Stick (12 page)

No sounds came through the pipe.

Sleeping in the basement, I'd usually leave my door open.

But not tonight. Dad scared me.

Sometimes, not hearing things was good.

Other times, it was terrifying.

*   *   *

My bedroom door
swung open.

“Shhhh …           Stick. It's me,” Bosten whispered. His voice made me jump, anyway.

I propped myself up, and Bosten came over, tiptoeing, and sat down on the bed with me.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry,     Sticker. I wanted to see if you're okay.”

“I'm okay. Dad's asleep in the spare room.”

“I   saw him.”

“He thought I was you.”

Bosten only said, “Oh.”                            

And the way he said
oh
made me feel a little sick.

“He's                drunk.                     I can smell it.”

I said, “Oh.”

Like that explained everything.

We sat there for a while. Neither of us moved, or said anything. I could feel the warmth radiating from Bosten's body.

“What about Mom?” I said.

“She       went       upstairs a long time ago. She's mad.”

“At me?”

Bosten shook his head. “I       bet you're               hungry.”

“I am.”

“Want                   to go to        Crazy Eric's?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, dumbshit.    Right now.”

I was out of bed in less than a second, scrambling around to put my pants on.

“They're going to be closed.”

I was so hungry.

“Then we'll go                somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“California. It doesn't        fucking                  matter, does it?”

I shrugged. Then Bosten said, “And if you             tuck your shirt in,       I'm kicking your ass.”

I'd started slipping my arms into the sleeves of my flannel, but then just let it drop limply onto the floor at my feet.

“Screw it,” I said. “I won't even wear a shirt.”

“Punch your first           asshole, and you're ready to break every        rule in the goddamned house.”

“Heck yeah.”

I loved my brother so much.

*   *   *

We knew what to do.

Bosten and I unlocked the storm doors and stole out through our secret way into the night. It was cold, and I shivered, but I wasn't about to admit to my brother that I should have put on more than just my Steelers beanie and a thin T-shirt.

We made no sound. We even held the doors of the Toyota open, just a crack, knowing the clicking of their latch mechanisms could be just enough sound to alert Mom and Dad; and Bosten pressed the clutch in, so we could coast backwards all the way down to the drive by the mailboxes before he even started the motor.

“What about the odometer?” I said.

“Fuck it.                         He doesn't even know what's going on. And maybe we're not coming back.”

“You're just kidding, right?”

Bosten smiled.

We headed south on the road, away from the Point, and I said, “Do you want to sneak over and see if Buck wants to come?”

“No.                 It's just me           and my little brother tonight.”

That made me feel good.

*   *   *

The hamburger place
called Crazy Eric's was closed. I knew it would be.

We were both hungry for something else; something other than food.

Bosten drove.

In Bremerton, we found a diner called Nico's that stayed open all night.

“I only have            three              dollars,” Bosten said when we sat down.

“I have two.”

So much for running away, I thought.

We ordered hamburgers and Cokes.

It was one of the best nights ever.

It felt so free to be out of the house with Bosten, like we were hiding in a place where nobody could find us. Bosten fed a quarter into the diner's jukebox. We weren't the only ones there. A group of sailors sat and smoked in their white bell-bottoms, drinking Olympia beer, eyeing us with stubbled faces masked by glazed expressions.

The music blared.

David Essex sang, “Rock On,” and as Bosten came back to our booth, he lipped the lyrics and popped his hips side to side. He sat right beside me.

“You know the      only reason                why I don't leave?” Bosten said,

“You know, like Dad told me to the other day?”

Of course I knew why.

But I didn't answer him. I didn't want to say it.

So he did.

“The only reason                I don't leave           is because I'm afraid                           of what he'd do to you.”

“Let's not talk about this,” I said.

Bosten had this look in his eyes. It said he wanted to tell me things. But I already learned them. My brother didn't need to make those words take up space in the air between us.

Not tonight.

Bosten shrugged and sang,  “
Still lookin' for that blue jean baby queen…”

Then he casually squeezed out a circle of ketchup onto the wax paper at the bottom of our basket of fries.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay.” I slurped at my Coke. Mom and Dad would never let us have Coke after ten o'clock at night. “Bosten?”

“What?”

“Um. Nothing.”

He watched me, then took a bite of a french fry. “I always knew         you   were stronger than me, Stick.”

“You're crazy.”

“Okay.                       If you say so.”

I liked that song, too.

“So.”

Bosten smiled and winked at me.

*   *   *

At midnight,
we were on the road, heading north, back toward the Point.

“I'm not tired,” I said.

“Good.               Let's         go to the beach, then.”

“Okay.”

Bosten pulled the car into the same spot where we'd parked the night Paul lit off the UFO flare.

“And anyway,” I said, “you'd miss Paul Buckley too much.”

“What?”

“I mean, if you ran away from home.”

“I'd            take         him with me.”

“But don't go, okay?”

Bosten opened his door and stepped out of the car. I followed him, and we both walked along the beach, right where the water lapped up onto the shore.

“I'm                 not       going to go anywhere, Stick. Not yet.”

“Good.”

When we were under the pier, Bosten said, “Show me                     how you                                  punched that dickwad Corey Barr.”

 

NEXT:

california

 

Everything changed.

But, somehow, things managed to quiet down at our house after that weekend.

And Bosten and I avoided the Saint Fillan room for the next seven days, which was a rare long stretch of calm.

Bosten went back to school, and we visited the Buckleys the following Sunday, like we always did, except this time I let Bosten and Paul go off by themselves, without me tagging along.

It felt lonely.

But I could see in Bosten's eyes how much he loved Paul.

Mom smoked more. Dad spoke less.

Both of us pretended like we didn't remember or believe what he did in that room.

At night with my ear against the pipe, I imagined ways to kill him if he ever hurt Bosten again.

*   *   *

Beginning with the last week
of March, Bosten and I were free of school for our two-week Easter vacation. Mrs. Lohman had followed through with her promise to ask if I could stay at Emily's house for a few days that first week; and Bosten was supposed to sleep over at Paul's. The thought of Bosten staying with him made me a little nervous that they'd end up getting into trouble.

I began worrying about everything.

*   *   *

Bosten followed the Pontiac.
We drove home together from our visit with the Buckleys. Paul and Bosten acted different at dinner. I noticed they avoided looking at one another. There was no joking around, no talk at all, except from the grown-ups, who didn't appear to think anything was out of the ordinary with the boys.

But I could tell.

I watched his hands, how they wrung forward and back around the grip of the Toyota's steering wheel, while Bosten kept his eyes fixed ahead, motionless, as though we were being invisibly towed behind Mom and Dad's car.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?” I said.

“Don't                 worry                       about it.”

“With you and Buck?”

“Yeah.”

He still wouldn't look at me.

“You know, I like Buck, even if he doesn't talk to me anymore,” I said. “I hope things are okay with you and him.”

Bosten rubbed his eyes.

I could see Mom smoking in the car ahead of us.

“You're still going to stay with him tomorrow, right?”

Bosten nodded.

“I can't wait to go to Emily's, too.”

I wanted him to ask me about her.

I wanted to tell him about what we did. I knew it wouldn't matter now, because Bosten and I had to make a kind of shell around us that would keep things in, and keep things out, too. But he didn't ask.

“But I'll miss you this week.”

Bosten said, “I'll              miss you, too, Sticker. Maybe               you could just come and stay over at Buckley's house              with me.”

I smiled. “I don't think you want me there.”

“Shut up.” Bosten wrung his hands on the wheel again. He inhaled. “Paul                                   told me he has a        girlfriend. He said he isn't           really—that he can't be anything       but just my friend          anymore.”

“Oh.”

Bosten bit the inside of his bottom lip.

I guess there was nobody else in the world he could say things like this to.

I felt bad. Not just for Bosten, but I felt bad because I wanted it to happen.

It was like I had been hoping, or believing, that Bosten would somehow snap out of it and
get better
, and stop being the way he was. But that was stupid. I knew it. So thinking about it made me feel guilty.

“But you're still going to go there?” I said.

He nodded. It was careful, measured. “If I          stay home this week,       I'm going to kill myself.”

What could I say to that?

“Kill me first, okay?”

“Shut up.”

“Bosten?”

“What?”

“Sorry. About you. And Buck.”

*   *   *

When we got home,
Bosten and I said our dutiful good-nights, but Mom held us up in the living room, saying she and Dad  had something they wanted to tell us.

In our house, surprises were never what they were in other homes.

But Mom had been especially energized that day. She seemed relieved about something, but I didn't have any idea what could give her a feeling like that. I knew something was up, or that maybe she'd drunk as much as Dad. Her cheeks had color in them, like she was breathing fresh air. She stood in the center of the floor, alternating her gaze from me to Bosten; both of us with our backs turned to our respective routes of escape.

Dad sat quietly in his chair. Staring at us. Expressionless.

Mom exhaled smoke. “Your          aunt Dahlia      called this morning. She is bringing you both            to      California this week.”

I looked at my brother, horrified. It was like Corey Barr slapped my nuts again. I didn't even know Aunt Dahlia outside the fact that she was my grandmother's sister; and we were being sent to her like five-cent postcards you mail to people you don't really like, just so they can dislike you even more.

Bosten swallowed. “Why?”

Mom's smile melted. “What do you mean,                          
why
? She's your great-aunt          and she wants you both to visit. That's
why
. She's paying for your plane tickets and everything. She lives in
California
.”

“So what? Lots of people live in California. I don't even know who       Aunt Dahlia is,” Bosten argued.

Dad leaned forward in his chair.

I thought there was going to be a fight, for sure.

And, somehow, I couldn't stop my mouth. “I'm supposed to stay over at the Lohmans' tomorrow. And Bosten's going to Buck's house. I don't fucking want to go to California.”

I never cussed around my parents. I rarely cussed at all. So I knew what to expect, even though I just couldn't keep the word inside my head.

Dad's hand grabbed my shoulder.

I didn't want him to touch me. I twisted away. This time, he didn't fight me. He didn't do anything. It was like he was afraid of me, or something.

Then Mom slapped me so hard spit came out of my mouth.

“It's not       open to discussion,” Dad said. “You can march your goddamned ass down to bed. Now.”

I put my hand on my face.