“You look good.” I give him a granola bar. “Handsome.”
He tugs at the neck of the T-shirt. “I feel like I’m suffocating.”
My mother comes into the kitchen. “You look wonderful. Emory did a nice job picking out these clothes.” She brushes his shoulders with her fingers, though there is nothing there that I can see.
“I’m glad I know who to blame,” Joey says, unwrapping the granola bar.
“First day of the rest of your life, so to speak, Joe.” My mother pours a cup of coffee and takes a sip. “Emory, you look very nice, too. Lunches are in the fridge. Joe, you’re clear on the rules?”
He pulls at the pockets of his hoodie. “Sure thing.”
“It’s going to be a big year for you, Joe. I know you can do this.”
Joey grabs our backpacks. I get the lunches out of the refrigerator. My mother hands him the car keys and his new phone.
“You’ll be responsible for getting your sister home after school every day,” she says. “She can study while you have your tutoring sessions.”
Joey salutes her and walks quickly out the door before she can react.
In the garage, I hesitate before getting into the car.
I wasn’t worried when Maddie drove me, why would I worry about Joey driving me? I feel guilty for even thinking about it. But it’s making me think of that night. The last time I was in a car with him.
Joey touches my arm, like he knows.
“I’ll drive slow,” he says.
I open the door, slide in, my heart beating nervously.
I start talking quickly so I don’t have to hear the sound of my heart. “I can’t believe Mom got you such a nice car.”
Joey runs a hand over the seat leather. “I wish she hadn’t. I don’t think this is going to make a good impression, if you know what I mean. I liked Nana’s junky old car.” He backs down the driveway. “We should go see her soon.”
Joey revs the engine. I jump.
Luther was driving too fast, no seat belt, and I was shotgun and Candy and Joey were in the back and Candy kept saying she was scared and what was wrong with Joey and— “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I had to. I mean, this car…”
Concentrate, Emory, I tell myself. Fixed point on the horizon. Keep talking.
“Nana’s been upstate visiting Aunt Dory all summer. Dory had that hip replacement,” I say. “We don’t have the same lunch period, you know.”
“You don’t have to hold my hand for lunch.”
“I just—”
“I know.” He looks at me. “But I have to suck it up. You can’t do everything for me.”
I’m quiet, watching the rows of shops on Main Street pass by. Hank’s Hoagies, Kaminski’s Hardware, Betty’s Café with the potted flowers by the door and the painting hanging in the window of a black cat, with one white ear, lapping a milk shake. Mill Haven is neat and tidy, nothing out of place. The public library, stoic and brick, built by people in my family who died long ago. Everything in this town has a connection to me and I’ve still never felt at home here.
My stomach feels hot. Finally, I say, “Everyone is going to be, like, mad at us, I think. That’s what Tasha said.”
Joey bites his lip. “Maybe.”
“Mom wanted to send me to boarding school,” I say. “Did you know that? After it happened. She wanted to send you to military school. Maybe she was right. Maybe it would be better to be someplace nobody knows about us, or what happened.”
“No way am I getting shipped off to military school. I’d rather die than do that.”
Joey slows the car down. “Is that Liza?”
I look where he’s pointing. Liza Hernandez, my former best friend, is walking down the sidewalk, backpack jiggling, her hair almost as short as Joey’s. She’s in overalls. She’s been wearing them for two years straight.
Last year in PE, I heard her tell Mandy Hinkle, “I’m removing my body from the male gaze.”
Mandy said, “Okay, fine, but everybody can still see you, you know that, don’t you? They’re just imagining what’s underneath.”
Every time I see Liza, my heart hurts. Even though it’s been four years, it still hurts.
Joey pulls the car over.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Don’t!”
“Hey, Liza!” Joey rolls the window down. “You want a ride?”
Liza stops. She bends down to see into the car and deliberately looks past me, to Joey. I stare at my hands, my face burning.
“I did miss my bus,” she says, considering. “Fancy new ride, Joseph.”
“You know our mom.”
“I do. I remember her quite well. Her high standards.”
She lets that hang in the air.
It was my mom who severed my friendship with Liza, because of Liza’s parents. I don’t like thinking about that time.
But I wonder, now, if my mother might have more sympathy for what happened with Liza’s parents because of what happened with Joey.
“Yeah,” Liza says finally. “I’ll take a ride.” She opens the back passenger-side door and slides in.
Joey says, “You two going to acknowledge each other, or what?”
“Hello, Emory,” Liza says in a monotone voice.
“Hello, Liza,” I say back, in the very same way.
That’s the most we’ve spoken in four years.
Joey whistles. “All righty, then.”
* * *
—
When we pull into the parking lot, Liza says, “Thanks for the scintillating conversation and the sweet ride, Joseph. Stay out of trouble.” She pops out of the car and takes off.
That’s Liza for you. No one said anything the entire ride and she has to be snarky about it.
Joey and I stay in the car.
Eventually, I say, “We can leave. We’ve got this car. We can drive away, start a whole new life in the woods. Build a cabin with our bare hands. Live off the land.”
“Kind of did that all summer. Not as good as it sounds.”
My brother takes a deep breath. Pulls the hood of his jacket up.
“Let’s go.”
We walk through the parking lot. It only takes a few minutes for the stares and whispers to start. Joey keeps his head down.
We go through the metal detector. In the middle of the front hall, Joey stops abruptly, and I bump into his back. One guy walking past us suddenly looks over his shoulder. “Hey, man. Look at you, back from the dead.”
Joey says, “Hey, Noah.”
“You got Stetler this year for first period?”
Joey nods.
“Me too. Dude sucks. See you in a few?”
“Sure.”
“Rock on.” The lanky guy drifts down the hall.
“Friend?” I say. “Or foe?”
“That guy smokes a bowl just to wake up. Not a friend candidate,” Joey says, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulders. “If I don’t see you, meet at the car after?”
“Sure.”
We squeeze hands. He whispers, “Whatever happens, don’t react. Stay cool. Remember the ocean, Emmy.”
Then he lets go, turning left, while I turn right.
On my first day of freshman year, Joey pulled me aside in this very same hallway of Heywood High and leaned down, breath warm in my ear. I felt protected by the very heat of it. I’d spent most of the morning in the bathroom, my stomach in knots.