And maybe it’s just a reflex, but I can’t help but squeeze back.
Scene 8
Andy has a voice lesson after school, and my brother’s ghosting my texts. Which makes it a bus day for me. The one downside to not driving.
I’ve got my laptop crammed in my bag on top of my school stuff. I used to carry around this neon duffel on Dad’s house days, big enough to hold three nights’ worth of stuff. At this point, though, I barely have anything to drag around with me. Ryan and I tend to have two of most things—two phone chargers, two toothbrushes, two closets of clothes. And my guitar pretty much stays in the trunk of Ryan’s car. It’s pretty seamless by now.
When the bell rings, I get caught behind a pack of f-boys kicking a textbook across the floor. So I end up running to catch the bus, which leaves me breathless. Of course, I’m the last one on board.
Of all people, Noah Kaplan’s in the front seat, cheated out with his back to the window. He’s got his arm in a navy sling today, tucked up tight to his chest. Normally, Noah drives. And even before he could, he wouldn’t have been caught dead in the front. But I guess broken wrists put a damper on that f-boy lifestyle. I catch his eye, and he nods. “Bus life,” he says.
“Bus life,” I say. I settle in behind him and unwind my headphones. But the minute I tap into my music, Noah slides in beside me.
“So Anderson ditched you?”
“What? No—”
“Wow. He abandoned you.” Noah shakes his head. “Sentenced you to bus hell.”
“Anderson didn’t ditch me! He’s—”
“—moved on to bigger and better things. I get it. Sometimes we outgrow our friendships, Little Garfield.”
“Oh my God, you doofus.” I smack his shoulder. “He has a voice lesson.”
Noah does this scrunchy-nose grin and scoots an inch closer. I make a big show of turning away from him and popping in my earbuds.
“Here’s the thing, though,” Noah says.
I swear, this boy can’t go two consecutive seconds without talking.
He tips his palms up. “I don’t really get the point of voice lessons.”
“Great. You don’t have to.”
“Do they even work?” he asks. “Instruments, I get. You’re teaching a skill—”
“How is singing not a skill?”
“But like, either you can sing or you can’t, right? It’s not like you can just keep practicing till you’re Beyoncé.”
“No, but you can train.” I turn to face him. “You can improve your breath support, expand your range—”
“But why? What’s the endgame? I mean, yeah, if you’re going to Broadway or something, but 99.9 percent of people literally just end up singing in the shower, so—”
“Are you serious?” I yank out my earbuds. “That’s like saying what’s the point of playing high school baseball if you’re not going to join the MLB.”
Noah smiles hugely. “The MLB?”
“Major League Baseball?”
“Yeah, but you don’t say ‘the MLB.’”
“Why not?” I cross my arms. “You say the NFL, the NBA . . .”
Noah shakes his head, still beaming. “The MLB.”
“Anyway.” I side-eye him. “Unless you plan to play in the major leagues, you don’t get to say voice lessons are pointless.”
“Okay . . .” Noah nods, like he’s considering this. “But hear me out. Maybe the point of playing high school baseball has nothing to do with baseball itself. Maybe the whole point is, say, impressing girls.”
I shrug. “Maybe girls are more impressed by singing than they are by baseball.”
I glance at his sling, feeling suddenly guilty. Maybe I’m being too mean. Am I mean? Is it shitty to tease a baseball player about baseball when he can’t actually play baseball?
The bus stops at our street corner, and Noah scoots out, pausing to wait for me in the aisle. “Hey.” I look up at him. “Sorry you broke your arm.”
“Ah, yeah.” He smiles. “Life of an athlete. You know.”
“I totally know.” I make a grab for his backpack. “Hey, I can carry this.”
He laughs. “Little Garfield, you are not carrying my backpack.”
“You don’t think I can handle two backpacks?” I follow him off the bus and fall into step beside him. “I can handle ten backpacks. You don’t even know what I’m capable of.”
Scene 9
Turns out, Ryan’s home. Dad too—he leaves work early on Wednesdays when he can. He’s a lawyer, but not the kind who sues people. He does family law, like divorces and custody and child support. Truly an area of expertise for Neil Garfield, PC, who himself is a divorcé, joint custodian, and child Supporter.
“Hiya, Peapod.”
Why yes, I’m sixteen years old and my father calls me Peapod. Apparently, that’s what I looked like when I was six weeks old in a swaddle. A pea pod.
The dogs burst into the kitchen, so Ryan must have picked them up from Mom’s house right after school. Charles is so excited, he’s vibrating. I’d say we’re at threat level yellow for Charles peeing on the floor.
Dad scoops up Charles with one arm, letting him lick his chin long past the point where it’s cute. And then Dad uses his other hand to give Camilla a deep tissue massage on her hips. Now Camilla’s leaning so hard into her butt rub, she’s curved into a question mark, and Dad’s entire neck is owned by dachshund spit. It’s a classy situation.
“So how did it go?” Dad gently deposits Charles on the hardwoods.
“How did what go?”
“Auditions. The musical.”
“Auditions haven’t happened yet. Not till next Thursday.”
Dad’s not good with details. He’s the opposite of Mom in that way. But he’s the one I physically resemble. Ryan too. Everyone says that. Not in the hair, because he’s pretty bald, though pictures prove he had a mop of hair just like Ryan and me when he was in college. But he’s got the round cheeks and hazel eyes and heart-shaped mouth.
I ditch Dad and the dogs and head upstairs to my brother’s room. Ryan gets one warning knock before I open it, but by now I know better than to wait for permission. He’s a chronic knock-ignorer.
He’s tucked into a gamer chair, thumbing an Xbox controller and wearing the headphones our grandma got him last Chanukah. Ryan’s room is honestly a teen boy wonderland, even though the décor hasn’t changed since elementary school: blank chalkboard walls punctuated by framed athletic jerseys, a Fathead decal of the Atlanta Falcons logo, and a giant Bulbasaur made from neon lights. But there’s no mess anywhere, ever. I swear, Ryan’s an even bigger neat freak than Anderson. His room at Mom’s house has two twin beds, and even though he only sleeps in one of them, he always makes them both. If Ryan stays local for college next year, he’ll probably come home every day, just to keep changing his unused sheets.
He cracks his eyes open when I walk in and slides his headphones off, looking at me expectantly, like what do you want. Like he can’t even comprehend a world where a sister might pop into her brother’s room with no ulterior motive. It’s insulting. Also accurate.