True Letters from a Fictional Life (22 page)

“You don't know him,” I replied.

After we'd thrown our backpacks in the car, I stood on one leg with my other foot pulled up behind my back, stretching my quad. Luke stepped forward without a word, put a leg behind mine and pushed me onto the ground. He shrugged as he looked down at me and said, “I'm sorry I always make life harder than it should be. It's my job. I'm your older brother.”

I scissor-kicked him so that he fell onto the gravel and into the path of an oncoming Jeep. Satisfied that his palms and knees were scraped and bleeding, I stood and waved to the glaring driver as she steered around us.
The whole summer's ahead,
I thought.

“So, you haven't told Rex yet, huh?” Luke asked when we were back on the highway. “He knows the word
gay
and all. I've heard him say it.”

“Yeah, I know. I need to tell him soon. He'll hear about it from other kids if I don't.”

“We should talk to him this weekend. Let's sit him down and explain it all. You can draw him diagrams, stick figures.”

“This teddy bear is named Johnny,” I said. “This teddy bear is named Timmy.”

“See, you are in love with Tim Hawken. I knew it.”

“Why do you think I have a thing for Hawken?”

“Because he's cute, dude. I'm secure enough to say that. He's a good-looking kid, and he's wicked funny and nice. Why
wouldn't
you have a crush on Hawken?”

“Okay, fine. I've always had a crush on Hawken.”

Luke banged the steering wheel and laughed. “Man, I
knew it! I'm good, right? Tell me he's gay, too! I love that kid! Tell me he's gay, too!”

“No go. Very straight.”

“Aw, man.” Luke sank a little into his seat, shaking his head. “I thought all the nice guys were gay. That's what the girls always tell me. But girls are liars. What's your boy's name again?
Toker
?”

“Topher.”

“
Topher
? What kind of name is Topher? It sounds like a carnival food. Fried topher. Sugar-dipped topher.”

“Didn't you date a girl straight-up named Candy one time?”

“Candy, yeah. Not even Candace. Her parents were very nice and dumb and not much older than us.”

“Topher's short for Christopher.”

“Chris is short for Christopher.”

“Yeah, but everyone's called Chris.”

“This kid really goes out of his way to be different, huh?”

“He's very normal. You'll like him.”

“Soccer player?”

“Theater.”

“Ha! Normal and into theater. Right. Invite him over tonight.”

“No, it'll be awkward for him. Just him and the Liddell family.”

“Well, let's invite a bunch of people over. Get on your phone and start calling folks.”

“What about Mom and Dad?”

“Yeah, invite them, too, I guess.”

Luke called up his buddy Garret, and he beat us to our house. Garret had started working for his dad's contracting company right out of high school. His family has lived in these hills so long that there are roads named after them.

“James is gay,” Luke said matter-of-factly as we shook hands by Garret's truck on the driveway. “For real. Gay. This is the Get the Parents Used to It Party. So just act normal.”

“Always knew it,” muttered Garret, and he yanked down the brim of his NASCAR hat so we wouldn't see him grinning at his own joke.

Derek and Hawken arrived a little while later.

“Hey, Theresa said she couldn't come,” said Hawken with a shrug. “I don't know. She was super sweet all day and now suddenly she can't hang out. Weird.”

I just nodded, kept my mouth shut.

Kim and Topher showed up just after I got out of the shower. I greeted them on the driveway in bare feet, and I led them around the side of the house to the porch so they were suddenly there, settled in with everyone and laughing when my parents came outside. Pleasant hellos all around, but my mother's smile was tense, and when Topher stood up to shake hands with my father, they both had the stiff seriousness of bankers. My mom asked Topher about the play. He said opening night was in a couple of weeks and rehearsals were
going well, thank you. She said she was glad to hear it. Then, as Rex lobbed pinecones onto the porch, my parents went back inside.

But I could see them glancing out onto the porch from where they sat in the kitchen. They saw Derek with his arm around Hawken. They watched Garret talk to Topher about nothing at all. They saw Kim sitting on my lap, and Luke with his arm around Topher. Eventually, the conversation turned to the next day's race, the Mud 10K.

“Brutally early start,” I complained. “Eight a.m. I have a rule about not running before noon.”

“I have a rule about not waking up before noon,” said Luke. “Have fun.”

Hawken and Topher were in, though. Derek was sorry he couldn't go. He was handling his parents carefully since the fight, and they hadn't been all that sympathetic when he asked to skip church to watch Mark and me race.

“They don't want me getting into anything with Mark again,” Derek explained.

There was talk of hiking up to the boulder in the meadow, but then it got late and Kim had to split, and she was Topher's ride, so everyone filed down the porch steps. Topher kissed me on the lips as he left, and then so did Hawken, and Luke sighed, “Ahh, there's still hope for you two.”

It poured that night, but
it was clear again by morning. The race took place in the hills by a nearby lake. Summer camps along the shore were just stirring to life. A group of scruffy college kids with rakes trudged along the roadside, and canvas tents already clustered on the hillsides. The race registration site pointed out that most of Vermont's trails were dry enough for hiking and trail-running after Memorial Day. The Mud 10K, however, takes runners on paths that wind along high forest bogs, hence the mud in the race's name.

The starting line was in front of a long white-and-green house decorated schizophrenically with canoe paddles and snowshoes. A big map pinned to a wooden notice board
showed the course following a gravel road for fifty yards, crossing a narrow little bridge, and then charging straight up a hill for half a mile. No turns. No rest. Then it veered into the woods onto a muddy roller-coaster single track, splashed for a couple of miles along high bogs, wound through thick hemlock groves, hooked up with the old gravel road again, and spat us back down the hill to the finish. Runners were invited to de-mud in the lake after the race, but not knowing that, I hadn't brought a towel.

A guy with a megaphone called: “Runners! The starting gun is in two minutes!”

“Whoa! I guess I'm not warming up.” I took off my sweatshirt, and both Topher and Hawken reached for it. Hawken stepped back, hands up.

“Do you see Mark anywhere?” Topher asked me.

“Honestly, I haven't been looking for him. It's not like I'm going to speak to him or anything. I'll run, and we'll go home.”

“Sounds good,” said Topher. “Maybe he forgot, anyway. Maybe you can just relax and enjoy the scenery.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe,” I said, failing to keep a note of hope out of my voice.

“He's right there, you morons,” said Hawken, nodding toward a field where runners were stretching and jogging in circles. Mark sat on the grass by himself, staring at the lake. He wasn't stretching or warming up, and he was so careful not to look in our direction that it was clear he had seen
us, too. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning, either. It must've been painful for him to know that his former best friend, Hawken, stood so close by and didn't even want to talk to him. I thought back to what his dad had said about his mom.
He never hears back from her
. For a moment, I felt bad for the kid.

The man with a megaphone called: “Runners! Please come to the starting line! We have a few announcements, and then we'll be off!”

Pats on the back from Topher and Hawken and then I shuffled into the crowd of runners hopping in place, stretching their quads, setting their watches. The guys right around me had gray beards. I'd have to find someone else to pace me, I thought.

The course, the announcer assured us, was marked better than it had been the previous year. “Watch out for deep holes around the bogs,” he warned. “Let's make this year the first without any trips to the hospital.”

I looked back over my shoulder at Topher, wide-eyed. He shrugged and gave me a thumbs-up. Standing on my toes, I scanned the mass of runners and quickly located Mark, much closer to me than I'd expected, just a few yards to my left, the same distance from the starting line as I was. He saw me see him and looked away up the first long, steep hill.

Twitchy with adrenaline, I tried swinging my arms and accidentally hit the guys behind me and in front of me. Neither seemed to notice. Everyone was tense, waiting for the
gun. I shook out my legs. Closed my eyes.

“Runners take your mark!”

I would lean forward at
Set
.

CRACK!

Where was the
Set
? We were already running, the crowd a weird amoeba, changing shape as it propelled itself forward, a few pieces breaking off and sliding away into the lead. The graybeards were keeping up with me, so I figured I'd pace myself with them for a while up the hill, then take off when we neared the top. The abandoned road was all ruts and rocks, and floods had exposed slabs of granite, so I had to watch the ground to keep my footing. Like goats, the graybeards climbed quickly and without losing breath. They knew the road well. I'd been trained in track to never look behind me in a race, but I glanced to my sides, and Mark wasn't there. Things were off to a good start. The hill was killing me, though. We weren't even a mile into the race, and I was already wishing we were done. I listened for the breathing of the graybeards. Winded, but still keeping pace. We'd run together long enough, I decided, and made my move, pulled ahead by a few yards and, feeling smug, imagined them cursing my youth. Then three of them, two on one side, one on the other, came even with me, and glided on past. I struggled to catch up again, but for the rest of the race I saw only their backs, far ahead.
They've been doping,
I told myself. I wrenched my guts up the final hundred yards of the hill by myself, gasping, keeping my pace by picturing Mark
scrambling up the hill behind me.

At the top there was flat, open ground. Piles of rocks here, stacks of logs and tangles of brush there. Off to the right, bonfires had scorched a patch of ground encircled by stumps. The forest swallowed us up again on the other side of the clearing. A few hundred yards into the woods, a big white arrow limed on the dirt pointed us left onto a narrow trail that led through waist-high ferns, a strange fluorescent-green jungle in the dark woods. If I hadn't been keeping myself poised on the edge of unbearable pain, I would've enjoyed that stretch.

I had been wondering how I would know that we'd reached the bogs, but you couldn't miss them. First, the air turned cool and smelled like wet dog, then the ground grew spongy and a little later gave way to black soup. The runner in front of me was wearing tiny blue shorts and trying to avoid the muddiest patches by running up along the edge of puddles. I slopped straight on through them, and when I saw the trail widen for thirty yards or so, I splashed past him, leaving him to tiptoe around the messy spots. I zeroed in on the next guy in an orange shirt ahead of me. I could hear Tiny Blue Shorts right behind me, breathing angrily. He dashed straight through the black mud now, and seethed just behind me for a couple of miles, all the way around the bogs.

When the trail turned to hard dirt again, Orange Shirt picked up the pace and I cursed under my breath. I wasn't sure if I could keep up, but I knew there was a hemlock grove,
then a gravel road that was all downhill to the finish line. Sure enough, soon we were running under enormous hemlocks, and the trail turned soft beneath a blanket of needles. I caught up to Orange Shirt, stayed with him as though I had him on a leash. It sounded like Tiny Blue Shorts was still right behind me. Just as we reached the middle of the clearing at the top of the hill, the runner behind me pulled even. I resisted looking over at him, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see that his shorts were neither tiny nor blue. They were long and black. I glanced up.

Mark. He looked over at me quickly, and he managed a tiny smirk. I opened up my stride and dug in as we hit the downhill. There was no way to avoid the holes and ruts in the road, except by hurdling them. We passed Orange Shirt on either side, throwing ourselves forward so carelessly that I was sure I'd lose my footing, tumble, and skid across gravel into a ditch at the side of the road. Somehow we both stayed on our feet, gasping, arms flailing, the world a banging green blur. Mark pulled ahead. A hundred yards to go. My hands began to tingle and my head swam as we sprinted out of the woods onto the paved road lined with spectators who might have been cheering, but I couldn't hear them over the blood rushing through my head and my gasping breaths. All I could see was the finish line ahead and, just beyond my reach, the bigot who had belted me in the eye. Our names were shouted excitedly from a loudspeaker full of static, Mark's name first and then mine. When I caught him, I would grab his shirt
and yank him to the ground. I was tightening every muscle and drawing even—I might've been screaming, the memory of that final stretch feels like screaming—and the finish line bounced closer as Mark pulled away again. I stretched my left arm toward him and then we were done, stumbling in the grass beyond the white line flanked by men in yellow jackets, and someone I didn't know thumped my back and yelled, “Courageous finish, son! So close!”

I staggered away from the crowd on shaky legs. It couldn't have happened this way. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I closed my eyes, gasping, hands on my head, sweating and shivering. I walked way off across a field, clung to the chain-link of a baseball backstop, and stared out toward the lake. I wanted to drown the part of me who lost.

When I finally turned around, Topher and Hawken were walking toward me. Topher carried water and orange slices.

“Well, you were supposed to beat the bad guy,” Hawken shouted when they were still twenty yards away.

I shook my head in disbelief. “It turns out he's a really fast bad guy,” I answered when they were closer.

“Mark puked,” Hawken said. “Right in front of a bunch of little kids. Typical.”

“Do you want to jump in the lake?” asked Topher, eyeing my legs.

I looked down. They were caked in black mud up to my knees. “Nope,” I said. “I just want to get out of here. I'll put my jeans back on before I get in the car.”

Topher and Hawken traded stories about teachers all the way home, and I sat in the passenger seat, reading the label on my Gatorade bottle.

I'd been so close.

My father decided it would be best if my mom talked to Mrs. Foster by herself, and he told Luke he'd need his help to run a few errands. By the time I came home, he had made another one of his lists that took up the entire back of an envelope. They stuck around until the Fosters arrived at our front door.

Aaron had both ears pierced. Two little silver squares. He didn't wear earrings in school. The rest of his outfit: a white polo, blue baseball cap, khaki shorts, blue shoes with white soles, no socks. Very low-key for him. He gave me a hug and shook hands with everyone else.

I recognized Jack from Rex's soccer games and school plays, a wiry little athletic kid who didn't say much. He and Rex banged out the back door ten seconds after he'd walked in the front. I'd seen his mom around at school events, too. She was tall and thin, with high cheekbones. Her eyes were pale gray, and she didn't wear much makeup. One of her wrists jangled with copper-colored bracelets, and she had a lizard tattoo above her ankle. She took my hand in both of hers when I said hi. “So good to see you, James,” she said quietly, and she wasn't being fake. She must have recognized me the way I recognized Jack. “Listen, you'll have to forgive
me for what I said the night you called about Aaron. I was just so upset—”

“It's okay,” I interrupted. “Really. Don't worry about it. I understand.” I glanced at my mom, gave her a look meant to say
I'll explain later
.

“I've felt terrible about it. Anyway, you look great.”

“Well . . .” My mom laughed.

“Even with the trophy.” She touched her own right eye and smiled. “Dangerous is a good look for you.”

“No missing teeth, at least.” I shrugged. And then, I don't know why I said it: “No brain damage.”

Aaron looked away.

“So nice to meet you.” My dad came to the rescue. “Luke and I will be home around four,” he told my mom. “James, give us a hand carrying this stuff to the car.” Next to the garage door, he'd stacked a couple of big boxes bulging with old clothes for the Salvation Army. My mom led Aaron and his mom into the kitchen.

“I screwed that up,” I said as I fought a box into the back of the car.

“You didn't screw up anything. Neither of you is missing teeth, and neither of you has brain damage. Now go play with your new best friend.”

He cracked himself up.

Mr. Kelly was walking his dog past the bottom of the driveway as Luke backed the car onto the street. My dad lowered his window and shouted hello, but Mr. Kelly ignored him. I wondered if he had heard about me.

I found Aaron sitting in the middle of the deck, legs outstretched, smiling into the sun. He looked like a much happier, much more relaxed kid than the one I knew in school. Our moms sat inside at the kitchen table, sipping iced tea.

“Your house is really nice,” he said when he saw me.

“Thanks. All my hard work's paid off, I guess. Hey, I've never seen you with earrings. They new?”

“I just don't wear them to school. Why attract attention, you know?”

I nodded. I wanted to say that the earrings would attract less attention than some of his other fashion choices, but I didn't. I pulled his letter from my pocket, and he clapped excitedly. “Listen,” I said, handing it to him. “I owe you an explanation about all this.”

“Did you really write it?” he asked, folding it up and tucking it in his pocket.

“Yeah, I did.”

“And everything you said is true?” He squinted up at me in the sun.

I nodded.

“Then don't bother with any explanation. Those are the only things I care about it. You have no idea how happy this letter made me. Don't say anything that might spoil that.”

Suddenly it seemed possible to forgive Theresa. We might become friends again.

I sat down next to him. “I'm glad it made you happy,
dude. You know, I read it over again, and it's not much of an apology.”

“It was more of an apology than anyone else has ever offered.” He picked up a pinecone and began tearing it to pieces. “And I haven't always been the friendliest.”

I laughed. “If anyone's been keeping score, I think my pals and I are way ahead in the Being Jerks category.”

He threw the pinecone off the deck, into the yard. “I'm sorry about that time I said you smelled like a sneaker.”