be different, better. Braver.
“I’m not a bad person,” I protest. “It’s just—”
“I know you’re not a bad person,” he cuts me off. “That’s not what I meant.”
Seeing me shiver, he shrugs out of his sweatshirt even though he only has a short-sleeved T-shirt on underneath. He drapes it around my shoulders and I am at once enveloped in Alex scent and Alex warmth.
And God does it hurt.
His voice drops to a near whisper and he moistens his lips. “I’m sorry you chose to handle it this way, because it’s just really sad to think about you having to feel so alone.”
His explanation surprises the hell out of me. It catches me off guard.
My lungs constrict and I can’t breathe. My longing is so intense it’s nearly dizzying. I want to ball my hands in the soft material of his T-shirt and I want to pull him close to me. I want to bury my face against his chest and I want him to wrap his arms around me. I am longing to be held tightly, I am longing to not feel alone.
My fingers inch toward his sleeve, considering.
I force myself to picture Leighton, conjuring up the angry, determined mask that is her face on the hockey field, charging toward the goal.
She is only thirty yards away, tops. While I sit here, wearing her boyfriend’s sweatshirt. What do I think I’m doing?
I already had my chance and I blew it. I ball my hand into a fist and shove it inside my pocket.
I ask a stupid question to break the spell. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”
It’s a ridiculous thing to ask, and he would be entitled not to justify it with a response.
He answers anyway. “No. That’s your decision.” Alex stands suddenly, brushing off his jeans. “Not my place to judge.”
But his voice has tightened and I sense judgment. I do. He thinks I’m a bad person for wanting to keep my brother a secret.
I stare back at the ground. We’re not all as perfect as you are, Alex. We’re not as strong or good.
Ultimately, he finds a small smile for me and extends his arm to offer a hand up. “Come back to the party. I’m sure everyone’s moved on.”
“I just need a few more minutes. Then I will, promise.”
Alex nods in the direction of the empty red cup on the ground beside me, the one I carried back with me. His smile blooms and turns teasing. “You think some of this is just ‘beer tears’?”
I can’t help laughing; he’s probably right. If I hadn’t been drinking, I probably wouldn’t have gotten so worked up. “Not beer tears, no. But maybe a fe
w peppermint schnapps tears in the mix.”
“You guys need a ride later? Andy’s driving us.”
“Thanks, but we’re okay.” I shake my head. “Tanu’s not drinking tonight. Her mother will be waiting up.”
He hesitates, lingering, but eventually concedes. “Alright. If you say so.”
Alex turns his back to leave, and my mouth is speaking before my brain grants it permission. I attribute it to peppermint schnapps courage. I could never ask the question face-to-face, but I manage to speak it into the darkness to his retreating figure.
“Why’d you come back here, anyway?”
He stops in his path. He doesn’t turn around right away.
When he does, it’s written all over his face. There are a million ways he could answer my question, a million things left unsaid.
Eventually, he settles on just one. “You were upset,” he says simply. “And look . . . I know there are these . . . boundaries. I know you want them there.” He demands that my eyes meet his before he continues, and I know we’re not really talking about Phillip or my home life anymore. His expression turns pained. “But you were sad and that makes me sad. I wasn’t gonna stay out there and enjoy the party.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning and leaving me for good.
Chapter Six
There’s no point in him hanging around, because what am I supposed to say to that anyway?
His words from just moments earlier ring in my head.
“I’m sure everyone’s moved on.”
This is the truth and about more than a stupid conversation around the bonfire.
Alex has no business hinting at our past now that he’s with Leighton. He can’t just say these things to me . . . and then walk back to her.
Renewed tears, fueled by frustration and regret, fill my eyes.
The last time Alex and I had wandered away from a group at a bonfire . . . he’d kissed me.
One more secret I never allude to, another reality I keep locked away and closely guarded.
I crane my neck, able to make out frenzied sparks of the fire leaping high into the air between the trees. Then I conjure up the memory of last summer’s staff party, which is something I don’t allow myself to do very often. If I did, there’s no way I could go on being “just friends” with Alex Colby.
The guys from the grounds crew spent a lot of time assisting with the special-needs camp, Camp Hope, which was housed at the tennis club every summer. They carted large boxes of supplies on the backs of their golf carts, manned the grill for us for Friday picnic lunches, and pulled the vans—the large white ones equipped with wheelchair lifts—around front before community outings.
Few of the guys bothered to establish eye contact, their discomfort around the kids with various disabilities pretty obvious. I sensed that they wanted to get off the campgrounds and back to the golf course as quickly as possible.
Alex was the exception.
I noticed him right away, but what girl wouldn’t have? Dressed in sneakers, camo cargo shorts, and a gray tank top, his biceps and shoulders tensed and his skin, darkened to the shade of honey, glistened as he toted box after heavy box as we set up for camp. When he caught me staring, he smiled at me for the first time, lifting those beautiful deep eyes in greeting above the top of the box. I think I almost melted into a puddle at his feet, 92 percent humidity notwithstanding.
He tried to pull his chivalrous crap when I followed him back to the van to help with the gigantic boxes of paper towels, but I held my ground and eventually he shook his head and chuckled. I introduced myself, and he assessed me.
“Suit yourself then, Michaelson.” He grinned. “Thanks for the help.”
I instantly loved the sound of my name leaving Alex’s lips.
When we were done, both dripping with sweat, he fished two icy water bottles out of a cooler in the back of the van and encouraged me to sit down beside him on its floor. We exchanged the basics, and then he asked me a more pointed question.
“So you’re gonna be a sophomore at Valley Forge,” he mused. “How come you’re working at this camp and not the other one?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He smirked and shook his head. “The girls from school who work camp always choose the ‘other’ camp. With the so-called normal kids. Then they get to spend most of the day at the pool, and they get to go on better field trips. It’s a helluva lot easier, right?” Alex gestured in the direction of the other counselors and administrators working at Camp Hope with me. “Most of the people who want to work at this camp, they’re older. More serious.”
I didn’t have a great answer for him. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “This just seemed like the obvious choice to me.”
Alex nodded knowingly, like something suddenly made sense. “Oh, so you want to be a special education teacher or something like that? Nurse, maybe?”
I found myself laughing, because I didn’t want that at all. “No, it’s not that. Like I said, it just seemed like the obvious choice.”
I felt his gaze upon me, a mixture of lingering wonder and maybe a smidge of admiration. But I didn’t give him anything else to go on.
The truth I never would have shared is that I liked the idea of being able to reach my campers in a way I couldn’t reach Phillip most of the time. As June quickly turned to July, and July melted into August, I was glad I made the decision I did. I fell in love with those kids—the boys with Down Syndrome and their face-splitting grins, the little girl with limited speech who expressed herself instead through her wild, wacky wardrobe, and the kids who were wheelchair-bound but cognitively stable, the ones who never even thought to complain about being stuck in a metal chair all day long.
My campers talked to me, ambushed me with hugs, and even braided my hair. I accepted every touch of their sticky hands, every sweaty hug, and relished their belly laughter in response to my knock-knock jokes.
I could reach these kids, and they reached back. They put a Band-Aid on some type of wound I’d never quite located.
Early in the summer, I was so busy meeting the varied needs of my campers it escaped my notice that one member of the grounds crew spent a lot more time at the camp base than any of the others. He showed no hesitancy in interacting with “my kids,” popping wheelies with the campers in wheelchairs, and dropping to his knees to talk to the younger ones at their level.
It was always Alex who helped lower the wheelchair lifts on the vans, and after I commented on how impressed I was with his ability to secure the chairs with such practiced ease, he told me about his mother and why he was so handy in operating a specially equipped van. He relayed her story without a trace of bitterness, then promptly wheeled little Maddie into the van while singing her favorite Katy Perry song, high-pitched and off-key.
I decided if I was interested in falling in love, I would like to be in love with someone like Alex Colby.
I didn’t realize at the time I was already more than halfway there.
But I was in limbo last summer, and I was hardly looking for love. I had left my old school but hadn’t yet started at my new one. I was still adjusting to the move—new house, new neighborhood, new everything. I was trying to be optimistic, but more often than not found myself teetering back toward resentful about all that newness in the first place. Embracing the idea of Alex, even as a friend, in part meant accepting that the move could be a good thing.
For a long time, I remained shy and reserved, but Alex was none of those things. He grilled me on my tastes in movies and music, my schedule for the fall, and my family. I offered information in bits and pieces, never giving away too much.
One time, while he was busy carrying bales of hay for an obstacle course, he asked another question, all blasé like. “So’d you leave a boyfriend back at your old school?”
I shook my head and mumbled “no” toward the ground. I looked up in time to swear I saw him biting back a smile.
&
nbsp; Before long, I was getting personal rides via golf cart back to my car at the end of our long days. I found myself opting to take my lunch break at the same time he took his, “accidentally” stumbling upon him at one of the shaded picnic tables in the grove. We traded our best snacks back and forth like second graders, and on particularly hot, humid days we would sometimes put our heads down, side by side, closing our eyes for a few minutes to regroup before going back to work.
Sometimes I peeked.
It was the one chance I got to memorize his face—the smoothness of his golden complexion, the way his thick black lashes fluttered in rest, and the relaxed set of those perfect lips, closed in a contented pout. Alex was so full of energy and life at every other point in the day, but in those moments he was relaxed and oh-so-close. It was the one time when the idea of Alex wasn’t scary, and yet I’d feel my heartbeat vibrating against the warped wood of the table as I stole looks at him.
Then I’d close my eyes again, worried he’d be able to detect my racing pulse, too.
It wasn’t long before people started talking. The girls I worked with, most of them in their early twenties with college degrees in education, seemed to get a kick out of us. They elbowed one another and raised their eyebrows when Alex showed up, routinely, on the scene. “We’re just friends,” I told them.
I kept my physical distance from Alex, trying to send him the same message. That’s all it was. I was lucky to have made a friend so that there would be a familiar face when I walked into school in September.
Somewhere, in my heart of hearts, I knew that Alex was anything but.
It all came to a head midway through August, the night of the employee picnic.
The air was thick and shimmering, teeming with humidity and the sound of busy crickets, as we drank frosty mugs of root beer and roasted hot dogs under the heavy blanket of the starry sky. Even though it was nine o’clock at night, we ran to the pool, since we were rarely able to enjoy it without the responsibility of keeping younger campers safe. I allowed myself to get caught up in the fervor, enthusiastically joining in games of Marco Polo and diving for the quarters the tennis club administrators tossed to the bottom of the pool.