Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  As the minutes -maybe even hours- pass the temperature continues to rise. And rise. As they do in the summertime.

  Songbirds flit about and sing high in the tree branches. Little animals chatter and reveal themselves by bounding up the rough trunk of one tree to leap to the next. Squirrels. They move in quick flashes such that Lester only barely catches the swish of their tails like capes behind them. Insects chirp and whine from places unseen in the undergrowth. He has been standing still for long enough that a wild rabbit cautiously edges up to the bike trail to graze on the delicate grass shielded from the harsh sun by the canopy above.

  The woods are calm though the heat is nearly stifling.

  Drops of sweat roll down his back under his jersey and he knows he has some crazy swamp ass by now. His feet are going numb and tingling in his cleats.

  Shivering despite the heat, Lester removes one hand from his bat- but doesn't lower it- to grab his phone. He clumsily slams his thumb about the apps on his screen as if he has never seen technology before, let alone operated it. Time passes, at some point he has his phone against his ear. He is calling someone. There are only so many people he calls in Year of Our Lord, 2019. 

  "Yo, where the fuck are you, dude?"

  TJ. Lester clears his throat. His mouth suddenly drier than he ever thought possible. "Hey."

  "Is there a reason you're blowing us off? Where even are you?"

  "I'm uh-" he tries to clears his throat again but a strangled sound comes out instead. "I'm uh-"

  "For fuck's- get off me, dipshit! Hold on, Lester. Hey, move. Move." On the other end, he can hear other boys grumbling and a couple glass clinks that make him weirdly jumpy. There's the distinct creak and thump of a door. It suddenly gets much quieter on TJ's end. "What gives?"

  "I'm on the trail."

  "What? How? Your game fucking ended an hour ago. What're you even doing out there?"

  "I need help."

  "Like what-"

  "I really fucked up, Teej. Like, extreme even by our standards."

  "Oh shit." He swears quietly. "Don't go anywhere. I'll find you and we'll- uh... figure it out. Is it your bike? Should I bring stuff to fix it?"

  "This is pretty big. Way... way big."

  "So? We've fucked up pretty bad before. How bad can it be?"

  Lester has no words. TJ exhales and swears even more quietly than before.

  "I'll be there in a minute. Don't do anything crazy." The line goes dead.

  He lowers his phone with a shaky exhale.

  Read: come on dude. 

  Read: don't be a pussy.

  Teeg: Yeah bro.

  Teeg: get down here now!

  Teeg: LFG

  Lester rolls his eyes at the last message and continues to quietly pull his shoes on. Which means he doesn't respond fast enough for his friends' liking, because Reed immediately sends him the emoji they refer to as Dweeb. Seven times.

  Lisp: would you stfu? 

  Lisp: god-fucking-damn it! Let me put my shoes on, you nag.

  Read: Kip, I got fussed at.

  Teeg: I saw. I laughed.

  Read: boooooooooo

  Lester finally gets his sneakers laced up and quietly tiptoes down the stairs. There is a next to zero percent chance that he would ever be caught sneaking out, but he prides himself on putting in the effort anyway. The treads don't creak and the front door doesn't stick. He passes by the smiling faces of his older sisters- all four- on the way. It's too dark to see the pictures but the glass gleams in the low light. His is the last before the coatrack since he is the youngest, but it's finally a good picture of him playing baseball rather than some dorky school photo.

  He closes the door quietly behind himself and is pleased that the air is refreshingly cool after the miserable heat earlier. The deadbolt locks with a reassuring thunk but he jostles the handle anyway to be double sure.

  Reed and TJ await on foot on the sidewalk. Lester freezes. "I thought we were going out?"

  "And what's this," Reed gestures to the open air over their heads.

  The brunet rolls his eyes. TJ does the same and silently raises the metal gas can he had concealed by his side. "Fancy a stroll, Pama?"

  It is then that Lester realizes the band of black looping across TJ's chest is not a design on his shirt but a tube. "Again?"

  "Not all of us live a white picket fence lifestyle," Reed raps his knuckles on the actual white picket fence enclosing the front yard. "We got shit to do this weekend, remember?"

  Lester is less careful about opening and closing the gate quietly when he joins up with his friends. TJ seems to know where they're going as he picks a direction and starts walking. "Fucking Frank refilled his car from my stash. I don't even know how he found it."

  "What about your gym job? Don't you make anything from that?"

  "Not enough to cover expenses and stuff I was, you know... whatever." He shrugs, "but I saw one of those big-ass band vans cruising around earlier. If we find it, we can fill this thing up in one go and no one will be any the wiser."

  Reed chimes back into the conversation. "I saw some dude get out of it earlier and talk to the guy who runs a music shop Teej likes to lurk around."

  "I don't lurk," TJ scoffs, "it's a store. You're supposed to browse."

  "Browsing is for people who have money to buy stuff," Lester argues, "you're broke so you're a lurker."

  "A loiterer," Reed adds.

  "Bold talk coming from dudes who are slower than me when they know I'm about to have a can full of gasoline and no witnesses."

  "We've seen your grades," Lester chuckles, "no one is slower than you, Kip."

  "My grades are low by choice. Unlike your ooga-booga-ass eyebrow ridge." Reed cackles. TJ turns on him with a snort, "I know you're not laughing, five-head."

  With a bark of laughter, Lester adds, "Reed, your hairline is up so high the FAA is going to require you wear a reflective headband at night."  

  It continues on this way for blocks. Half of Lester's friendship with these boys is spent roasting each other within inches of their lives. He occasionally checks in with their surroundings to ensure they don't trip over a squad car or stagger into another set of freaks in the night. Shadyside- especially the western half that locals refer to as New Shadyside- is generally quiet and unassuming. Quaint brick storefronts with broad windows now all barred shut for the evening. Residual warmth rolls up from the pavement but is otherwise swept away by the air's stir.

  TJ stops abruptly and nods ahead to a store two intersections down. "That's it."

  Red Rooster. Lester tilts his head. "I think this is the first time I've seen this place."

  "I think it's new," the taller boy shrugs.

  And parked on the curb is a big behemoth of a van. All black with Renaissance Boys painted on the side in big letters. Curtains are drawn over the windows from the inside and Lester is able to infer that the musicians might be inside asleep. This is a bad idea.

  But when has that ever stopped them? 

  They approach as casually as possible in a bid to blend into the night. A feat that would have been easier if they weren't thirteen. Perhaps if they weren't brandishing an empty gas can and a siphon hose, too. Still, they keep quiet and step lightly. Straining to listen, Lester leans towards the back doors so his ear hovers just above the metal. Something- or someone- rumbles inside but he hears no voices and no music. Reed sidles along the passenger side to peer in the windows and gives the thumbs up so TJ can carefully maneuver fuel door open and painstakingly unscrew the gas cap.

  Reed waits for him finish feeding the hose into the tank, hand wrapped around the end of it so that he doesn't have to put his mouth directly on the gas soaked rubber, and suck in once before making a quiet but lewd moaning sound. TJ shoots him a murderous look while Lester turns his head away and slaps his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. They can hear the steady stream of fuel pouring into the can. "What can I say, Teej?" Reed stops to to muffle his own laughter. "I knew you gave good neck."

  "That's what your mom said-"

  "'Lo?" A man's voice calls from inside. Lester's heart drops. "Anyone out there?"

  TJ quickly reels his hose back in, spilled gas be damned. Another voice murmurs inside. In a panic, he slaps the cap on his can and hoists it up to sprint away. Empty space inside audibly sloshing around while Lester and Reed follow behind in silent horror. "Hey! What're you- hey!"

  They scamper off into the darkened streets. Days later they'll discover that surveillance footage caught blurry, murky images of them. More cryptids than boys. The clip is mere seconds and too grainy to reveal any details about them, but it runs on the local news anyway. Lester watches the segment with his parents while wolfing down his breakfast. "Dangerous world we live in," Dad notes, "remember that the next time we say 'no' to you going out with your friends at night."

  The boy manages a nod. "Yeah, Dad."  

  There is a foggy, dream-like state that Lester reviews the actions of his day to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong.

  He woke up extra early to be down at the Joyner-Kersee Athletic Fields before the sun came up. A quick breakfast of toast and turkey bacon steaming hot from the microwave. He drowned his toast in honey like always and ate one handed while balancing on his bike. They- the Mustangs- had a long practice/warm-up and then a game in the midmorning. He suddenly can't remember much of either event.

  Dad asked if he wanted a ride back home after the game but he declined so he could hang out with the guys. He didn't even change out of his uniform but shoved all of his gear into the trunk of the car. Everything but his bat. Lester has trouble remembering where he was supposed to meet his friends.

  Because the man showed up, instead.

  Here, his memory sharpens. The wave of soul-incinerating fear as the man stepped out from the brush and onto the path. Lumbering out of the shadows like a bear from a cave and then looming over boy and bike like something much more sinister. Grinning, teeth pearly white against vaguely red whiskers like some sort of cryptid. Long limbs and big hands to grasp at Lester's handlebars to prevent his forward progression. To cut off a wheeled escape. Terror scorched a pit in his chest and abdomen and worked its way to his fingers and toes.

  He dumped himself off his bike. Scrambling and stumbling but somehow staying on his feet. He may have slipped on the leaf litter were it not for his cleats. He may have tumbled over a bush were it not for the fact the bike path had been widened from the increasing number of people using the trail this year. He may have been grabbed before he got to his bat were it not for the fact the man was still holding the bike. Instead, the man huffed as if with irritation and slung the bike away on its side so it was no longer a obstacle between them.

  With the protective barrier gone, nothing stopped the man striding forward again.

  Nothing but solid lumber, that is. 

  The first blow caught the man in mid stride and halved him where he stood. With a sound that was equal parts moaning, yelping, and gasping the man went to his knees in the dirt. Hunching forward to clutch his abdomen in his arms. Face bowing downwards as if in prayer. His is a raspy, breathy "don't-"

  But the plea came fractions of a second too late.

  Unfortunately, when he raised his head, it put his scalp roughly level with Lester's letters. The rest of the skull soundly in the strike zone. Barrel and head met with the thunderous crack that Coach Reyes said will win him the title at the county Slugfest this season. The body flopped backyards. Knees bent together and twisting to one side while his chest and face aimed skyward. Panting, the boy clung to his bat and waited.

  Waited while the gurgling stopped. Waited while the jittery movement of limbs ceased. Now only an unfocused gaze meets Lester's own. Still, he grips his bat tighter preps his stance like the man is about to pitch a missile at him. He doesn't take his eyes off the body. Not even as he spits up in his own mouth and swallows it.

  He's really, really fucked up this time.

  Life's sounds swell around him. More rabbits spring from miniscule clearing to clearing with such light steps the dry brush barely rattles under their paws. A raven chortles. Then, distantly, the familiar rattle of bicycle tires. Lester manages to tear his eyes away from the body to glance up the path for TJ. A moment of icy dread washes over him. What if TJ brought Reed- notoriously bad with secrets- or someone else? 

  Benjamin Franklin once wrote that three may keep a secret if two are dead. 

  Lester hopes three and one will suffice.

  "Bro," TJ slows to a stop. He looks utterly bewildered as he takes in his friend's appearance. "What are you doing?"

  A second passes as Lester is hopelessly without words. Fortunately, TJ seems to have suddenly noticed the problem, eyes snapping down and off the trail to the corpse and widening. Horrified comprehension contorts his expression and has him wobbling on his stopped bike. There is no mistaking the sight as anything else. Blood coats the man's lips and mats in his beard. Unnatural stillness compounds the effect. "Oh, shit!"

  "Help me."

  The words sound too monotone and too... strange even to Lester's own ears. Foreign.

  TJ pivots his gaze between the body and the boy slowly.

  "Help."

  Then comes an even more bizarre reply. "Okay."

  It's Saturday.

  Not only is it Saturday, but it's a mild Spring day. The sun is bright and the grass is green and a little overgrown. The old mower died two weeks ago and Mom and Dad cannot agree on whether or not to replace it with an electric or gas one. Not that anyone cares. A game of soccer- or futbol- is underway with makeshift goals assembled on either side. Adults and children alike partake in the skirmishes, though the adults usually do so while balancing a drink in their hand. Paper ribbons hung from the eaves sway in the breeze. Music melds with the joyful noise of play and hum of conversation.

  And Lester doesn't want to leave his room.

  He takes a moment to catch his breath and watch his ceiling fan's blades spin lazy circles. Between it and his open window, his room must be the coolest in the house. Dad complains about his only son's need for cold. Lester thinks he should take it up with the Norse European White Lady he married and chose to produce offspring with. In the Punnett Square of Preferences, it would seem an aversion to frost is a recessive trait. Dad gets cold just seeing snow on tv. Mom is one of those that one might spot walking into a grocery store in bike shorts during a blizzard.

  The cold focuses Lester. Stills and calms the rushing outpour of his thoughts into a trickling stream. He breathes in and holds it before exhaling. 

  Then resumes his quest to grab his league's trophy- they placed second- and looks it over. They got his name right and that in itself is a small victory. Lester Pama is challenging, it seems, and so he has received different names over the years. Lester Puma, Lester Palmer, and the rare Lester Palmeiro.

  Dad loved being Puma. Through high school and college his nickname was Big Cat. The boy can't help but find it ironic. Dad and his side of the family are short and dark. Wide cheekbones and broad noses of their native ancestry. Black hair and eyes frequently as dark. Dad is strong and fit, but big? No.

  Today is a birthday celebration with his Pama half. It's rare that any of them comes out this far to visit, even rarer that there are so many of his Argentinian relations in town. It isn't anyone's birthday, not really, but Lester's is next week so his parents have decided to commemorate the occasion today. He wishes this were just a random house party or a reunion more than anything in the world.

  It's too much fuss about himself. Too much attention and too much... too much.

  His skin crawls at the thought of having to answer every question under the sun. His school, his grades, his hobbies, and have to drag this trophy down there as a testament to his own accomplishments. To hear it all back in Spanish spoken faster than his comprehension can keep up with for those who are not fluent in English. To pretend to not care that his relatives will say stuff about him and he won't understand but know it all the same. 

  Lester feels like an asshole, but God, does he hate this kind of thing.

  Steeling himself, he leaves his bedroom and trots down to the first floor. The acrid smell of something burnt to a char meets his nose before he even sees the wispy plume of white-grey smoke from the kitchen. "Ah, damnit!" Mom grouses just as their fire detector starts beeping, "yeah! I know! I know I burnt it!"

  He considers using the apparent kitchen disaster as his out from socializing.

  Then the thought is banished by a pair of small hands moving him aside and a tiny woman hustling past him. He isn't sure who she is, but he thinks she is a cousin. "Go outside, Ignacio. I'll help your mother."

  Lester sighs, gazes down at his trophy, then through the window into the backyard. 

  Still, he makes the effort for his parents' sake. He is made the center of attention and does his utmost to describe his life and keep smiling. Dad claps him on his back no fewer than ten times. One of his uncles has him take a sip from his beer and then they all act very scandalized afterwards. Teasing him in a way that needs no translation. Grandmother remarks that he's too skinny. Grandfather says nothing, but keeps his eyes razor focused on Lester. Tiny, black beads of infinite scrutiny beneath furrowed brows. 

  Lester wonders if the old man can tell, too.

  TJ takes the bat.

  Lester relinquishes it immediately and discovers the muscles in his hands are sore. His palms are so drenched in his own sweat the fingertips are going pruney. The two stare at each other before TJ breaks eye contact to rotate the barrel of the bat. They both gasp at the streak of rust-red encrusted on it. The blond asks, "dude, what- what happened?"

  "He just-," Lester pauses to swallow another sudden mouthful of bile, "he just came out of nowhere. Out from behind a tree. I think?"

  "You think," TJ repeats and begins looking around the ground. For what, his friend isn't sure. More blood or footprints, possibly.

  There are lots of places a person could stand concealed out here. The tree trunks and amongst the long shadows they cast. Places where the darkness gets deeper and the foliage a little more full and rough could hide an adult. Lester racks his brain for how he encountered the dead man. Is it possible that he hadn't been inattentive enough that a full grown man had been standing in plain sight and he hadn't noticed? No, that's not a face he could see and forget. "Yeah. Yeah, that must have been it. I didn't see him when I started riding through."

  "You think he was waiting for you? Or, like... you know, any kid to catch?"

  The brunet shrugs but can't bring himself to say anything. TJ looks at the dead body. "You ever seen this guy before?" But then instantly answers his own question with a scoff, "yeah, stupid question, I know. Of course you didn't otherwise you wouldn't have hit him."

  "What do we do?"

  TJ's answer is swift and decisive. "We leave him."

  "What," Lester squawks in horror, "we gotta do something! Like, bury him or melt his-"

  His friend whirls on him and grabs him by the shoulders. "Bro, listen to me; my mother loves those fucking crime scene shows. Like, the real life ones about so-and-so being killed by some fucking asshole somewhere. If I have learned anything from those shows it's that, the more you do to hide a crime, the more evidence you leave behind. Burying him means moving his bloody body around and getting shovels and losing time. Dumping him in the river or in the gorge is even riskier."

  Lester furrows his brow.

  "This is lowkey perfect." TJ states, "stranger-on-stranger. Hard to solve with no motive and no witnesses and no history."

  "But- but how would leaving him-" the nauseas pit in Lester's stomach has taken root and grown into a tree. He feels the prickly chill fill his veins and sting his dry eyes. Sweat continues rolling down his back in fat drops that catch at his waistline.

  The blond releases him to stand his bike upright again and keeps the bat in his other hand. "Did you touch him? Did he touch you?"

  "Uh, just now? No, just my handlebars."

  If TJ thinks the reply is weird, he doesn't show it. "Cool. We just need to clean the bat and we'll wipe down your handlebars with something oily. He'll get found sometime tomorrow or the next day. Your parents think you were with us, and you were."

  And the insanity is catching, because Lester suddenly thinks this is as good an idea as any. Numbly he climbs back up onto his bike and follows his friend down the bike path. Away from the body and the crimes committed there. In a few minutes, the forest will resume its normal murmur. The dryness of summer means that neither bike tires nor footsteps will leave and traces on the pack soil. Even if it had, the leaves and growths will obscure most everything but what can be immediately discerned at a glance; a commonly used bike trail that no one individual can solely be tied to.

  Lester used to wonder what made a friend. When he was little, he couldn't really see a difference between the tee ball team and kids he hung out with at school, versus kids his parents called his friends. Couldn't they all be his friends? Couldn't anyone he met be his friend? 

  When his mother asked how many he friends he had, he used to say he wasn't sure. I thought my classmates were my friends. His mother would run her fingers through his hair, starting at his forehead and brushing back to the crown of his head before saying, "of course they are. Do you play with any of them outside of practice and school?"

  With some, he did. Mom said those boys were like his best friends. Friends he was more close to than others and hung out with often.

  His father would jovially reply, "a best friend is someone you would call to help you get rid of a dead body."

  Mom swatted Dad's arm, "Santiago! Don't even joke about such things!"

  At the time, Lester had serious concerns about what happens to a boy growing up that he might need to know someone who would dispose of a corpse for him. Later he wondered if he would have to do that for a friend. Probably Reed, when he thought about it. He hopes TJ would kill on purpose and hopefully with a plan that did not require his help. Or anyone's, for that matter. 

  For years he forgot about it. The conversation about which of his friends he'd call to get rid of a body faded from his mind. Hidden by a semi-opaque wall of the passage of time.

  Until today. 

  Lester is not looking forward to graduating elementary school.

  Primarily because he is so unnerved by everyone else's inexplicable excitement. Initially, he thought it was something of a meme delivered ironically. Surely no one in their right mind actually thought anything was different about going from sixth grade to seventh. It is mockery, of course. Besides, everyone has heard about what a dick "Doctor" Metcalf can be. 

  And then the waning days of elementary school approach and he discovers- to his horror- his classmates are being sincere.

  He cringes at their enthusiasm. Even in his friends. TJ's only saving grace (as is true in most things) is basketball and how he is finally entering the age group of school sports actually being a thing. Reed is excited about The Bottleneck. That at least three different schools' worth of kids enter Jefferson's system every year. 

  From his parents it gets much worse. A soppy, sappy degree of sincerity.

  Dad pats him on the shoulder and tells him, "son, my son, you will be a man. I'm so proud of you." A level of cheer and fatherly affection that makes the boy anxious for it to end. He is just moving up a single grade. Even the baseball coaches and volunteers down at the athletic fields commend him and the other kids who practice there for their accomplishment. As if. Even TJ got bumped up. 

  Mom gets emotional. She always does whenever something changes with Lester. He winces at the wetness in her blue eyes as she stoops to his level and holds his face in her hands. "I can't help it," she laughs at his discomfort, "you are my baby, after all." On a particularly inspired night before graduation she comes into his room with a copy of Oh, The Places You'll Go, by Dr Suess. He grits his teeth and patiently sits through her speech about childhood.

  On the actual day of graduation he zones out through the ceremony.

  Then feels like an asshole as he watches his classmates happily rejoin their families afterwards. Lester isn't an idiot; the problem is certainly him. He feels like the one dentist out of ten who says toothpaste is bad for cavities or something equally stupid. Dad bestows a multicolor plastic lei on him. The skin of his neck crawls but he tries not to let it show in his expression. He humors them and their bubbling enthusiasm.

  Not that they haven't already done all the graduations before. He is the "oopsie" of five children. The next youngest of his sisters is still fourteen years older than him. A fully grown and fledged adult who will take some time off work to see him at family brunch. He almost wishes none of his sisters could get the afternoon off to visit him. Then, again, feels like an asshole for it.

  He poses for pictures with his blank roll of paper, both alone and with his parents, before shoving into the crowd to find his friends.

  Reed is the center of a small audience's attention. Lester cannot hear what he is saying but the hand gestures and expressions indicate a story. From a distance and in silence, he almost understands why people find Reed so charming. His smile bellies his more dastardly inclinations. Floppy blond hair from the 90's hangs like a cloak to hide his diabolical thoughts. The boys make eye contact, tip their chins at each other, and Lester continues on.

  TJ is alone in the crowd and that makes him feel a bit better. The tension in his spine and shoulders ease. "Where're your parents?"

  The blonde gestures over his shoulder. Across the lawn and walkways towards the parking lots. "My mom just left to go to work. Frank dipped with her." He gets up on his toes to look over Lester's head, "What about you?"

  "I needed a break," Lester shrugs. He considers adding something like, 'too much love,' or 'too much emotion,' but decides not to. Feeling like a complete asshole once more. "So, how you feel, fellow grad?"

  TJ huffs a laugh and does his best Obama impression, "uh, my fellow graduates. Let's, uh, fucking go."

  But as soon as the fun starts Mom and Dad appear to whisk him off to a celebratory brunch. TJ declines their invitation with a slightly devilish grin directed at Lester. "Sorry, Missus Pama, but me and my parents are going out. You guys have fun, though."

  At night, Lester lays in fidgety unrest in his bed. He tries watching his fan blades and mentally drafting his ideal baseball team to fall asleep but it's to no avail. His skin crawls and his heart jolts around in his ribcage. This is not an unfamiliar set of sensations for Lester to face. They prey upon him after events like this and every year he dreads them. His birthday and holidays and anything with awards. Lately he experiences it during the weekly visits to his grandparents house.

  It's the way they look at him and know. The same as his own parents, he supposes, but they are much better at masking it. Until days like these where it reveals itself in their obsessive compulsions to heap unearned praise and laud their youngest's accomplishments. The disgust sits twice as heavy in Lester's gut then. Because they- with their roundabout apologies- always force him to remember what they owe him apologies for. The poison he swallowed but still fins its way back into his mouth as bile.  

  To keep everyone's sanity in check, Lester bears it in silence. 

  And dreads the next big "event" in his life until he's sick over it.

  TJ leads the way to his house, then around back to the shed and covered "workshop" area.

  Mobile homes do not typically have garages and so the Kippens make do. As usual. 

  Lester is surprised by how quickly they got there, as though in a blink, but he can't tell if that is true or not. In his perception, time warps him backwards. Unable to focus on the present moment such that he feels almost detached from it. He dismounts his bike and TJ shoves him onto one of the folding chairs in the shade before disappearing into the shed. His legs shake and knees bounce.

  But again, he barely notices. Mind reeling back and back and back. To the face that's already living behind his eyelids like a ghost. Like a nightmare.

  When the blond returns he rubs Lester's whole bike down with a shop rag covered in something that leaves a clear sheen behind. Even the seat is wiped clean. Suddenly, he asks, "did the guy grab the bat?"

  Lester shakes his head. He feels the phantom of the strike in his palms. The muscles in his biceps tense as if from strain. "Had no time to."

  TJ grunts and bounds up to the porch and into his house. Birdsong makes its way back into Lester's ringing ears. The breezes heaves another sigh and the neighbor's windchimes sing along in a chorus of bells. When TJ returns he tosses a bottle of water into his lap and leans the bat against one of the other chairs before dropping to sit in it. "Alright, so, I cleaned that shit real good. Used hydrogen peroxide and everything so that there's no trace."

  He would ask TJ how he knows to clean up bloodstains but decides not to. He knows that's a stupid question. "Cool."

  "You and me hung out, right? We were going to hang out at Veracruz's but you, me, and Reed came here instead to play 2k. Frank is home but passed out. Got it?"

  Lester nods.

  The boys sit in relative quiet for some time. Traffic passes down the main road just beyond the house with a rush like that of waves on the ocean or wind in trees. A dog barks, then several, then slowly trickle to a stop again. Sometimes sounds come from TJ's direction such as the vibration of his phone on his lap or him uncapping his water. Not that Lester pays that much mind. His eyes drift to the hard, gritty dirt that is the backyard and get stuck there as his mind pulls him out of his mortal being and into memories.

  Deep, deep down, Lester always hoped something like this would happen. That he would get the confrontation of his dreams and come out victorious. Redeemed in a way that still eludes him even after achieving the goal. Samurai movies get it all wrong, it turns out, he feels no honor has been restored. That which is broken in him has not magically mended.

  He feels hollow. Fake.

  "Do you think they'll put his face in the news," Lester asks.

  TJ doesn't answer for a moment. "Maybe. Hopefully, he had a wallet or something he could use to ID him. I mean, fuck dude, if he was grabbing at boys maybe he is on a registry somewhere."

  "Maybe." He repeats the word mostly for his own benefit. "Maybe."

  It seems like TJ finds the topic uncomfortable and so he says nothing else. Even if they both are thinking the same things. What if he had a family? Someone to notice his absence? What if someone knew where he was going? All loose possibilities. Lester tries to reason with himself by thinking back to what he knew about Mark when he had been around. The recollection of the name dredges the face back up. A horrible, still mask slowly rising from the black depths of his mind like a creature. A monster.

  "I wasn't honest before," Lester murmurs. "That guy's name is- was- Mark. I knew him when I was little."

  More than knew him. Mark Graber had been like family. Though not his uncle in any biological sense, even if he bore some passing resemblance to his mother's side of the family. A tall, lanky white guy with light eyes and fair skin. Clean-shaven and unassuming. It's a close enough match that he disappears in group family photos as if he has always been there. A constant at so many events that it's nearly impossible to disentangle him from his mother's life story. It doesn't help that the Fromms are a small family. Mom has a sister who lives on the opposite side of the country with her family. 

  His mom's parents have always lived a few blocks away. Growing up, his sisters stayed close and went to community college before splitting off to various universities and cities and lives. For a time, Lester was close with Uncle Mark. He has snapshots of memories of Mark and Dad taking him to a baseball game at the university and fishing at the lake. He has snippets of riding on Mark's shoulders at the local fairgrounds and a Christmas where he was given his first bicycle helmet by the guy. 

  Yet those are all smeared and nearly blotted out by the other memories.

  Lester is jolted back into the present moment by a sound. It is a sensation not unlike when he has been scrolling on his phone and glances up only to discover hours have passed. The jolt surprise to his heart when he looks up from his book to see if he has time for another chapter only to find he should have been asleep an hour ago. 

  "What do you mean," TJ repeats, slowly.

  He wonders about what to say.

  At no point in his life had he ever imagined telling anyone outside his family about Mark. There wouldn't be reason to, he figured, because there was no scarring to account for. Besides, he feels like the butt of a shitty joke written by some second rate class clown. A child named Lester molested by a guy whose last name is one letter off from Grabber? It sucks. It would be cringe as a joke and even more so because it's real.

  What would he tell TJ or Reed?

  That it started with Lester waking up a few times to Mark looming over him and arranging things on his bed. He said he was giving him a new blanket and it was a good enough explanation for a child to simply go back to sleep. Then it continued more regularly. There are at least two occasions where he was allowed to use the shower at Mark's house and he remembers feeling very grown up to not require a bubble bath. Mark joined him and used his hands. More times than he'll ever know of being pulled into the man's lap and "bounced on his knee." 

  But he doesn't- and can't- say any of that. Not again. Not with how badly it went last time.

  Dad very seldom brings Mark up unless he is drunk and picking fights with Mom. Through these shouting matches, Lester learns that he must have mentioned something about any of that to his grandparents and they were the ones who alerted his mother and father. Whatever they did to run Mark off seemingly worked. He wonders if his parents now spend their nightly prayers asking God that he not remember.

  Lester prays for the same thing.

  Every morning he wakes to find God has answered none of their prayers.

  "I think," Lester replies hoarsely, "he was on a registry. If he wasn't then that... that is a mistake."

  TJ's expression melts from confused and into a scowl. Then morphs into something more familiar than almost any of his others; suppressed rage. The kind that has his grip tighten as his muscle tense as if he is physically restraining himself from acting out. Mouth tight and nostrils flaring as he tries to rein himself in. There is a lot of stuff that pisses TJ off but few that make him this mad. Almost all of them revolve around Frank.

  "Oh," the boy finally says. Tone harsh. "Well then, looks like you did the world a favor."

  The pair fall silent again for some time.

  The local media indulges itself in the coverage for a full two days.

  Homicide is rare in Shadyside and the discovery of unidentified corpses is even more rare. Speculation abounds on the morning programming while the evening hosts regale their audience with a rehash of the details as well as updates. The body was found by soccer players who told their parents, and the parents called the police. There is a press conference and all with the local Sherriff asking for someone to come forward with information.

  No one does.

  They identify Mark overnight. Lester knows this because one morning he hears his mother gasp just before the sound of her coffee mug shattering on the tile floor. Dad makes the sign of the cross over himself. Lester goes out for a day with Reed and TJ to avoid their troubled gazes.

  The killer is never caught.

  But over time, Mark Graber becomes something of a ghoul to the rest of the children of Shadyside. He transforms from a man mourned by few into a specter of the woods. Nothing concrete nor corporeal. Years later Lester hears about the Bike Trail Challenge where local kids have to try and spend a night in the woods without getting got by the ghost.  

  He smiles.

Chapter Text

  Reed and his friends are spared from legal punishment -like community service- purely because there is no GSR on their hands.

  Gunshot Residue.

  Because they never actually shot at anything and the watermelons lugged to the quarry ended up going to waste. The swabs all come out clean. The story the three (begrudgingly) agree on is that Reed accidentally brought his father's gun after having stored it in his bag after their last trip to the gun range. The boys considered target practice in the depths of the pit but decided against it. "Too dangerous," they concluded. Then- responsibly- turned themselves in.

  The cop clearly thinks it's a crock of shit. She's tall and cold-eyed and frightening. When they talk she looks at them in obvious disbelief and flatly repeats their words with a raised brow. However, no matter how much pressure she applies, the boys don't break from their story. Even as Lester pours buckets of sweat. They each get a lecture, another offer of "amnesty for honesty" and then sent to wait for their parents in "the tank."

  An interrogation room, Reed knows. He's seen it a thousand times in movies. A camera watches their every move from the high corner. It might have heard their every word, too, had they said anything. But they retain a strict Code of Silence.

  He's grounded until Summer Break at least; phone confiscated and replaced with an internetless flip phone. Mom and Dad renew his therapy sessions with Doctor Goodman.

  The first return session is Monday afternoon. Dad isn't so much as looking at Reed right now and so Mom drives him. It's painfully quiet with neither the radio nor speech to intercede. A stark contrast from previous sessions with the therapist where Mom would not stop talking about how important his honesty will be and patient-doctor confidentiality and whatever. Encouraging him to talk about them.

  He detests the melodrama.

  Everyone is acting like they brought the gun to school rather than a gravel pit a quarter mile beneath the surface of Earth. From a friend-of-a-friend, Reed hears that Mack and Driscoll think of the boys as the worst possible influences, tantamount to criminals. That they might have killed Cyrus in an act of extreme recklessness at best. Reed can't help but think that is the stupidest thing he has ever fucking heard. An untrained newbie riding a motorcycle was probably as likely to maimed as he would have been shooting watermelons.

  But he doesn't argue.

  Citrus Avenue is an idyllic street like one might see in a movie. The road itself is broad and smoothly paved, bordered by clean sidewalks and gutters. Two storey craftsman houses sit tall and stately amidst moats of well-manicured lawns freshly green with the full arrival of Spring. They pull up to the curb of 256 and Reed's stomach involuntarily pitches at the thought of accidentally crossing paths with Cyrus. Then, he wonders how that hadn't happened before.

  But he isn't given much time to dwell on the matter because Mom nudges him to go and he does. Hopping out of her car with a grunt and then treading through the gate and up the walkway to the Goodman's front door. He knocks, and a second later Doctor Goodman opens the door. "Reed," she greets him politely. "I was expecting you."

  "I can tell," he teases before he can stop himself, then cringes. "Or- uh. I'm uh. Nice to see you too, Doctor."

  Her expression remains neutral. She gestures for him to come inside. "You remember the way to my office, right?"

  He nods. Opting to keep his big fucking mouth shut for once. 

  Down the hall to the last door on the right. Reed lets himself in and drops onto the armchair against the left wall. Doctor Goodman enters, closes the door behind her, and takes a seat at her desk. "So, it's been a while. How have you been?"

  The boy shrugs, taking a moment to gaze about his surroundings. The walls are light and sparingly decorated with framed credentials and one wall cabinet behind the desk. He has seen her go into it once or twice before and it seemed to only have additional office supplies. She has coloring books in there, too. He assumes they are for young patients. Doctor Goodman uses his silence to get a pad of paper out from the drawer and a pen from the cup on her desk. Eventually, he says, "look, we both know what happened and why I'm here."

  "We do," she confirms with a nod and asks again, "but how have you been?"

  "Fine, I guess. Outside of all this drama, or whatever, I'm actually doing good."

  Therapy is wasted on him, Reed thinks. Of everyone in his household he needs it the least, but it isn't like he could force his parents into this in the way they can with him. "I don't understand why I have to get therapy for this. Like, okay fine, I get that it was a little fucking stupid to bring a gun to anywhere but a gun range or something. I know. But, Jesus, everyone is making such a thing about it."

  "It's almost like people are concerned about your safety and wellbeing," Doctor Goodman jokes, lightly. 

  He rolls his eyes, but relaxes. "In theory, sure." 

  She smiles a little, and Reed can't help but wonder if she is Cyrus's biological mother, or if she is the stepmom. She looks enough like the kid, or he looks enough like her, that she could pass as either. Doctor Goodman asks for a third time, "how have you been, Reed?"

  In a word; bad. Terrible, even. 

  But therapists love responses like that. It's like their crack and they are always desperate for them. They want to know 'why' and 'what happened.' They always follow those with some ridiculous-ass, 'how does that make you feel?' As if he is going to say that his life has gone to hell in a weekend and one of his best friends won't talk to him but he feels fine about it. 

  The hell of it, to Reed, is that all of this was because he was trying to make TJ look good.

  "I'm alright. Could be better."

  Doctor Goodman gazes at him with interest, "what's going on? I heard there was some trouble with the school."

  "At school," the boy clarifies, "we didn't get in trouble with Jefferson because we didn't do anything there or during school hours. It's one of my friends. He isn't talking to us right now."

  "Because of the gun?"

  He nods. "He didn't think it was a good idea, but I did it anyway. Now he's pissed and we gotta wait for him to, I don't know, cool off or something."

  Doctor Goodman nods but keeps her tone nonjudgmental. "Well, that can happen when people have their boundaries crossed, Reed."

  He rolls his eyes and fights the impulse to blurt out, 'he's only mad because I screwed up his relationship with your son.' Instead, he moves the topic along, "plus, I'm grounded until summer."

  Spring arrives to Shadyside early and slow.

  The snow is gone by mid-February but the days are still cold and crisp like fall, skies overcast and grey like winter. Sunlight eventually breaks through in the afternoons. By March, the weather turns mildly warm and the clouds turn to fog that burns off in the morning. Still, that means that the boys' trip to the quarry on an early Saturday morning is dark, cold, and kind of freaky. Hunched streetlights cast eerie halos of hazy orange against the mist that speckles their goggles with droplets. It's too early to mount-up and ride the dirt bikes. Shadyside is still asleep and not yet generating enough noise to mask the grumble of engines.

  But that's nothing new. 

  It took the boys some time and some reconnaissance to eventually learn what Saturdays are the safest days to use Shadyside's rock quarry.

  During the week it's active with crews and heavy machinery. During half of the weekends it's closed, the gate locked and security posted in the parking lot, but there seems to be at least one guard who doesn't follow the rules. Through trial and many, many errors they discover the schedule rotation between their favorite guard and the tryhard who pursues them in his cringe little cart. One weekend on, one weekend off.

  So every other Saturday Reed, Lester, and TJ basically have run of the place. 

  The boys are careful to slip past the sleeping guard in the parking lot. All the way past the scraped-bare earth and mounds of powdery sand, down the wide grade meant for the dozers and such, walking the dirt bikes until the slope is finally steep enough to coast them down. The gritty, hardpacked soil grinds under their tires, suspensions quietly creaking as they lurch over divots and protruding stones. Noises that absolutely cannot be heard by anyone outside the pit, if at all.

  Reed is the first to the bottom and takes a minute to peer around the darkness to see what has changed since last they rode. He notices a new mound of dense granite dust that makes a perfect tabletop and a new set of gouges beside a parked excavator. In a way, it reminds him of when his family used to take trips to the desert and how the dunes were everchanging. Massive and rolling across the sand like slow waves that move in whispers.

  Lester dismounts his bike and lugs his bag along to a stack of mostly flat stones. He hoists it up onto the smooth surface with a grunt, then rolls his shoulder. "Next time, one of you bitches will carry them."

  "Them what," TJ checks his phone. 

  "Watermelons, dipshit," is Reed's answer. He swings his arm out to punch his friend's shoulder. "Remember?"

  Realization dawns on TJ and he glares. "I said no. No means fucking no, Reed."

  "You're the one who said Cy was up for new experiences." 

  Lester chimes in. Stooped to where they can't see him behind the rocks so that the fruits will be sitting in the shade until later. "I thought you said he was cool. And like, open to adventures or whatever."

  Reed chuckles at the phrasing. Yeah, TJ sure hopes Cyrus Goodman is a bit adventurous. TJ shoots him a scathing look. "Dude, I said no."

  "Relax, Teej," he raises his hands in surrender, "lets just focus on riding and making sure your boy has a good time."

  "Quit saying-"

  But Reed cuts him off by kickstarting his engine with a smirk before lowering his helmet.  

  Despite TJ's misgivings, Reed is legitimately doing what he can to play wingman. It's hard when he's never done it before and has no idea how guys flirt with other guys. Uncle Adam had nothing useful to say and Uncle Miles is on a seventy-two hour shift, so he isn't responding to texts. It's doubly challenging because Reed has never met Cyrus Goodman- just his mom or stepmom- and has no insight on what interests him. That's to say nothing about one of his closest friends who he believed, up until a few days ago, had such a disdain for people in general he would never have a crush. Never mind one on a boy.

  Riding dirt bikes clears Reed's head enough to help him mull the bizarre situation over. In all their friendship they have rarely ever talked about girls or crushes. It suddenly strikes him as strange, in retrospect, because the dudes at the MotoTrack talk about girls they like or are seeing (mostly just on a screen) all the time. TJ's basketball team razzes one another about their girlfriends and who-likes-who constantly. Lester says the baseball team is the worst because they spend so much time at the athletic fields around girls' soccer, softball, and lacrosse teams. 

  He supposes it makes sense in a fucked up way; Lester has his anxiety, TJ his anger, and Reed his ghosts. There's no mental RAM left for a goofy-ass crush.

  Until now.

  Reed is on edge the entire morning while they wait on Cyrus's arrival. 

  TJ is pumped up and full of heady bravado that prompts him to constantly lift his tires off the ground in any way. Reed understands for the most part. He gets the similar hyper, chest-jolting compulsion to show off at the track just to look cool. Sometimes he goes even harder around dudes who place higher than him, have nicer gear, or that he lowkey hates but that's because he wants them to envy his skills. Still, TJ barely checks his phone for messages or the time, which makes his friend reconsider- momentarily- whether or not he was right about "Scary Basketball Guy's" feelings about "Underdog." 

  That is until the kid actually shows up, and Reed has to squeeze the shit out of his handlebars to refrain from pumping his fists in the air. Operation a go. Maybe it was the little wave or the soft, slightly doe-eyed look of him, but Reed knew immediately. Before he even had his goofy response to being asked if he had ever ridden a motorcycle replete with a sassy (if that's the right word) head shake.

  Cyrus might not be gay. He could be bi or pan or whatever else there is, but he certainly likes boys. 

  Which somewhat improves TJ's chances, especially with how openly impressed Cyrus seems by the dirt bikes. Reed smirks, shoots a look at an oblivious Lester, and leans forward on his handlebars. He doesn't even have to see his friend's face to hear the smile in his voice. 

  "Wanna give it a shot," TJ offers Cyrus his own helmet. A slight misstep, because he forgets how big his blockhead is. The boy fidgets and doesn't take it.

  "No thanks. I have a fear of basically everything that's going on here." 

  "TJ's right, you are funny." The blond beams and sees his friend's shoulders tense. Cyrus gets a little bashful and Reed finds this too fucking easy. Between TJ flexing astride his own bike, a mildly puzzled Lester, and their adorably shy guest, this is the best way this could be going. All TJ has to do is not fuck it up.

  Cyrus has a habit of using the most words to describe his feelings. He doesn't just say 'nah, I'm good,' to Reed offering to let him ride his dirt bike, but, "it's okay, I have a complicated relationship with wheels." 

  'Yeah, I bet you have a few complicated relationships,' Reed would respond, if he knew the dude better and that TJ wouldn't murder him on the spot. Instead, he behaves himself and replies, "okay. I get it. Not really your thing. Although it could be your thing; you never know unless you try."

  Cyrus looks to TJ. He nods in encouragement and that settles it. "Okay, I'll uh, I'll try not to break anything. On the bike or my body."

  "No sweat, dude." Reed dismounts and shuffles aside to set his helmet down on one of a million Labrador-sized boulders nearby. "Here, I'll loan you my chest protector. Better safe than sorry, right TJ?"

  "Sure," he replies, but he narrows his eyes at Reed behind Cyrus's back. "Good thinking, Reed. Hell must have frozen over."

  It certainly must have.

  TJ is way different with Cyrus than them, but that makes sense in a way. The three of them jostle each other at their most mild to outright socking each other in the body fit to leave painful bruises. Which probably would not go over well with Underdog. He seems to enjoy the light shoulder knocking-thing TJ keeps doing and the bats of his borrowed helmet. So far, Reed thinks this might be going really, really well. Maybe even too well that Cyrus friend-zones him and the boys have to deal with TJ's first (romantic) heartbreak.

  After a few stalls, Cyrus manages to get the bike going and into first from neutral. Then he figures out the clutch to get into second with only slight complaining from the gears. TJ watches on and gives him encouragement, coaching him every so often. "Get the hang of turning, just make another loop. You got this." And, "that's alright, dude. Just shift a little bit sooner going into the sandy part."

  "Looks like he's having fun," Reed notes. "I think you can unclench now."

  "Shut up," TJ mutters. Suddenly swearing way less than normal as well. 

  But Cyrus does seem like he is having a good time and that buoys the trios mood, too. Lester cheers him on, with, 'hell yeah! Let's fucking go!' when Cyrus saves himself from stalling the bike for the first time. Reed is feeling good for the first time all month and TJ has never smiled more since they met him. When Cyrus decides he is done riding he beams at the pictures TJ took on his phone.

  So, time for Phase Three.

  Phase One was determining if Underdog was interested in boys. Reed thought that was going to be a long, arduous-fucking-task but that was answered immediately by his eyelashes and single-shoulder shrug. Phase Two was getting the pulse on how TJ and Cyrus interact and if there was anything he could work with. There is. Thank God.

  Phase Three is the one TJ started on his own.

  Cyrus has big Disney Channel Original Movie protagonist energy. A somewhat shy, clumsy character with extreme optimism and ideas but not always with the stones to back them up. The plot would be some bullshit like The School canceled some beloved tradition and the protagonist is "the only one" who can save it. Maybe a dance with a cringe name like The Jack-O-Lantern Ball or The Petunia Party. TJ has big, Broody-Jock-Guy-Who-Is-Secretly-An-Accomplished-Pianist that "no one understands except their adorkable main character," energy. They hookup or some shit after convincing teachers to remember their youth or whatever.

  It would be cringe on it's own but they're both dudes. And just off the thought of how pissed that would make a lot of people, Reed thinks that's fucking lit. 

  So they need their moment. The part that used to make him and his brothers guffaw at the screen every time: The Hands-On Tutorial. Usually it's basketball, but there are no opportunities for that in the bottom of a gravel pit. Sometimes it's archery. Today, for the boys living on this side of the discovery of gunpowder, they are going to let Cyrus shoot a gun. A simple .38 caliber revolver that is plenty safe enough for even the jumpiest handler despite TJ freaking out about it last night and again this morning.

  "Bro, you ever seen a watermelon explode," Reed asks Cyrus.

  "With what?"

  "See for yourself." 

  He isn't surprised by the beat of silence that follows. He isn't surprised when he is asked if it's real. He isn't even surprised to turn around and see the maybe-couple debating the issue. Reed is surprised when Cyrus leaves. Even more so when TJ meets his eyes and he finds neither rage nor irritation. It's a much more troubled expression. Then he sighs so heavily it's visible at distance in the droop of his shoulders then he tips his head up to the sky. Like he does when he has to think something up on the spot.

  That is the moment Reed's stomach drops.

  Tuesday comes and goes.

  The school day is a slog broken only by Metcalf summoning Reed, Lester, and TJ into his office. Lester is noticeably haunted by their encounter with police over the weekend. The guy's heartbeat is all but visible in his throat as they get another stern talking to by their principal and a school resource officer before being dumped back onto into the crowded halls. Lester leaves wet handprints behind on the straps of his backpack where he white-knuckle gripped it. At lunch, he flinches at loud noises. It feels like every last eye in the cafeteria is on them.

  TJ doesn't hang with the guys at all. He sits alone at a table where he can face the entrance to the cafeteria and watch the comings and goings of their peers. 

  Every other time Reed catches glimpses of TJ, he is staring after Underdog with such pathetic, lovelorn looks that he might as well tattoo Cyrus's name in a heart on his forehead. Dark and brooding fit to beat any low budget vampire young adult romance movie. It's probably for the best the two aren't talking right now and that Reed can't contact anybody on his flip phone. He would be entirely unable to keep his mouth shut about these longing looks going back and forth.

  He goes to school and comes straight home to do his homework and eventually falls asleep to his parents' latest screaming match. Troubled dreams about Liam and Mike make his sleep restless and follow him even after he is awake.  

  On Wednesday he has another session with Doctor Goodman.

  This time, he narrowly avoids the pitfall of saying something stupid by simply shutting the fuck up before heading back to her office. He chances a glance up the stairs and half expects Cyrus to be at the top, but he isn't. Reed relaxes and drops with a heavy sigh into the armchair. Doctor Goodman raises an eyebrow. "Rough day?"

  "Something like that." He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. The pressure soothes some of their stinging fatigue. 

  "Is your mother having one of her Bad Days," Doctor Goodman asks.

  He almost hoped she had forgotten those. The last session before he was allowed to quit had been about grief and what it did to his family, how he should be more understanding. Empathetic to his parents and himself and all that nonsense. He shakes his head, "no. No, I- I'm just tired of being in trouble, I guess. One of my friends isn't talking to me right now. The other is all traumatized and shit so he doesn't speak much at all."

  "Traumatized?"

  Reed scoffs, "I don't think by the gun-thing. Lester's just kind of fucked up and shy. So, not ideal to have around when you get confronted by cops and the school and the cop at the school."

  "You know, some people aren't quite as," Doctor Goodman pauses to search for the correct word, "bold as you, Reed. Being shy isn't necessarily a sign of trauma."

  "It's different. I don't know how to describe it. He hates birthday parties because people looking at him makes him freak out. He wants to be the best he can be at baseball, but he doesn't want trophies and awards for it. I lowkey think that's why he is friends with me and TJ; we're so good at eating up attention and being confident and he can just hang back."

  Something flashes across the doctor's face and he wonders if she is attempting to diagnose his friend through him. If that's even possible. Maybe whatever Lester has is so obvious to people who go to college to learn about every problem kids can have in their minds that she knows it already. 

  But that's the trouble; he's just named his friends. If she didn't know who they were through Cyrus, she knows them all now. The mistake is caught too late and he knows that will haunt him later. For now, he changes the subject. "I think the worst part is that my bike's going to be locked up until Summer. I miss riding already."

  There is a beat of silence before Doctor Goodman replies. In it, she tilts her head a little and leans back in her chair. Dark brown eyes bore into his with no small amount of scrutiny. He holds his ground. She lets him have his redirect. "I remember you saying that really helped with your stress."

  "Yeah," Reed huffs a laugh, "I'm already feeling it."

  He doesn't ask about Cyrus, but it's a near thing. It takes no small amount of restraint on his end to keep from blurting out a question he isn't sure he is allowed to ask. As a patient. As a boy who has met her son/step son. As the once-friend of the guy who might be able to win Cyrus back over and be, like, his boyfriend or something. He figures that's what TJ wants- whether he knows it or not.

  Maybe she doesn't know. Parents can be a little blind to their kids' personal lives outside of the home. 

  But how the fuck could she not? She sees how he dresses to go to school. She's seen the way he holds his phone.

  "Well, you could always find a new hobby for the time being." Doctor Goodman suggests amiably. "Art is good for the mind. Reading, going on walks, even volunteering for something at the school could be good for you."

  Reed shrugs. "I'm just a little too tired for all that. Maybe sleep can be my new hobby."

  "Nightmares, again," the woman asks.

  Last night's had been relentless. Repeated cycles of exiting and reentering the same fervid, terrifying loop over and over. He kept waking up in cold sweats and panicky, going so far as to leave his desk lamp on and blocking off the door to his closet with his gear bag and hamper. Neither helped.

  He dreamed that they were pursuing him. 

  The nightmares dropped him into hideous mazes made up of places he knows- or knew- well. Mashed and melted together. Unseemly and discolored like plastic welded by a lighter. Reed found himself running through Jefferson's halls into the living room of his old house in California. From Lester's house into Everett Elementary into Sonoran Family Mortuary. Chased by a pair of dudes taller than him, faster than him, endlessly stronger and impossible to fatigue.

  How could they run out of breath when they are dead?

  "Yeah," Reed yawns. "The scary maze ones."

  Doctor Goodman frowns.

  "I just need to find something to take my mind off Them," the boy sighs and rubs his eyes again. "I just- I just don't know what."

  Certainly not matchmaking.

  Mom is having a Bad Day.

  Reed has something of a seventh sense for them. Honed and refined by years of close observation and repetition, though they are not as frequent now. Moving to Shadyside seemed to improve things for both of his parents. Mom has way more good days than Bad. Dad is mostly like himself, too. This year has been the best so far.

  And yet still there are Bad Days.

  He knows it by the heavy silence upon waking up for school, then confirms by tiptoeing down the hall to the master bedroom. Dad left the door ajar when leaving. She is huddled on her side, borderline fetal, eyes aimed at the wall and the dresser. Reed knows she isn't looking at either. No, she's always Somewhere Else on these days. 

  He gets himself ready for school and prepares two breakfasts. For her he makes plain toast and supplies a pitcher of water and a clean glass. Things she can ignore for a day that won't suck for him to clean up later. Reed moves in silence as he sets them up on the side table and takes extra care to unplug and move the lamp and the clock to the floor. Tucked safely out of breaking range. "I'm going to school," he says when he finishes, "I'll be home around three-thirty."

  Mom makes no effort at reply.

  Outside it's dark and the wind is brisk, but the fresh air breaks the cursed silence looming in the Haskins household. Reed trots across the lawn and down the sidewalk towards the bus stop. As he goes, he checks his phone for the time and notes he is cutting it a little close to catch the bus. The books in his bag thump irritatingly against his back. Sprinklers rattle in the grass, a few cars roll past him with a biting rush of air. 

  Luckily, Reed makes it to the bus stop winded, but on time. He is surprised to find only one other student waiting, but knows immediately who it is by the reams of curly brown hair tied back into a ponytail and all black attire.

  "Wow, Reed," Lindsey chuckles at the sight of him, "oversleep or something?"

  "Or something," he shrugs. The roar of the bus's engine signals its arrival down the street, "but I made it in time."

  She rolls her eyes shoots him a look. "You have a pass today?"

  "Nope," Reed replies immediately and pops the "p" for emphasis. "But I'll wing it."

  Lindsey scoffs and digs into her bookbag. "What, with some sort of sob story? You know Kraken doesn't care."

  "She loves me. She just doesn't know it yet."

  "Yet? It's been a year." She finds what she is looking for and slaps the thing flat into his chest with her palm. "Here. Just... use it."

  "Wha-" Reed's hand grasps the corner of a slip of thick-feeling paper. When Lindsey withdraws her hand, he sees it more completely. A forged temporary bus pass. A really well done forgery. He gapes at it, flipping it over in his fingers, then back at his stopmate. "How?"

  The bus screeches to a crawl along the curb and the doors creak open. Without sparing a look back she bounds up the steps. "I have my ways, Reed."

  He follows behind, flashing his pass at the bus driver as he does. "Looking good this morning, Miss Kraegen."

  "Find your seat, Haskins!" 

  At school he doesn't associate much with Lindsey. She has her own friends and schedule that don't really include Reed, in the same way his doesn't include her. They are acquaintances on good standing and he is happy with that.

  He pushes through the drowsy crowd bunching up at the gates into Jefferson and is immediately beset upon by TJ. "Yo! Are we still going to the quarry this weekend?"

  Reed jumps a little. "Jesus Christ! What's got you so uppy-puppy this morning?"

  The taller boy grimaces and repeats, "uppy-puppy?"

  "Yeah," he shoulders his way past his friend and continues on to the building. "Like, all hyper and shit. Who are you, where is the real TJ, and can I shake your hand for getting rid of that guy?"

  TJ keeps up as they enter and pass by campus security. The hallway is already bustling with the first wave of students and the drone of their chatter is intermittently punctuated with the harsh slam of a metal locker. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I don't know, you were just, like, never in a good mood." The bank of lockers Reed's is in is largely unoccupied save for Lester leaning against his own. Thoroughly engrossed in something on his phone. "Now all of a sudden we're losing track of you and you keep popping up all happy and shit. Right Lester?"

  The boy grunts but doesn't look up. "Huh?" 

  "TJ is less of an asshole than usual, right?"

  "Oh, yeah." He finally pockets his phone and tilts his head in thought. "Weird."

  TJ huffs an annoyed sigh and makes some kind of indignant reply that Reed completely tunes out in favor of opening his locker to swap his books around. His Homeroom and English classes are first and he really only needs his independent reading book and the Lang Arts textbook. He dumps his Algebra and Social Studies books. 

  "Look, this all started just because I wanted to know if we were still on for this weekend." TJ says, "like, are we going to the quarry or not?"

  "We are." Reed confirms, and he doesn't miss the way he lights up at the news. "Why?"

  "Can I invite a friend?"

  "Who," Lester asks, "you suddenly making more friends?"

  "Nah," TJ waves the question off, "same dude I've been telling you about."

  "Bar mitzvah guy?"

  Now Reed has questions. Before he can ask any, his phone vibrates and he checks it. A mass of indecipherable text. Like someone started typing by dragging their thumb over the screen to the desired letter without care that multiple were being selected at a time. He squints to parse the message.

  Mom: sdrty iklobv yuio

  "Fuck!"

  Lester and TJ both jump and edge in closer to lean over his shoulder. The former remarks, "is that code?" The latter asks, "dude, you good?"

  "I gotta go handle something real quick." Reed leaves as he is. Hand clenching around his phone and vision tunneling in around the faint grey light streaming in from the windows at the entrance. His friends call after him about his abandoned backpack and locker. That their passing period starts in minutes and class is soon. Concerns that vanish to ash under the scorching panic in him. Reed dials 9-1-1 and the line picks up just as he is barreling back outside. He recognizes the dispatcher's voice and immediately spits out his address.

  "Okay, sweetie, stay on the phone with me." The nice-sounding lady says, "are you home?"

  "No, I'm probably late to first-" the late bell rattles sharp and shrill, "definitely late to first period. My principal is going to talk to me, again."

  "Oh, it's okay honey. Let's just focus on getting your mom help."

  Reed's stomach twists. He jokes, "yeah. You said that last time, too. The city should institute a punch card or point-system-thing. Like, tenth ambulance is free." 

  She doesn't laugh. It's not his best work.

  When all is said and done, Lester takes his bag to Homeroom for him since they share the class. He shows up halfway through the period a little prickly from the adrenaline crash and face warm from the embarrassment of having a note from Metcalf to hand his teacher. It's hard to focus on his classes for the rest of the day. Mom is alive and probably telling the EMTs he overreacted and all is well. 

  During lunch, TJ and Lester tease him for being Metcalf's "favorite" and getting a pass even though he was technically late, but don't talk about it any further.

  Reed catches up to TJ after school. No matter how elusive the guy has been these past few months, he is still the basketball team's captain. Coach has him in that role for a few reasons and TJ takes it seriously. He spends an hour on the court almost every day after school. When Reed walks in, he spots TJ running drills alone. Dribbling between cones in a straight line through the key and ending with a jump shot only to retrieve another ball of the rack to start back over. "So, tell me about this bar mitzvah boy."

  TJ nearly sends the ball to brick city, spared only by the fact he had mostly completed the shot before being startled. He whirls on Reed, breathless and puzzled. "Don't you have an afterschool detention? You were, like, twenty minutes late to homeroom."

  He waves the question off. "Nah. Remember? Metcalf loves me."

  TJ scoffs and wipes sweat off his forehead, "yeah, okay. Uh, what about him?"

  Reed decides to start with the basics. "Shit, I don't know. What's his name, does he ride bikes, is he cool?" 

  Their normally grumpy basketball tsar lights up. Smiling and eyes agleam. "Oh. Yeah, dude, Cyrus is super funny. Makes me laugh, like, all the time."

  "Cyrus," Reed repeats, "this Cyrus ride dirt bikes ever?"

  "I doubt it," TJ chuckles, "but he's up for new experiences. I think."

  "Didn't you say he was Slayer's friend? Not Jonah Beck or the dude in Track, what's his name, Marty?" That seems to leave only the artsy kid and the one who is almost always dressed for an internship.

  "Who the fuck is Marty?"

  Reed shrugs, "I thought you would know since you're hanging with Buffy's friends now."

  "Just Underdog," TJ shakes his head, then belatedly catches himself. Rubbing the back of his neck he adds, "uh, that's the nickname I gave Cyrus."

  The thing about being friends with TJ is a little like adopting an ex fighting dog. It snaps and gets defensive and aggressive sometimes, but then he remembers the backstory and recognizes that it's all the dog knows how to do. A pity in some contexts and a blessing in others. In exchange for Reed's patience and charm, he got a pretty loyal friend. And an attack dog on the rare instances they need it.

  Now this mean-faced bastard is giddy and excited over a new friend? A dude he met a couple months ago? "Underdog?"

  TJ nods once resolutely. When he speaks, it looks like his fighting back a smile. "Yeah. Underdog."

  Oh. It's a crush. The thought strikes Reed in a flash of blinding clarity. His silence must go on for a while, or TJ is impatient, because he stalks off to collect the basketball long rolled to the bleachers. Reed considers his options; to confront or not to confront. The former sounds so appealing and fun (even if it may result in a black eye) but the latter is more realistic. Safer for both of them in different ways.  

  But what if the crush is on Driscoll or the cute artsy girl Beck keeps fumbling? Is it safe to assume in either direction now?

  Reed employs a somewhat dastardly technique that Uncle Miles taught him to try and confirm. "Well, maybe I'll bring some of my old pads and stuff since he probably doesn't have any. How tall is he?"

  And TJ complies immediately, tossing the ball up into one hand and using the other to level it flat at his eyebrow. He does it, leans his head back a little, as if using his imagination to impose a face into the empty space, then adjust his hand a little lower. Probably from having spent a lot of time up close. When he speaks, his gaze stays trained on the invisible Cyrus before him, eyes flicking up and back down to the floor. "Like, this tall?" 

   Reed's never seen a more severe case of elevator eyes in real life, least of all on someone whose presence is only imagined. He guffaws, cracking up and holding the door frame for support. He so needed this laugh, this distraction. A little zip of surprise. 

  "What's so funny?" TJ's demand is so indignant and angry that it has Reed doubling over. Stomach clenching as he howls with laughter. "Bro, what the hell?"

  When he lived in California, Motocross and motor sports in general were prevalent.

  It wasn't hard for Reed to start the sport since Michael was already competitive in it. Dad bought a secondhand 50cc four-stroke off craigslist and a helmet and they were off. The boy learned on weekends during short trips to surrounding desert areas, cutting his teeth on makeshift figure eights, whoops, and jumps built by nameless collaborators before them and the shifting sands. During the season, Michael, Liam, and Reed would huddle on the floor of Mike's room and watch the events. His skills flourished under his eldest brother's tutelage. Teasing and all.

  Now that he is grounded until summer, he is absolutely going to miss some of the local circuit. 

  Dad took his television. "You'll get it back when I get my gun back," he said. Then scolded the boy again for being so dumb before storming out of Reed's bedroom. Slamming the door for extra drama, of course.

  Still, he is allowed to keep his computer for homework. There is a new hard out at 8pm when Mom unplugs the modem so no one gets internet after that time. They don't seem to understand he has a lot of ways he can entertain himself stored on there without need for the internet, anyway. He certainly has no interest in seeing the "discourse" cropping up online about himself. 

  The more people who know a secret- or the more major the event- the quicker it spreads. The news of the quarry-gun situation is disseminating across the student body, peer-to-peer. On Thursday, the kids in his homeroom eye him with some suspicion and a little fear. Reed rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. Then in his Algebra class, the teacher unsubtly asks him about it after summoning the boy out into the hall. His Lang Arts teacher gives him a yellow ribbon card and a meaningful look.

  As if.

  March is already the worst month of the year, and it sucks even more to be grounded through it. Last year's was pretty bad too, because Tink finally had to be euthanized and that deeply disturbed the fragile equilibrium of the household. Mom and Dad forced her to stay longer than was good for her. By the end she could hardly get up from laying down and that's without accounting for her stomach tumor. The grief relapsed the whole family. 

  Another black box of pale ash added to his parents' closet. Her collar and leash hang on a hook next to the bookshelf in the living room. A concrete disk with her once-tiny pawprints sit out front in the flowerbed. Michael then Liam then Tink then Reed. It's funny in a fucked up way. Like, "ooh, don't follow in those footsteps." 

  March even sounds like shit. March. Might as well be called Slog, Reed thinks. Dad gets his gun back on the same day Reed is given his stupid yellow ribbon card and a dark, intrusive thought claws its way to the forefront from the back of his mind. What if he just fucking ate a bullet? Isn't that what everyone expects anyway? Is it not a matter of time until Reed gets himself killed by some means before his time?

  Instead, he gets his television back. Sans connections and consoles, of course. He waits until well after midnight to tiptoe downstairs and into the garage to get the old DVD/VCR player from the "emergency" cabinet. Dad already bought an HDMI adapter for the dinosaur cables and the whole thing is easy to plug in and set up. If asked, he decides to throw Doctor Goodman under the bus and tell his parents she said he needed something to occupy his time.

  There is already a DVD loaded and ready to resume where it left off. Kevin Costner amidst the plains suddenly lurches onto his screen with a mildly melancholic voiceover beginning in the very middle of a word. Reed startles and pauses the movie before ejecting it. Dances With Wolves. Definitely Liam's pick. He supposes he is lucky that it wasn't Michael's most recently watched film. It would have been horror or a slasher or something else Reed couldn't fall asleep to. He lowers the volume to a minimum and restarts the movie from the beginning.

  And is fast asleep before the wolves even show up.

  "Hey, Reed!"

  He startles out of his moping with a jump. "Jesus! What is with everyone today?"

  Shadyside is having a bright, breezy Spring morning that is heading into a mild afternoon. From the outside looking in, Reed can see increasing excitement in his classmates about the upcoming weekend and whatever games and meets there are for Jefferson and Grant to attend. He hears something about a birthday party and mention of a celebration for the basketball teams doing well in their season. The halls are alive with chatter and the mood is generally upbeat. In stereo sound with Technicolor.

  He wonders if Lester and TJ feel as out of place as he does. Or, he was until Lindsey decided to scare the shit out of him. 

  "Sorry," she asks more than apologizes. "You good? I keep hearing people talking like you're the next school shooter. What gives?"

  "It's bullshit, Linds," he scoffs. "I brought my dad's gun to the quarry. It was wrong, I know. We didn't even shoot anything. Just, like, thought about it."

  She hums in acknowledgement. "Yeah, not a smart move. Could have taken an eye out or worse."

  "Yeah, everyone has told me."

  Lindsey adjusts her bag and sighs. "It'll blow over. Just a slow week for the rumor mill. Once there's another big breakup people will forget the whole thing."

  "Yeah, but I'll still be grounded until Summer Break."

  "Ouch. What about Kippen and Pama? What's their sentence?"

  Reed shrugs, "TJ isn't talking to me right now. He's pissed because he told me it was a bad idea and I did it anyway."

  "Double ouch," Lindsey grimaces. "But, like, it's not like you guys haven't done crazy shit before, right?"

  "This is a little different," then he adds, "Lester's grounded for a month. Honestly, he was so freaked by the cops that he is probably relieved to not have to go anywhere."

  She frowns. "Yeah, he hasn't been looking like himself this week."

  Lindsey is kind of an anomalous girl. She gives no fucks about much of anything and just is as she is, expectations be damned. It kind of makes her something adjacent to popular. Which is wasted on her because she doesn't care and doesn't have the ever-smiley face and demeanor of someone like Jonah Beck. Lindsey has stripped off her black jacket from this morning to reveal a beat-up tee that is definitely men's size and hangs off her shoulders and chest in a way that makes her look broad-shouldered and strong. She is. He hears she is something of a softball champion.

  But now, she hesitates. Suddenly furtive and glancing around before clearing her throat. "How- uh, how is he?"

  Reed shrugs. Her frown intensifies. "Bad. Why?"

  "I'm worried about him," she admits in an anxious rush, "he usually reads so far ahead in our English class that he finishes the book before the rest of us are done with the first couple chapters. Today I noticed he was just staring at his book and doing nothing else so I took extra good notes in case he needs them later."

  "You spend a lot of time noticing Lester," he teases.

  She answers with a nod. "He's cute. Definitely worth noticing."

  So his gaydar isn't perfect. Surprised, he gapes, "you're into dudes?"

  Lindsey groans and tilts her head back, "bro, why does everyone say that?"

  "This, this, this," he gestures to her shirt, then her gear bag with the bat handle protruding over her shoulder, then her general appearance. He's cut off by a shove to the shoulder that nearly topples him into the lockers. "Ow! That, too."

  "Whatever," she rolls her eyes, adjusts her bag again, and shrugs. "I heard Mack and Driscoll were crazy pissed. Do you guys all hang out? I've been meaning to ask."

  Reed rubs his shoulder. "Mack?"

  "Andi? Cyrus's friend. The one whose sister was her mom for real, remember?"

  He surely does. It was like something out of a sitcom. TJ could relate a little better since his and Andi's moms were likely around the same age when the teens were brought into the world. His own mother tutted something about "babies having babies." Dad weirdly gave him condoms one night without saying a word. It would have been funny if the guy didn't have such a miserable fucking face. "Oh. Uh, no. I think TJ really only hangs with Cy, but that all happens when we're unavailable."

  "'Kay. Well, then I guess it doesn't really matter that only TJ and Cyrus started hanging out again. Kind of figured he would be better friends with Slayer, though." Then she seems to ponder the subject further, tilting her head a little. "You know- that's weird, right? They're, like, polar opposite dudes." 

  Reed is saved, quite literally, by the passing period bell. Rushing away before he accidentally says something like "opposites attract," or "they have at least something in common." "Oh, uh, later!"

  In his haste, he completely forgets his textbook in his locker. With his study notes for the quiz. That he forgot to study for.

  Fuck.

  Because it's Friday, he gets to cap his shitty week off with yet another session with Doctor Goodman.

  There must not be very many children's therapists in Shadyside besides the assorted Goodmans, Reed thinks, because he is pretty sure there is supposed to be less connection between himself and his doctor. That was at least true the first time around, back before he was fully aware Cyrus even existed, much less met him through TJ. He wonders if they had all known about their squeaky-clean son's friendship with Kip before the Situation. 

  A dark thought crosses Reed's mind that he shoves away without evaluation. Who could ever- 

  But he refuses to listen to the rest. He is simply too exhausted to care. Suddenly regretting getting out of bed.

  Dad picks him up from school.

  A rarity even when things are good between them. Unheard of when they aren't. Still, Reed is a little hopeful that it means he doesn't have to go to Goodman's today and he can spend the rest of his Friday catching up on sleep. He hops into the SUV and quickly closes the door. "Hey."

  Silence. Reed takes the opportunity of twisting away to grab his seatbelt and rolls his eyes. The car lurches away from the curb and into a gap in the outgoing traffic. Busses idle around the pickup loop. Throngs of his peers pour out of the front gates and flow in all directions. After a few minutes, he tries again. "You taking me home or to Doctor Goodman's?"

  "Doctor Goodman's," Dad replies gruffly. 

  Reed slumps a little. 

  "I hope you didn't think you were getting out of anything." After another pause, Dad continues, "God, Reed. How could you have been so stupid and reckless? Do you even care about what you did? Do you even know, or do you not think, period?"

  The boy's heartrate picks up. Skin prickling with goosebumps. "Yeah, I do. It was just a one time mistake."

  Like drinking and driving. Sometimes once is enough. Reed pushes the thought aside.

  "Do you know what could have happened to me and your mother? You having access to the gun in our safe and the free range to take it where ever you damn well please? You do this to us after everything we have done for you? Is that how we raised you?" He shakes his head as they get stopped at a light. "I can't believe you boys did something so stupid. So fucking stupid! Where would we be, Li- Reed?"

   It always comes back to this somehow. That Reed is the one who gets to bear the brunt of the consequences just for being alive. Penalized because Mike and Liam are dead and outside of their jurisdiction. Fury sparks against the cold that otherwise has taken over the boy's insides. 

  "If you're going to call me the wrong name, you should get it right." Reed says, coldly. "Liam wasn't driving, remember? Michael was."

  Dad's voice goes low and dangerous. "You're on thin, thin ice." 

  "What else is new?"

  The man scoffs bitterly. "Ungrateful. Even after everything we lost."

  There was something about boundaries and grief that Doctor Goodman said. It had to do with instances like this where either of his parents try and bully him into forgetting he lost his brothers so they can horde their memories. Mourning selfishly. Treating Reed as if he never met his older brothers, let alone lived what feels like a lifetime in snippet reels and freeze frames. He's supposed to advocate for himself, he thinks, and his own "journey" with the loss.

  "You act as if I didn't lose them, too. Like I never gave a fuck about my own brothers-" 

  Dad lunges across the center console, grasping the back of Reed's neck in one hand and jamming his fist up to his face with the other. Shaking, eyes glossy and enraged, he grinds his words through gritted teeth. "Don't you ever talk to me about loss. Ever." The squeeze on the back of his neck intensifies. Pressure aching. Fumes of coffee and something garlicky wafting over Reed's face in humid puffs. "You have no idea what we have gone through."

  "We moved out of state to get away from the accident," the boy can't help but challenge, though his words tremble, "I lost my brothers, my friends and cousins, and my parents. Just so we could move into a house that still has two spare bedrooms like Michael and Liam will come home."

  The man's face goes so red that Reed wonders if this is the part his Dad kills him and finishes off the family line once and for all. Maybe the Haskins are cursed to produce rotten fruit until their tree is finally cut down. He holds his breath.

  A car horn honks loud and long behind the car. Dad snaps out of it and lurches back upright to put both hands on the wheel. Reed's vision is too blurred over with saltwater to see much, but he keeps his eyes focused on anything outside the car.

  At 256 Citrus Avenue, he storms up to the door with his shoulders hunched. When Doctor Goodman asks what happened he shakes his head and folds in on himself in the chair. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Okay," she replies, placatingly. "Is there anything you would-"

  "Why do you think I'm here?" The question is demanding and angry. "Why therapy? Like, my parents can't possibly think I was trying to kill myself or something crazy like that. If I was going to, wouldn't I have just eaten a bullet at home and not dragged everyone else into it?"

  "Have they expressed that as a concern?"

  Reed huffs because he genuinely doesn't know. "You know they don't let you into a gun range if you are by yourself and didn't bring a gun with you? It's because they're afraid you are going to rent one of theirs and use it on yourself. The idea is you're less likely to kill yourself or others if you have a buddy to supervise or a gun you could have already used."

  "I did not know that," she admits, "I'm not a gun person."

  "Neither is your son," Reed snaps, despite himself, "so it must be genetic."

  "Stepson," Doctor Goodman lightly corrects, "but we get that a lot. My husband has a type."

  "This is so fucking stupid." The teen frees his hands from the confines of his armpits for long enough to pound his fists on the arms of his seat. Once, then twice, then thrice before covering his eyes with his palms. "Fuck! I can't believe how crazy everyone has been. For nothing!"

  "Well, not nothing, Reed-"

  "Oh, spare me, Doc. No one really gives a fuck if I live or die. My parents are already pulling Titanic ratios, I think they're just trying to get one to adulthood just to prove a point. Fuck them, honestly."

  Silence befalls the little office. Not a single word uttered nor the scratch of a pen on paper. There isn't an analog clock in the room and so there isn't even a ticking noise. Nothing but Reed's own heartbeat flood his ears as it races and races. His blood runs hot despite the bloom of goosebumps overtaking the flesh of his arms. This time, he does not stop himself from blabbing. "I brought the gun to the quarry so one of my friends could impress your son. He has a fat-fucking-crush on him and I was trying to wingman. That's what all this was. My brothers died before I was old enough to level with them like this, and them two- my friends- are as close as I think I'll get to that again. I just- beefed it."

  A pause follows his admission.

  "Yeah," Doctor Goodman huffs a miniscule laugh, "I'll say. But, no matter the case, first attempts are always shaky. When I was young, I tried teaching my friend how to do a cartwheel so she could impress a boy and we both ended up with broken noses."

  Reed snorts and lifts his head from his hands. "How?"

  "Ungraceful ankles," she shrugs, smiling. "Mistakes don't make you bad, Reed. They make you human. You can always grow beyond the acts if you lead with the intention and knowledge to do differently."

  But how can he be allowed to grow and try again when Michael and Liam don't? How can that be fair? Reed's mind supplies him with the information and layout from that night in March back in California. 

  The investigators knew Liam wasn't driving based on how far from the car he had been thrown. He was the more drunk of the two and there were globs of vomit on his jacket in the trunk that suggested he was having a rough bout with his liquor. The cops figured he had laid out in the backseat and forwent a seatbelt to be able to rest comfortably. Michael was drunk-ish and the driver. There were no tire marks to indicate an attempt to stop before clipping the barrier, so he must have dozed off. Because of the high rate of speed and the angle that the tire hit the divider the car flipped.

  And slid down the offramp into a guardrail. 

  Liam could have been stitched and stappled back together well enough for an open casket, if Mom and Dad had wanted. Michael was missing everything from the eyebrows up.

  "Reed?"

  The boy blinks at his lap then looks up.

  "You're allowed your grief, too."

  Suddenly he can't stop himself from crying. Devastated tears fall in humiliatingly fat drops from his face onto his jeans. He soaks his tee shirt sleeves trying to mop them up but they keep coming despite his efforts. Tissues are presses into his fisted hands. Doctor Goodman brings him a bottle of cold water and waits patiently for him to regain himself. It takes most of the session, and by the time he is recovered his head aches and his throat is too raw to speak. Still, she attempts to ask about the red splotch on the back of his neck. He shrugs and chooses not to say anything about it.

  They finish their time by coloring in one of the coloring books in silence.

  Reed stays locked in his room through the weekend.

  But on Monday, Lester returns to school more like himself. He leans against his locker while Reed fumbles through his own to grab his books. "You know there is a Dances With Wolves book?"

  The blond grunts in confusion.

  Lester shrugs. "It's on the list of approved books for Lang Arts. I thought it was only an old movie."

  "You going to read it?"

  "I've never even seen the movie, dude. Isn't it, like, long as hell?"

  Reed scratches the back of his neck and stretches to get some of his pent up nerves loosened. "Kind of. It's not bad, though."

  "You've seen it," Lester looks a little surprised. "You don't usually like shit like that."

  "I don't. But," he thinks about Doctor Goodman. About how grief and mourning crowd the same side of the coin as his memories. Then he thinks about how few people who know him in Shadyside know he had brothers. Including his friends. He can almost hear Michael's voice in the midst of the cacophony around them. "Wow, that's messed up. They all think you're hot shit at Motocross when I was how you got into it in the first place? No mentions at all?" 

  Reed just goes for it before he can chicken out again. "I found my brother's DVD and watched it over the weekend."

  The surprise on Lester's face only grows before morphing into something like guilt. "Woah, I didn't know you have a brother."

  He shuts his locker and nonchalantly stuffs his books in his bag. "I don't talk about them much. But, yeah, Liam loved movies."

  It was as much born in him as was the color of his eyes, brown like Mom, and hair with was brown like Dad's. For his birthdays the family would go to see some new release in theaters and extended family would gift him DVD's. He knew the lines of a hundred movies by heart from start to finish. He could differentiate between which effects were digital and which were practical and how they were accomplished. When he was thirteen, Mom got him his own camera to film his own movies on.

  She likely assumed that they would shoot footage of their street and the dirt bike track, the dog and maybe silly action figure scenes.

  Instead, he utilized what he knew and recruited his two reckless brothers to help. Reed has sun-tinted memories of them spraying the concrete with white gas to make practical flames on the sidewalk. Michael jeopardized his driving permit to mow down an old tricycle for the cold open to a drama. They were banned from a convenience store for using it as an impromptu set.

  The camera was taken away. Replaced immediately by the miniature film studio contained in a smart phone and the short films posted online.

  If his funeral had just been his and they had more time, they could have made a fake movie poster for him rather than the lame picture in a funerary wreath of white roses. An action shot of Michael with fiery explosions replete with some random image of an actress gazing dramatically in the background. There wasn't even a video on the screen over the pastor's shoulder and Reed couldn't help but fixate on how unlike his brothers that felt.

  There should have been that angsty, soupy guitar music that Michael liked and pictures of him tinkering on his bike and attempting to twerk in Mom's way while she was trying to prepare dinner. Instead it was solemn piano shit and pictures of both the dead boys posed in stiffly starched suits.

  "Huh," Lester seems very interested. "You have more than one brother? This whole time?"

  The bell rings. Reed holds up two fingers, both as a peace sign and to show the number of siblings he has as the two head down the hall. "Had, bro."

  "Wha- oh. Oh, shit- dude. I'm sorry."

  The boy actually finds himself smiling a little at Lester's endlessly genuine shock and worry. "Thanks. Maybe I'll tell you about them some other time."

  In homeroom, whispers spread amongst the class about some reckless high school party getting rolled by the cops. Two Juniors nabbed on Drunk and Disorderlies. Grant and Jefferson are both in a tizzy about the whole ordeal. 

  Not that it is any of his business, of course.