The Homecoming Read online

I hold my breath and open the door to my room.

  My room is exactly as I left it, and I’m not sure how that’s supposed to make me feel. Does that mean Mom wanted me to come back? Or did Ryan take up so much of her time that she never got around to changing it? I decide the first makes me happier, so that’s what I’m going to believe. Look at me making good choices. Uncle Dave and Steve would be proud.

  I start to unpack so when Mom comes in to inspect, she’ll see that I’m doing what I told her I came here to do: starting over. And starting over begins with a clean and orderly room.

  I open my drawers and shove sweaters and T-shirts in one. Pants in another. Underwear on top. A place for everything. My eyes trail over the things I left behind when I was ten. Pictures of the family. All of us together. Before. Then after. Single pictures of us. Or forced ones of Livy, Ryan, and me. A small turtle box I’d gotten on one of my trips with Uncle Dave. He always took me and Livy to the aquarium or the zoo or the science and space museum when he visited. Said even though Ryan needed therapy, we all needed to be kids. I lift the lid and am hit with a whirlwind of memories.

  I pull out a tiger shark’s tooth, a small plaster fossil of a velociraptor’s claw, and the silver necklace Uncle Dave helped me make. It has a dragon in the middle and stars surrounding him. I used to call him Maia Cetus. He was my own personal dragon of protection. I named him after one of the dinosaurs we saw, the maiasaura, the good mother dinosaur, and a constellation that Dad showed me once. Uncle Dave laughed when I told him the name. He said I was a really cool kid, but looking back, I was a dork. Still, as my fingers go over the medallion, I feel my dragon’s presence, like he’d been waiting for me to come home too. How stupid is that?

  I put on the necklace. The leather cord feels good around my neck. I take all the family pictures and throw them in the top drawer. In their place, I put up my pictures. A funny picture of Livy and me from the last time I saw her, six months ago, when Dad and I both came in for her school play. A panoramic of Chicago. Some of the buildings there are so big and striking that just standing next to them made me feel like a different person. A better one maybe. One whose heart wasn’t always so jacked up and crushed that I needed a constant supply of calm-down pills or drinks—or both.

  Finally, I put up a picture of my favorite beach in California. Malibu. I’ve never been there, of course, but Leah told me about it. She said the water was a permanent shade of aquamarine blue, so pretty it looked unreal. I remember we had just smoked some of my Blue Haze. She was lying on the bed with me, our eyes closed, her voice like a breeze. Leah said the water was ice-cold, and if you walked straight into it without a wet suit, it would take your breath away.

  The visions of that beach stay with me as I hang my jacket and a few shirts in the closet. My foot bangs into a box that’s been shoved toward the back. I bend down and trace my fingers over Mom’s writing. She must have packed this box after she kicked me out of the house. K’NEX. LEGOs. Transformers. John. The words punch me in the gut. These weren’t just my toys; they were Ryan’s too, but after the accident, Ryan never wanted to play with them anymore. And then I realize why I am persona non grata in my house. I killed everything good. There’s no coming back from that.

  I sit on my bed, my head in my hands, and try not to cry like a baby. Honestly, sometimes, it’s too damned much.

  My phone beeps. Uncle Dave. The important thing is to keep moving forward. Keep your eyes ahead of you. Stay in the now.

  It’s eerie how that man gets me, how he knows just when to find me.

  Beep. Nothing is ever as cut and dried as you think. Stay open to the possibility that you don’t know everything.

  I rub my eye with the heel of my hand. Text back. I don’t think I know everything. I just think I know everything worth knowing. One of our inside jokes.

  He sends me one of those stupid emojis. A dog holding flowers or some shit.

  I text back. Wtf?

  Trying to get my emoji on. The ladies love that.

  To which I text, Save some for the rest of us. Another Uncle Dave joke.

  I lie back on my bed and try to erase the image of that box in my closet. I picture that beach Leah loved. I pretend I’m walking out into the ocean, letting the shock of the water numb my body. I’d float for as long as I could take it and then bake in the sun on the beach. Maybe I’d stop feeling everything. The Ryan stuff. The Mom stuff. Even the Leah stuff. I’m exhausted from lacrosse practice, worn out from being back here with all my family’s issues, and I close my eyes and fall into a dark cavern of sleep.

  Chapter 4

  I wake up five minutes before my alarm goes off, my mind still full of Leah from my dreams. I don’t remember what they were about, but I’m happy until I remember it’s not real. She’s not here, and she never will be again. Boulders pile on top of my chest and then more on top of those. It hurts to breathe.

  I thrust myself out of bed and drop to the floor. Do twenty-five push-ups. One hundred and fifty crunches. Twenty-five more push-ups. My form sucks, but I’ll take it for now. On my way to the shower, I’m already planning my next workout when the sound of the coffee grinder jolts me. Coffee. How can something as simple as homemade coffee completely unhinge me? I grit my teeth and swallow the memory as the freezing cold shower punishes me for being weak and trusting that good feeling when I woke up.

  I’m dressed in no time and down the stairs, where I find my lacrosse bag packed and ready for me.

  Mom sits on a barstool at the counter but swivels to face me as I walk into the kitchen. “You want me to take you in today?” She sips her coffee.

  Mom sitting, serenely drinking coffee, is such a surreal image that my mind has trouble making sense of the scene. Toast pops up in the toaster, and we almost bump into each other as I reach for the butter and jelly. She knocks me with her butt, like she’s playing around with me, like she used to before Ryan’s accident. I’m almost convinced I’ve walked through a wormhole or had a seizure in the shower or something.

  “John?” She snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. “I asked if you wanted me to take you in today. I don’t mind. Rosie’ll be here soon, and I’ll be back in time to see Livy off.”

  My heart is leaning toward her, hoping for some maternal sign, but now her face is concerned and annoyed. “John?”

  “No. I’m good. Emily said she’d give me a ride.”

  She brings her coffee to her lips. Sips without making any noise. Her voice is throaty and small, as if she’d been up a lot last night. But she’s got this sarcastic little smirk on her face. “You always were so damned self-sufficient.”

  Part of me wants to answer Mom back, all smart-aleck, but then she says, “Wait.” I turn to find her with a to-go cup of coffee and a bagged lunch. “Your dad said you like it now.”

  She means the coffee, but my heart jams at the sight of the lunch. Dad used to hand me money in the morning. Every morning. An insane amount usually. It was how I financed the start of my little drug-dealing business. But he never, not one time in the seven years, made me lunch. And for, like, the hundredth time, I’m a mess of emotions.

  “John? You OK?” Mom puts her hand on my forehead like I’m a little kid. “You’re freezing.” She rubs my arms like she used to when I was younger. I’m stunned silent. For a second, I let myself want my mother’s comfort as if it’s OK for me to be weak around her. She moves the hair out of my eyes. “I’ve missed you.” Her eyes well. “I know this isn’t what you wanted or how you planned things, but I’m glad you’re back.”

  Emily honks, breaking the spell. My eyes go to the door, and I get up to pitch the rest of my toast, but I feel the need to offer my own truce.

  “Hey, Mom, I was just thinking about the coffee. You know, like mother, like son.”

  Her eyes hold me in place. She nods with the hint of a smile, making me feel like a good son for once. “Like mother,
like son.”

  I’m almost out the door when I stop. “Hey. Did Ryan have a bad night? I didn’t hear him.”

  “No, Sweetie. He slept. Have a good day at school.”

  Her answer confuses me, because she looks so ragged, but maybe she’s paying for the cumulative effect of sleepless nights. And for all the stressing about me. Before. And after. And now. I push through the front door, convinced I can make life a little easier for her by doing well in school. Even though it sort of shocks the shit out of me that I want to.

  • • •

  Emily waves as I get closer to the silver Camry. I open the door.

  “Hey.” She smiles at me, then beats the dashboard of her car. “Stupid fan doesn’t work.”

  “Beating it helps?”

  “No, but it’s my only play. Thankfully, it’s not cold yet. We are going to be icicles if I don’t get it fixed before then.” She puts the car in reverse, waves at the radio. “Pick your poison.”

  “This is fine.” Even though she’s got on some inane talk show where the disc jockeys are doing stupid bits and laughing at their own jokes, which I totally hate.

  Emily turns out of our neighborhood just as one of the guys on the radio dares another to let him shoot him with a paint gun. As if that proves how tough they are. I grunt without meaning to.

  Emily points to the radio. “They’re idiots, I know. But they crack me up.”

  “That’s good.” I let the streets slip by, trying like mad not to associate this road with anything. Not with Pete and his brother. Not with Ryan’s accident. Definitely not the memory of running from my house, my mother screaming, “John, what’s wrong with you?”

  It’s been seven years since that happened. These memories need to leave me alone and shut the eff up or I’m going to need to find a new supplier. Stat. I stare at my cell. Pete’s friend still hasn’t texted me. I start to hum the melody from Blackbird, strumming the riff on the leg of my pants.

  Emily’s eyes shoot to my hands. “You nervous?”

  The answer to that question is a definite yes. But not nervous about normal teenage crap. I’m nervous about messing up again. About being kicked out again. I’m not going to let that happen. I’ve got to keep my cool.

  “It’s hard to start over, right? I mean, senior year at a new school.” She bites her lip like maybe she feels she’s said something she shouldn’t.

  “I’m good,” I say. “How hard could high school be?” I want to kick myself for sounding so effing needy.

  “Wow. I’m impressed. Also, thanks to me, we’re here super early, so you’ve got some time to get yourself ready.” She shoots me this sympathetic look, as if she gets what I’m going through. Which makes me all edgy and raw.

  I stare at the empty parking lot. It’s seriously empty. Like we showed up on the wrong date for a concert empty. Then she gets a text that makes her chew on her nail.

  My turn to be concerned, but I’m not sure it’s cool for me to ask, so instead, I say, “Thanks for the ride.”

  She’s still looking at her cell. I wait. A few cars pull into the teachers’ parking lot, and the sound of car doors shutting seems to jolt her back to life. “Oh, sorry.” She shows me her phone before stowing it in her purse. “My cousin. No big deal.” Except her face isn’t registering no big deal at all.

  She opens her door, and I do the same. The ground feels as if it’s moving under me, and I grab that stupid dragon medallion I put on last night. Like a weak little kid, I hold on tight to the talisman that helped me through the days after Ryan’s accident.

  “You know,” I say as we start toward the building, “I could look at that fan for you. I’m pretty good with cars.”

  “Really?” Her voice goes up an octave in that sweet girl way. “That would be great.”

  “Sure. We’ll do it this afternoon.”

  “We both have practice or have you forgotten already?”

  My sore muscles and huge lacrosse bag should have reminded me. “This weekend?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “No, but you will.”

  I smile and sell her on this whole lovable bad boy act; meanwhile, the chemically deprived part of my brain, the seriously fucking jonesing for a little pot or a little Jack part of my brain, is scheming. Because car supply stores? They’re usually close to liquor stores and bars that don’t look too close at your ID. I think about the fake ID the cops confiscated in Chicago and the one I have hidden in my drawer. I remember the smug look the hard-assed cop had as he told me that he was doing me a favor, disarming me like that. “It’s a lot harder to act like an ass without the beer bravado,” he’d said, getting a big chuckle out of it. Then the younger cop laughed too, and I felt like slamming my fist in his stupid smirk.

  Emily smiles at me one more time as we make our way through the courtyard, and she plants me in front of the main office. Part of me feels like a fraud, but I haven’t done anything bad yet. Thinking about doing bad things doesn’t count. If it did, we’d all be in jail.

  Chapter 5

  English IV is exactly as exciting as I thought it would be. The class’s got three of my teammates in it—Brandon, Parker, and Will—so that means I’m expected to sit near the back with the rest of the lacrosse players.

  The teacher is this thin old guy, Mr. Francis. He walks back and forth, a copy of Great Expectations cracked opened in his hands as he speaks. I stare at the book as if it’s the ghost of my girlfriend. Why did it have to be that book?

  “We’ve got to get our new student caught up,” he says. “Who can tell John about this fine literature we are studying?”

  Something hits me in the back. Snickers sound behind me. I bend down and pick up the paper wad, shooting the guys who threw it the bird as I do. A girl in front of me laughs. I tell myself I’m totally in control. It’s just a book. A stupid effing coincidence. I need to keep my shit together.

  “Dominique,” Mr. Francis says. “Please share what is so funny about Charles Dickens’s classic?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Francis.” She tries to keep the laughter out of her voice, but it’s unmistakable.

  “Do you want to come up here and tell us about the novel?”

  “Only if the new guy comes with me.” She flashes me a smile that should make my day, but I’m kind of immune to girls coming on to me. Back when I lived with Dad, they flirted with me for my drug connections. Here, it’s all about landing the new guy, I’m sure. And in this class with that book, I’m definitely not going up there with her or anyone else.

  Catcalls. My boys are clapping and whistling for me.

  “Nah. I’m good.” I hold up my hand, hoping she’ll withdraw her proposition. Knowing she probably won’t. My stomach tightens. I can’t break to pieces in front of the entire class. I force myself to think of the sound of the coffee grinder that morning, right before the accident. The sound. The smell. And just like that, the dragon inside me roars and cauterizes my weakness till I no longer care about Mom or Leah or any girl who’s stupid enough to try to get close to me.

  Mr. Francis snaps his fingers. “John? We’re waiting for you.”

  When did he walk back to my chair?

  I stand up straight, forcing Mr. Francis to back up. I swagger to the front of the room, not because I’m that cool but mostly because I’m incredibly sore from working out. Dominique shines this smile on me as Mr. Francis follows me up the aisle and hands each of us a book. The minute the paperback is in my hands, the feeling of total and complete loss pours into me despite my tough guy defense. I run my hand through my hair and hope I just look nervous and maybe a little annoyed.

  Will laughs his ass off, and Brandon calls, “Own it, Strickland.”

  Mr. Francis shoots them a warning look. “Dominique? You’ve got something to say?”


  Dominique curls the ends of her long brown hair with her finger. “Great Expectations is about a guy who’s in love with a girl who is way too good for him.”

  Laughter erupts, and even Mr. Francis cracks a smile. She faces the class, her hands palms up, accepting the crowd’s cheers. Which everyone happily gives her. Everyone but me, because I’m super uncomfortable, to say the least.

  He shakes his head. “OK, you both may sit. Who can add to Dominique’s synopsis?” No hands go up. “How about you, Will?”

  Will shifts in his seat. “The guy tries to make himself better for her.”

  Mr. Francis motions to continue. “Keep going. Sarah?”

  “He goes away to become a proper gentleman.” A light laughter ripples through the class. “And then comes back for his love.”

  They are wasting their time trying to catch me up. I’ve read Great Expectations three times. The first time with Leah. Then twice right after she died. (Killed herself.) I remember the feel of her head on my shoulder as I read it to her that first time, both of us lying in my bed. Totally chill. Me flipping the pages. Her warning me, “You can’t read ahead. Promise me.”

  Her hair smelled like mangoes. I’d breathe it in when I read. Would stop to deliver the bests lines slowly, because when we got to the sad parts, she’d let out this soft little breath that made me want to wrap her up and keep her safe.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and draw blood, using that metallic taste to bring me back to the classroom where Mr. Francis is looking straight at me. “John? You with us?”

  Laughs again. This class is like a bunch of hyenas.

  I clear my throat. Try to think of a smart-ass response, but I’ve got nothing.

  Will comes to my defense. “His head might be somewhere else.” He shoots a glance in Dominique’s direction, and she pretends to be offended by the attention she clearly craves.

  “All right, all right. Let’s settle down. Who wants to start reading? We are on chapter ten.”