The Believing Game (3 page)

“No — seriously,” he said. I'd meant it seriously. But Addison kept going. “At least someone spoke to Hannah Green today, right? How often does that happen?”

I remembered barreling past Hannah outside the dorms. How stricken she'd looked when I'd said, “Sure thing.” Like a door was shutting in her face.

“What are you thinking?” he asked me. It felt like he knew what I was thinking.

I said it aloud anyway. “It'll happen more often. Hannah Green talking. I'll make sure.” Still I felt compelled to add, “But that's not because of Ms. Crane.”

“No.” Addison said it solemnly. “That's your goodness. I spend a lot of time thinking about goodness because there's a lot I have to make up for. You would hate me if I were drinking.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I hate me when I'm drinking.”

Addison told me that when he drank, he threw punches. At door frames. Through windows. At people. “Who?” I asked.

He rubbed his face with his hands. “Anyone.” He must have seen my eyes widen. “Not girls.” He looked past me, like he was actually putting together a list of people he'd hit before. “At parties, mostly.” Once he put a kid in the hospital. “I sucker punched him and when he went down, I kicked the kid again and again. I was so out of it, Greer. I degraded myself. And then, well, you know, there's my brother.”

He wasn't the brother I had imagined for Addison. His name was Chuckie; he was two years older; he could drink Addison under the table. It sounded like that's what they did. They sat around in their family room and drank and sometimes smoked weed or took pills. Then Chuckie had moved up the substance abuse food chain. Mixed with whatever they were drinking, that meant that sometimes Chuckie slept so hard, Addison thought he was dead. Sometimes, he tackled Addison and slammed him into the wall.

“But he couldn't hurt you —” I stopped speaking, wondering if that's why Addison worked out so hard.

“We're both pretty huge. Like two bears wrestling down in the rec room.”

“So why are you here and not Chuckie?” I asked and then a wave of dread washed over me.
Oh God,
I thought.
His brother's dead.

But Addison only said, “He's home. Chuckie needs my mom and dad more.”

So they sent Addison away and brought in an in-home counselor for his brother. “Really?” I tried to imagine the self-empowerment exercises and quacky language of McCracken distilled into one person's constant presence. “I'd go crazy,” I said. I'd turn to pills.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Addison shook his head slowly like he was sad. Then more quickly to shake himself out of it.

There was nothing fragile about him. Even when he was revealing his vulnerabilities, there was a sturdiness there that I admired. Nothing seemed to rattle Addison. We swapped arrest stories and shared our disastrous paths to reform school and he never suddenly went all squirrelly with lack of eye contact. He never backed away from me and I remember thinking,
This is a person who could really know me.
I hadn't felt that way in ages. Since long before McCracken Hill.

The wrought-iron fence didn't matter. We covered a lot of ground that night.

Addison felt it too. As the night reached for sleep and our curfew loomed, he told me, “This is the first time in months I haven't felt like a monster. It's enough to make me glad I'm here for the duration.”

It took a moment to figure it out. “Not just until you get better.”

He finished my thought. “Until Chuckie and I both get better.” Addison smiled and enveloped my shoulder in one
of his sturdy arms. “You too. I'll wait for you to get better too.” It would be poor form to argue right then that nothing was actually wrong with me besides my tendency to get caught in fairly spectacular ways. Instead I nodded and let Addison think it was a small step toward healing. A tiny breakthrough.

I was still nodding when he told me, “There's someone I really need you to meet.” And then stopped nodding abruptly because I thought he meant his brother. I didn't want to meet a larger version of Addison — a beast rattling his cage in the Bradleys' living room.

But Addison didn't mean his brother. Addison was talking about Joshua then.

Tucked into the basement of Liberty House, the main administrative center at McCracken Hill, is a narrow office lined entirely with hanging files. I gained access once and almost got high off the scent of manila folders. The Office of Student Records holds all of our secrets — each McCracken alum's entire journey of self-discovery condensed into a two-pocket folder of progress charts, teacher evaluations, and psych reports.

There's no receptionist or anything. Maybe no one actually ever looks at the files. They just keep them in case there's a school shooting and the administration needs a paper trail to slowly release to the media. I never went back for my chart. Later on it didn't seem to matter. Back then I never wanted them to think I cared.

Mostly I lied in my sessions — lies of omission. I let them think they were the ones helping me, bringing me back into the world of eye contact and positive thinking. Otherwise, they wouldn't have counted it. No one would have believed how connected I suddenly felt. How when I walked into a room, I knew without even looking whether or not it contained Addison.

It felt weird to move closer and closer to someone without all the usual ways of communicating. Within weeks, Addison had earned back his phone, but mine still sat in the lockbox
in admissions. I wasn't allowed any e-mail besides the weekly therapist-approved messages I sent to our family account. And my last Facebook status had been updated as
Grounded — to the extreme
almost a month before. So instead of posting on my wall, he slipped notes under my door. Once he folded a napkin into a flower in the cafeteria.

McCracken had rules against “exclusive relationships,” but I didn't care. Addison, though, said he did.

“Why?” I asked him, while we trudged between class and dinner.

“It makes a great deal of sense, actually.” I glared at him then. Sometimes Addison lectured. You had to wait until the fake patience soaked out of his voice. “Before, maybe I drank or smoked weed because I needed a distraction.” He crossed one arm across his chest, stretched. “They don't want you to find a person to stand in for a bottle.”

“I'm a distraction.” I recognized the flat tone in my voice and tried to imagine getting through McCracken without Addison's pencil sketches, his sly sideways looks in class.

He stretched his other arm. “Well, yeah, you are.” He grinned. “You're telling me that I don't distract you?”

It felt like everything else was a distraction. But that's not the kind of thing you say out loud to people. I settled for, “You don't just distract me,” and waited for his arm to snake around my shoulders.

Sure enough. “Oh, dearly Greerly.” Addison squeezed and sighed.

I heard the voice of my old tennis coach flicker in my ear, as he wrapped his arms around me and said,
Greer, Greer — with legs up to here.

“C'mon. Are you really mad?” Addison widened his eyes. “At least give me a chance to make you mad with my own
words.” For a second, I thought he'd actually heard Coach Hendrikson's lechy voice too. But Addison didn't know about all that. He only meant that I'd been putting words in his mouth. He told me, “I never said
just
. That was you.”

“It's fine.” But I said it in the chick voice that means it's not really fine. I hated falling into that voice. It made me sound like my sister. In individual therapy, Dr. Saggurti had been nagging me to “make I statements.” I tried it. “When you say that, I feel like a bad element, something damaging.”

“But that's not it.” Addison stopped walking. He turned to face me. “Really. It's the opposite, even. But you can't just pick and choose the steps that seem easiest to you. It's a formula, you know? It's worked for millions of people. I can't pretend I'm different from every other drunk. That's when you end up passed out on a park bench somewhere.”

“So then, what is this?” God. I wanted to crouch down right there on the pebbled path, punch myself in the stomach again and again. It seemed like something to ask after months or years, not weeks.

“Between us?”

“Yeah.” Even that one syllable sounded needy.

“You're the only person I want to talk to.” Acceptable. Maybe. I thought Addison might kiss me then. I glanced from side to side. Delinquents and dorm counselors surrounded us. But I saw him look at my lips before he looked up and met my eyes. “You're my best reason for staying sober.”

I felt a thrill even as I pictured Dr. Saggurti arching her meticulously shaped eyebrows. “Greer, Greer — better than beer?” I asked him.

Addison laughed. “Exactly.”

At the dining commons, we moved through the food line together. I pushed my tray along right behind Addison's, watched him load up on beef chow fun and some pitiful-looking egg rolls. I ladled some of the broth from the wonton soup into a bowl, grabbed a whole wheat bagel.

“No Chinese food?”

“The egg rolls freak me out.”

Addison lifted his and waved it at me. “Scary food. Fried food.”

“Not that, brainiac.” We hadn't ever talked about my eating disorder. I wasn't about to start right then. “Their egg rolls look exactly like their burritos. I think that's questionable.” When I left him, he was still standing at the salad bar, examining his dinner with a stricken look.

The only reason we knew our relationship, whatever it was, had registered on the radar of the McCracken administration was that our seating assignments for dinner had shifted. Now Addison and I were rarely directed to the same table. In some ways, that was excruciating. Invariably, they placed me next to one of the kids too zoned out on lithium to hold a conversation. I'd sit there salting and salting my food, and see some ponytailed head bent toward Addison's like a secret.

It felt like every female body on campus experienced the Addison Bradley animal magnetism. But he didn't like me to mention that. On break from assembly, we stood in line at the watercooler, waiting for a Dixie cup of whatever doped-up liquid McCracken called water. Theodora Garrow narrowed her eyes at me, then widened them toward Addison. I watched her look him up and down.

“Do you see something you like?” I asked.

“Settle down, tiger,” he said, with a laugh. But when Theodora swung her hips in another direction, Addison's
voice pivoted too. “Don't do that again.” His voice sounded calm, but grim. And when I tried to defend myself, he said, “I felt like a piece of meat.”

“That was Theodora —”

“She's never going to have the chance to affect how I feel.” And I understood the rest of his logic. I had that chance. Addison expected me to be more careful with it.

 

Joshua Stern was not who I expected he'd be. I knew he'd be older than us. After all, he mentored Addison through the twelve steps, and that meant he needed a few years of sobriety behind him. But Addison had called him his best friend, so I'd pictured someone older than us by only a few years.

At the pizza place, when the door's jingle signaled a new customer, it didn't even register that the silver-haired, black-skinned man in sweatpants might be Addison's sponsor. He had to be forty, at least. Maybe even fifty. But he stepped forward and Addison stood to be engulfed in his embrace. “There he is,” the man murmured, as if he'd been the one waiting for us to arrive. “Hmmmm.” The man held Addison by the shoulders and seemed to search his face.

He turned to me. “So this is she.” I felt myself blush like an idiot. “He said you were beautiful, but he didn't say
gorgeous
.” The man shot Addison an accusing look. “You should have said
gorgeous
.” I tried not to show it mattered, that Addison had called me beautiful. I tried to concentrate really hard on the metal napkin dispenser so that I didn't meet anyone's gaze straight on.

“Joshua, you're embarrassing me.” But when I looked up, Addison just looked proud. “Sit down,” Addison told him. “I'll get you something to eat.”

“And a Sprite, please. Remember about the ice, now,” Joshua called after him. Addison bounded to the counter.

I rose to follow, calling, “Let me help.”

But Joshua covered my hand with his. “He means for me to have some time with you.” He looked at me steadily. “He's kept you a secret long enough.” Joshua let go of my hand and sat back in the booth. “Greer.” I waited, expecting him to ask me how I ended up at McCracken.
What's a pretty girl like you
… But he only asked, “What's your middle name, Greer?”

Maybe he was planning a background check. “Elizabeth.”

“Does anyone call you Elizabeth?” I craned my neck to see Addison. He was chatting with the guys behind the counter. “Addison doesn't call you Elizabeth?”

“No. People call me Greer.”
Because that's my name, Uncle Crazypants.

Joshua nodded. “Well, I would like to call you Elizabeth. Not always. Not even often. But it's important to me that there's a name that only I use. Would that be all right with you?” I nodded. It didn't seem like such a big deal then. Joshua tugged out one of the paper napkins and tucked it into his shirt like it was a bib. “I'm glad that's settled.”

“Spaghetti with meatballs and sausage,” Addison announced. He turned to me. “What's settled?”

Joshua didn't acknowledge the question. He gestured to the plate of pasta in front of him and waved his hand up at Addison. “He loves to take care of me.” Addison, despite his broad body and the scruff on his cheeks, looked like a little kid. He glowed. Joshua coughed a few times and then searched the table.

Addison clapped his hand over his mouth. “The Sprite! I'll be right back.” He pretty much scampered back to the
counter. I looked at Joshua. Joshua looked at me. I didn't ask why he couldn't just go get his own soda, but I could tell he knew I wanted to.

“Are you two going to eat?” Joshua dug into the plate of pasta, just as Addison returned with a brimming plastic cup. I felt Addison's eyes on me.

“We ate earlier.”

“Go get yourself a slice of pizza.” There was no mistaking the command in Joshua's voice. He added, “And for Greer too.”

“I'm okay,” I said. And then again, to Addison, “I'm fine.” Except for that bereft feeling when he left the table once more.

I watched Joshua twirl strands of spaghetti onto his fork.

“So you're one of those beautiful girls who don't eat.”

“No, sir, we ate earlier.”

“Don't call me
sir
.” The gentleness in Joshua's voice had evaporated. “Save that for your counselors.”

I wanted to tell him to leave the menu interrogation to my counselors. But nothing came out of my mouth.

He said it for me. “I'm not your counselor. But I care. Do you know why I care?” Joshua sounded furious. He nodded back toward the counter. “I care about you because he does.”

This time when Addison sat down, he didn't ask what we were talking about. He just came back raving about the pizza. “Joshua, you should see what they have me eating at the dining hall.”

“Rabbit food?”

“It's criminal. It's all steamed or tofued or bok choyed or whatever.”

“They have plenty of coffee for you there?”

“Actually, no, but some of the teachers let us use the pots in the faculty lounge.”

Joshua nodded to himself. “The female teachers.” He told me, “They want his sex. Everywhere this kid goes, women demand fucking.” He kind of smacked his lips a little and grunted.

If I'd been eating, I would have choked. I managed something lame like, “Is that so?” Maybe it achieved the intended sly tone. Joshua might not have noticed I was shocked, but Addison did.

“I'm sorry.” Addison gave him a stern look. “Joshua sometimes forgets to be a gentleman.”

“Don't apologize for me.” Joshua's voice was laughing, but his eyes weren't. “Talk to me about being a gentleman — I have fished you out of more shit and vomit than I care to discuss. I don't need to apologize. Greer knows I'm speaking the truth. She doesn't want us to talk any different because she's here. Greer doesn't want you to hide yourself. Isn't that right?”

“No.” I didn't want Addison to hide anything.

“See? My Elizabeth and I have an understanding.”

Afterward, after pie and coffee and hugs outside on the street, Addison and I headed back to campus. When we got to the foot of McCracken Hill, he finally reached for my hand. His skin felt rough against mine and I felt his thumb press itself into the center of my palm. “So your middle name is Elizabeth.”

“Yep. He must pull that routine on all your girls.” That time I managed the sly tone flawlessly.

“Once in a while.” Addison pulled me closer. “Sometimes Joshua makes people uncomfortable.” I heard the question in his voice.

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

“He cares about you, that's all. I'm sure he was testing me a little because of that.”

“Well, you passed.”

“Yeah?”

“I could tell. I can always tell.” We walked a little ways. “Did he surprise you?”

“Because he said
fuck
? Seriously?” But I already thought I knew what Addison meant. I was just buying some time.

“Or because he's older?” Addison asked it carefully, so I considered my answer carefully.

“How old is he?”

“He doesn't really believe in age in terms of numbers. He thinks it's bigger than that. I'm one of the oldest people he knows.” Addison shrugged. “Maybe you were surprised he's black?”

“He just wasn't how I pictured him,” I said. Addison swung our clasped hands out, held them up to look at them. How many times had I said the wrong thing and ruined the perfect moment? “For one thing, I thought he was Jewish. Because of his last name.”