Shedeservedit, p.3
#shedeservedit, page 3
Alex gets back into the car. He gives her a small greasy bag of Tater Tots from the bag.
“What did Bracken want? Why is he in town?”
“He said he just wanted to put some old ghosts to rest.” He bites into his cheeseburger.
“I’ve got a bad feeling,” she says.
He swallows. “I’ve had one for a long time.”
Watch out for India, he hears Bracken saying again.
Unspoken: Like you didn’t for my sister.
Chapter Three
Burrowed beneath his blankets and sheets, only his head exposed, he hears his parents moving around. They’re talking, but he can’t hear what they’re saying. The voices are too muffled.
But their bedroom is on the other side of the house. He shouldn’t be able to hear them at all unless they’re on his side of the house.
He’s tossed and turned all night, never falling asleep for long. His muscles and joints ache, last night’s game catching up to him. He hears his mother’s footsteps. He looks at his alarm: 7:05. He closes his eyes as the bedroom door opens and the overhead light comes on.
“Alex, wake up.”
He sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. That bruise on his upper arm is turning dark purple, the color fading out as it radiates from the center, the outer edges outlined in pale sickly yellow.
She’s holding the landline phone, which no one ever uses anymore, in her hand.
That can’t be good.
She always says the only reason anyone would call after nine p.m. or before eight in the morning is bad news—someone’s in the hospital, or someone’s died.
“I know it’s early, I’m sorry.” She looks worried and haggard, no makeup, her usually impeccably styled dark hair flattened, still, on the right side from the pillow. His father stands in the doorway in just his underwear.
“Is someone…?”
“Lance’s mother is on the phone. She wants to talk to you,” his father says. He sounds worried, but Alex can tell he’s starting to get angry. “Mrs. Kidwell says he didn’t come home last night. You know anything about this?” The veiled threat: You’d better not.
“What? Why?”
In his head, he hears Lance saying again If anything happens to me…
Lance is the example they use on him whenever he fucks up. A D in Geometry? Why can’t you be more like Lance?
Lance plays three sports.
Lance is so respectful.
Lance has a job, Lance always goes to church, Lance, Lance, Lance.
Lance is the son they always wanted.
Instead, they wound up with Alex and the crushing disappointment of him being just average.
Staying out all night isn’t Lance’s style—or didn’t used to be, anyway.
He doesn’t know what Lance’s style is anymore.
“If you know anything, boy, you’d better tell her, you understand me?” His dad points at him. Typical. That’s his father’s style—don’t ask questions, always assume the worst. Guilty until proven innocent is the Wheeler family motto, his father playing judge, jury, and sometimes executioner. “Make me something to eat, Althene. I’m getting in the shower.” He goes to the country club every Saturday morning. In good weather he plays golf. In the winter he plays handball. “Did I make myself clear, Alex?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?” His voice rises, eyes narrow, anger just below the placid surface.
“Yes, sir.” More conviction. Respect. That’s what his father wants to hear. “Mom?”
“Talk to Mrs. Kidwell.” She hands him the phone. He notices her gray roots. She’s due for a touch-up.
Althene Wheeler never lets anyone see her gray roots.
“Hey, Mrs. Kidwell. Sorry it took me so long to come to the phone.” He reaches for a pair of sweatpants draped over his desk chair and pulls them on.
“Alex?” Mrs. Kidwell’s voice sounds strained, higher pitched than usual, almost shrill. “Sorry to wake you up, but do you know where Lance might be? He didn’t come home last night. He isn’t answering his cell phone.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.” He swallows again. “I haven’t seen him since after the game.”
“Do you know where he was going after the dance? Was there a party somewhere he was going to?” Dread in her voice.
“He didn’t say anything to me about going to a party.” Not that he would tell me anymore, he adds to himself.
“When did you see him last?”
“Um, in the locker room? After the game.”
If anything happens to me…
“Lexy swears he dropped her off, and he was coming straight home. And the car is here.” Her voice shakes. “Alex, please tell me the truth. I won’t be angry, I promise. Was he going to a party where they’d be drinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure he didn’t say anything?” she pleads. He’s always liked Mrs. Kidwell. Unlike his own mother, Mrs. Kidwell’s warm and friendly. Even when she gets home from work at the detention center, smelling like grease and onions and sweat and tired from being on her feet all day, she never lets it show.
She’s nothing like his mother.
He used to wish she was his mother.
“The four of you didn’t have plans after the game?”
Lance and Lexy and him and India. The fearsome foursome.
They used to be inseparable.
Used to be.
“No, ma’am, we didn’t.” He coughs apologetically. “I have an early curfew now, so me and India skipped the game, went and got something to eat, and I came home.” Mom is sitting in his desk chair, listening to every word. She lights another cigarette. “I didn’t see him again after I left the locker room.”
“Well, if you think of anything”—Mrs. Kidwell sounds defeated—“it doesn’t matter what, even if it seems like nothing, can you please call me? And if you hear from Lance—”
“I’ll have him call home.”
He turns off the phone and gives it back to his mother. She gestures to his cell phone with her cigarette. “Check that.”
He always turns it off when he goes to bed. He unplugs it from the wall and switches it on.
“Anything from Lance?”
He scrolls through his phone while she puffs on her cigarette, flicking ash into an empty Coke can sitting on his desk. He wishes she wouldn’t smoke in his room. “Nothing new.”
No texts, no missed calls, no emails.
Nothing.
He shows her his screen, an innocuous text conversation with Lance up. “See? Nothing in days.”
His mother is still beautiful, gray roots and all. There are lines around her eyes and mouth now, but she’s still the same size she’d been when she’d been first runner-up to Miss Texas in college.
She stands up. “That may be, but you lied to her.” It isn’t a question. She starts tapping her foot, eyes narrowed to slits. “Why did you lie to her, Alex?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t lie.”
“I know when you’re lying, Alex.” She drops the cigarette into the Coke can. There’s a sizzling sound. “And I won’t have it.” She tosses the can into the small trash can next to his desk. “I’m going to make your father’s breakfast.” She stops at the door. “Well?”
“Ma’am?”
“Call some people. Someone you know knows where he is.” She glares at him. “You know where he is, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. You know we don’t hang out anymore.” He hesitates. “You told me he’s not welcome here anymore, remember?”
If anything happens to me…
That stops her. He knew it would. As she shuts his door behind her, she mutters, “This is what comes from palling around with white trash. Nothing good ever comes of hanging with garbage like the Kidwells.”
His parents made him close his social media accounts after the bonfire and delete the apps from his phone, but he still accesses them through a web browser. He just changed his username from Alex Wheeler to Alex Thomas, substituting his middle name for his last. He always remembers to clear his browser history on his laptop and on his phone. His parents have the passwords to both, nothing he can do about that, but they aren’t as good with tech as they think they are.
No adults are as good with tech as they think they are.
He also plays dumb a lot. It isn’t hard to convince them he’s stupid. They already believe he is.
He pulls up Facebook and scrolls through his feed. Nothing really, just talk about last night’s game and pictures, nothing about a party at Joe’s last night. He didn’t think there would be—everyone learned their lesson after the bonfire, just like there isn’t anything in texts or Instagram or on Twitter or Snapchat or TikTok or anywhere.
Not that he can see, anyway.
He’s been blocked by a lot of people.
He downloads some pictures from the game, though. India put up a great one of the two of them in their uniforms right before the game…and then he sees the comments.
He’s such a fucking loser you need to dump him what’s wrong with you girl?
How can you go out with someone who’d stab his friends in the back like that?
What’s wrong with you, girl? What’s wrong with both of you?
He feels the anger rising and closes his eyes. Counts backward from ten, while focusing on breathing in and out deeply.
When he feels calm again, he closes the browser.
He can’t wait to get out of this foul fucking town.
He gets back under the blankets and stares at the ceiling.
He wonders what Lance has done, has gotten himself into, this time.
He texts India, sure she’s not awake yet. Lance’s mom called he didn’t come home you haven’t heard anything?
What had he been talking to Mr. Howe about? He tries to remember what Lance said in the locker room. He hadn’t been paying close attention because he wanted to get out of there, and things between them are always so damned awkward now. Not like it used to be.
They used to be so close.
It still bothers him, but some things can’t be gotten past.
If someone told Alex last year they wouldn’t be friends anymore, he would have laughed in their face. They were best friends for life. They did everything together, played football and baseball, took the same college prep classes, studied and helped each other with homework, lifted weights together. If the girls weren’t around, they hung out without them, playing video games or hanging out at the park or going for drives, always able to find something to do. It bothered Lance his parents weren’t like Alex’s, that he lived on the wrong side of Sixth Street, where everything stinks like the meat processing plant where his stepfather works as a janitor. He hates his mom working at the detention center and that they never have any money and resents having to work at McDonald’s on the weekends. In the summer Lance bags groceries at the Safeway, too, around lifting weights and training while Alex gets to hang out with India at the country club pool or go out to the lake.
Alex’s mom lets him use her credit cards to buy clothes for school. Lance spends his own money. Alex’s parents got him a new MacBook Pro for his birthday. Lance saved up to buy a used one he found on craigslist. His iPhone is Alex’s old one. Alex’s car isn’t anything special, but he didn’t have to pay for it, and he has a Shell card for gas. Lance drives his mom’s battered old Honda—when he gets the chance to drive, which isn’t often. Alex always gives him rides to school—well, he used to. Lance hates for anyone to see where he lives, to come over to his house, always wanting to come to Alex’s instead. He always sucked up to Alex’s parents, too. His mom could call Lance white trash all she wants to, but Alex knows they look at Lance and wish Alex was more like him.
Or that Lance was their son.
Or used to.
Not so much anymore.
Alex may be a starter, but Lance is the star.
India texts him back after he hears his dad drive off. Haven’t heard anything I wonder what happened. Wanna grab lunch?
Sure, he replies.
He takes a shower and goes downstairs. His mom is cleaning the kitchen, and it smells slightly like bleach. He makes a cup of coffee—she’s gotten the French-vanilla creamer he likes—and sits down at the table. “Are you hungry?” she asks as she wipes down the counter, getting down her cast iron skillet. “Or do you just want a protein shake?”
His parents are big on giving him protein shakes, supplements, vitamins, and making sure he eats the way an athlete does. His uncle is a football coach back in Texas—the one who’d played for A&M and then the Cowboys for a couple of years. He is always emailing them stuff he thinks Alex should eat, supplement information, and training advice.
But Alex knows he is only going to get so big and won’t be getting a scholarship to play ball no matter how much they want it to happen.
He can’t wait to be done with football.
He used to like playing. It used to be fun being on the team.
Lots of things used to be fun.
“Can I just have eggs and bacon?”
She makes him a protein shake with fruit and bananas while the eggs and bacon cook. He’s supposed to have at least one per day, whether he works out or not. The days he does work out, he has two, timed perfectly to the minute so the protein will help grow his muscles. He has one every day when he gets home from practice. He’s put on some muscle weight, but not as much as he’d need to for college ball.
She puts the plate and the glass with the protein shake in front of him. “Any word on where Lance is?”
“Nobody seems to know anything.” He chews a mouthful of eggs. “Most people aren’t going to tell me anything anyway, you know. I don’t know why Mrs. Kidwell called me.”
“You’re friends. If you didn’t come home, I’d call Lance.”
It would be a wasted call, he thinks but doesn’t say out loud.
He looks at her. She turns away.
She goes over the counter one last time with a washcloth before sitting down across the table from him with a cup of coffee, lighting a cigarette. She’s a clean freak, but her big glass ashtray is overflowing.
She stubs out her cigarette. “Is there anything else about last night you want to tell me about?” Despite living in the Midwest for fifteen years, she still has a trace of her once-thick Texas accent when she says certain words, like ruuuuul for rural and PUH-rare-ree for prairie. It only comes out strong when she’s trying to charm someone, like when pulled over for speeding. She lays it on thicker with cops than it ever gets while talking to her sister or mother on the telephone.
“I’m not lying to you.” He looks her in the eyes.
“What about social media? Anything on there about Lance?”
He isn’t stupid enough to fall for that one.
“You know I’m not on social media anymore,” he says. “I’d have checked there first.” If you can tell when I’m lying, why aren’t you calling me out on this?
“Why did you lie to Mrs. Kidwell, Alex?” she asks, crumpling the now empty pack between her fingers. She sounds tired, a bit sad. She’s been trying to quit smoking for years, usually lasting a week or so before breaking down and buying another pack, filling ashtrays again with lipstick-stained butts.
“I didn’t lie to Mrs. Kidwell.”
“Now you’re lying to me.” She flicks ash. “Unacceptable, Alex. You know that.”
“I wouldn’t lie to Mrs. Kidwell, Mom.”
“But you’ll lie to your mother.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
They sit there in silence.
She breaks first, shaking her head. “All right, then. Go clean your room, and I’ll figure out some more chores for you.”
“I’m meeting India at one.”
“Maybe you’d better think about sticking around the house today,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, you out running around when no one knows what’s happened to Lance.”
It isn’t fair, but he doesn’t say anything. Arguing will make her more obstinate. The best way to play it is to go along and hope she changes her mind later. “I don’t know where he is, Mom.”
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Mom, I would. I’d have told Mrs. Kidwell, too.” He swallows. “You think I’d keep secrets after what happened?”
Direct hit. She flinches. “We can talk about it later.”
He wonders what she’ll say to Dad.
Maybe she’ll let it drop, to keep the peace.
His sophomore year had been horrible.
They always tiptoe around his father, never knowing what will set him off, sending him into a blind rage no explanation or answer could ever satisfy. He can’t be reasoned with when he’s in a rage. The only thing to do is take the verbal abuse and wait for it to burn out, hope it doesn’t get physical. There is never warning before the explosion. Something he’ll laugh at one week will send him spiraling down the rage roller coaster the next.
His mother just cries when his father gets like that.
Sometimes her crying calms him, other times it makes him angrier. Alex’s sophomore year, it seemed every day when Alex got home from school a battle was raging. Always about his older sister Jada, who’d inherited Dad’s temper. She always yelled back, but that year had been the worst. He tries not to remember those days of dreading coming home, school no better, everyone whispering when he walked by, feeling sorry for him.
No one knew how bad things really were.
Nobody knows—not Lance, not even India.
He’d pretended, plastering a smile on his face every day when he went to school. He lifted weights after school, got a part in the school play so he wouldn’t have to come home until almost ten, always trying to find something, anything, to do so he wouldn’t have to go home.
