He was the first person I’d known who was openly and proudly gay. (I was something in between. Fluid. The way I thought about both girls and guys. Back then I had only begun to put those thoughts into action.)

  We hung out a little at school. But after school, we were a duo. We’d go downtown. Stay warm in the bookstore. Watch the skateboarders at Erwin Center. I’d be waiting outside the bakery when he got off work. I’d go with him to bring the unsold baguettes to his cousin. We’d end up on a bench, tossing bread to birds, regretting how much waste there was in the world. Sometimes these conversations happened on a bus. Other nights on his living room couch. His mom would come home and whip us up a feast. I’d leave at bedtime, my belly and head full. (Heart too.)

  And then one day in second semester, he was in a panic. They found weed on him. For the first time, his swagger was missing. I tried to downplay it. It’s just a little weed. And so what if they do kick you out. You’d be lucky to get out of this place.

  You think it was easy for me to get in here? Maybe for you.

  I started thinking the worst. What if he did get kicked out? Where would that leave me? What would I do without him? And then, another split-second decision.

  I went to the dean, told him it was mine. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I wasn’t thinking it through, just following some gut thing. We all signed the same school contract—zero tolerance. Penalty: expulsion. My parents tried to fight it, but it was no use. Miguel’s record stayed clean and I got sent to rehab. My father had threatened to send me the year before. My mother persuaded him to send me to a summer wilderness program instead, and then to Hanover. What’s crazy, I was basically just smoking weed at the time. But it didn’t matter. My track record didn’t support my story. I had run out of chances. (The irony: it was rehab that introduced me to a new set of bad habits.)

  Wilderness camp was a literal walk in the park compared with rehab. The kids I was with were hard addicts. Some of them didn’t even resemble kids. Weathered skin, teeth, eyes. Almost not human, more like zombies. And that’s how the staff treated them. Treated us. But I didn’t belong there. I acted like I did. Pretended I was a bigger user than I ever really was. Just to blend in. Survival. But inside I was shaking. I missed home. (For once, I had something at home to miss.)

  After rehab, we saw each other less. Different schools. He had a full schedule with work and Amnesty International. Also, his mom didn’t want him hanging out with me. (I never met his dad and doubt that he ever knew I existed.) But we still texted a lot. I’d complain to him about public school, how I was being treated. People hear you went to rehab and they act like you’re poison. You start to believe it, too. Fuck ’em, Miguel would say. Simple and resolute. Fuck ’em. It helped.

  Whenever I stopped to think about my life, the turn it took, the anger would consume me. (I wonder now: What would’ve happened if I’d stayed at Hanover? Maybe life could’ve gone a different way.)

  And then: one day, this past spring. Miguel came over. He made a big deal of it, too. I feel like maybe I’m the first Mexican in your house who wasn’t getting paid to be here. I said no. What I didn’t tell him: he was the first anyone in my house. The first person I’d ever invited over. (I’d hooked up with people by then. But it’s not like I was bringing anyone home to meet the parents.)

  The house was empty. We hung in my bedroom. He made fun of one of my books. The Little Prince? Really? That actually explains a lot. He said I was a boy in man’s clothing. (He introduced me to a ton of books and authors. I never returned his copy of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.)

  There was a new energy between us. (We were older now. More experienced. Thoughts had become actions.)

  We got high and lay on the floor. Your hair’s getting long, he said. I wanted to find scissors immediately. But then he said, I like it.

  He played me this one song. When it was over, I asked him to play it again. One line stood out: “Don’t hold back. I want to break free.” (I listened to that song every day for months. Until it became too painful to hear.)

  Lying there, I noticed a birthmark on his neck. I had never noticed it before. I reached out and touched my finger to it. We locked eyes.

  That birthmark: a magic button. Once pushed, the whole world suddenly lit up.

  CHAPTER 19

  Keeping up with fans has become part of my new daily routine. Fans is an obnoxious word, I know, but honestly, I’m not sure what else to call them. Followers is also weird. (Across all platforms, I’ve got at least a hundred new followers since I last checked.) I guess they’re just fellow lonely people who have found hope in our little community, the one I happen to be the face of.

  What I do know for sure is that these people all seem to have a desperate desire to connect with someone. They feel inspired to share their incredibly personal stories. When they couldn’t live up to the expectations. When they borrowed money they couldn’t repay. When they feared they’d never leave that foster home. When they lost a child. When they cheated on the only one who stood by them. When the job they needed went to someone else. When the person in power abused his privilege. When the purpose that drove them no longer seemed worth it. When they struggled to get out of bed, or go outside, or show up for work. When they didn’t know where to aim their rage. Or how to endure their isolation. Or reverse their mistakes. Or not give up.

  I recognize almost all of it and yet it’s so much bigger than me.

  And when these people write me, they don’t just want to talk; they want to listen, too. They’re interested in hearing what I think about things. At first, they wanted to know more about Connor, but now they also want to know about me and my life, and not just the big, dramatic stuff but also the mundane things, like what hair product I use and where I shop for clothes. (I don’t tell them that my mother takes care of both of those things.)

  Many people keep asking the same question: How come you never post any pictures of yourself? I’ve always been camera shy. From what I can tell, Connor was the same way. There aren’t many pictures of him out there, either.

  Surprisingly, Vivian Maier took hundreds of photos of herself. It’s surprising because she was such a private person. She’d use aliases all around town and she’d never share information about her past. She seemed to enjoy being anonymous, and yet, she took tons of selfies—long before selfies were a thing. If someone as shy and awkward as Vivian Maier could take a selfie, I should be able to take one, too.

  I smooth down my hair in the mirror, then sit on the bed and hold out my phone. I snap a few pictures and review the shots. I look like someone who’s preparing to commit a sex crime. I reset and try again. This time I stand in front of the window and catch some natural light. I realize that my messy, unmade bed shows in the background. But my smile isn’t egregious. I crop out the bed and make it a close-up. After messing around with some filters, I summon the strength to share it with the world.

  I put away my phone and open my laptop. I should finish my homework before delivering the new emails to the Murphys. But first I click over to my uploaded photo and see if there’s been a response. My photo already has a dozen hearts. I refresh my screen and the number of hearts jumps even higher. Someone already posted a comment:

  So hot!

  Even though I’m completely alone, I blush and kind of laugh/gasp.

  “What are you looking at?”

  It’s my mom. (Of course.)

  “Nothing,” I say, quickly closing my laptop.

  “Nothing? You were just sitting there with a huge smile on your face.”

  “I was? I don’t think so.”

  I slide my computer into my bag, next to the printed-out emails.

  “I feel like every time I come into your room, you shut your computer,” she says. “I don’t know what you do on there that you don’t want me to see.”

  I zip my bag shut. “I was doing homework, Mom.”

  “Do you have a minute?” Standing there in the doorway, she resembles a prison guard blocking escape.

  “Actually, I was about to go to Jared’s.”

  “I thought you already saw him this afternoon.”

  “I was supposed to, but he canceled, so we’re meeting tonight. We have this Spanish project we have to finish.” I have one sneaker on, but I can’t find the other. “We’ll probably be going pretty late, so don’t worry about waiting up. He’ll drive me home.”

  “You can’t wait five minutes?” she says.

  I pretend to consider it. “I really shouldn’t.”

  “I saw the strangest thing on Facebook today.”

  “Oh really? Do you see my sneaker over there?”

  “It was a video from something called the Connor Project. Have you heard of that?”

  I freeze. I knew this moment was destined to come, and yet I somehow convinced myself that it never actually would.

  She’s not finished reporting what she’s learned. “It says on their website that you’re the president.”

  Co-president.

  “I watched the video,” she says.

  Her and every other mother in town, apparently.

  “It was you doing a speech. About that boy. Connor Murphy. How you climbed a tree together.”

  I’m done climbing. I don’t have the energy for it anymore. I sit down on the bed.

  “You told me you didn’t know him. That boy?”

  “I know. But…”

  “But then in your speech, you said he was your best friend.” She comes close and bends down to see my face. “Evan. Look at me.”

  I can’t run anymore. I’ve only got one shoe on.

  “What’s going on?” she pleads.

  I test it out, what it feels like to let it all go. I tell her, “It wasn’t true.”

  “What wasn’t true?” she says.

  I’m so tired of walking this tightrope. Sometimes it just requires too much. I’ve been longing for the safety of solid ground. I could end it—right here and now.

  But then where will I be? Everything else will end, too. Everything I have with the Murphys will be gone. My mom will make me tell them the truth. They’ll hate me. They won’t understand what I was trying to do, that I was only trying to help.

  No. That’s not what I want.

  “When I said I didn’t know him,” I answer finally.

  She presses her palm to her forehead, massaging her brain, trying to understand. “So you broke your arm with Connor Murphy? At an orchard?”

  I nod. It’s the first thing Jared ever taught me.

  “You told me you broke your arm at work,” she says. “At the park.”

  I stand up. “Who do you think drove me to the hospital? Who do you think waited with me in the emergency room for three hours? You were in class, remember? You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “You told me your boss took you to the hospital.”

  “Well?” I say, shrugging. “So, I lied, obviously.”

  “When were you planning on telling me any of this? Or you weren’t?”

  “When would I tell you, exactly? When are you even here?”

  “I’m here right now.”

  “One night a week?” I resume the sneaker search. “Most parents try a little harder than that, just so you know.”

  “Isn’t that lucky for them.”

  Where the hell is my shoe? “I have to go to Jared’s.”

  “I’m not sure I want you going out right now, actually.”

  I’m down on all fours, checking under the bed. Sure enough, that’s where I find it, hiding behind the curtain of my blanket. I also spot the plastic shopping bag that contains my cast. I didn’t know where else to put it, so I shoved it down here. I never thought I’d have to see it. Or think about it.

  I stand up and slip my sneaker on. After that, my backpack. “I told Jared I’d be there ten minutes ago.”

  “All right, listen. I’m missing class tonight so I can be here to talk to you, Evan. I would like you to please talk to me.”

  “Okay, well, am I supposed to just drop everything because it’s convenient for you? I can’t just not do my homework because you decided to skip class.”

  In the most deliberate manner possible, she inhales and exhales, trying to remain calm. “I don’t understand what is going on with you.”

  “Nothing is going on with me.”

  “You’re standing up in front of the school and giving speeches? You’re president of a group? I don’t know who that person is.”

  “You’re making a big deal out of something that isn’t a big deal.”

  “Evan.” She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to see her. “What is going on with you? You need to talk to me. You need to communicate with me.”

  “Nothing is going on with me. I told you—”

  “I’m your mother!”

  It shocks us both. She never yells at me.

  “I’m your mother,” she repeats, quieter, her lip trembling.

  I look down, unable to endure the hurt in her eyes. There’s plenty of it already in the sound of her struggling to catch her breath.

  And then, lowering onto the bed, shrinking, she says, “I’m sorry.”

  No. I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s me.

  “I’m happy for you,” she says, eyes watery. “I’m happy you had a friend, sweetheart. I’m just… I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

  My friend. I shoved our one real moment together into a plastic bag and hid it under my bed.

  “I wish I had known him.” She wipes away a tear. And then, she notices something. “Is your arm hurting?”

  I realize I’m clutching it again and I let go. “No.”

  “Listen to me. If you ever want to talk. I mean, about anything…”

  I wish I could. I wish I had. But that chance has passed. There’s no way out now but forward. Forward, right now, means getting out of this house.

  “I should go,” I say, my voice hollow.

  “Oh.” She moves away from the door. “Okay.” She picks up a pill bottle on my dresser. “You okay on refills?”

  “Actually, I’m not taking them anymore. I haven’t needed them.”

  She studies my face. “Really? So, no anxiety? Even with everything that’s happened?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve been fine,” I tell her. And it’s true.

  Now she’s the one shrugging. Neither of us has the answers. “All right, then. That’s great to hear. I’m proud of you.”

  It’s the perfect time to leave, now, while she’s got a buoy of good news to float on. But I don’t get out fast enough.

  “I guess those letters to yourself must have really helped, eh?”

  I can’t think of anything more painfully untrue.

  Eh. She’s the one who insisted I be Evan. The name I was born with didn’t meet with her approval. Seventeen years later and she’s still trying to tweak me just a little bit more to her liking.

  “I have to go,” I say, stepping around her.

  I half expect her to follow me, but when I turn back to check, she hasn’t moved. She’s looking at me as if I’m a stranger. I guess maybe I am.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Murphys’ garage is bigger than the entire bottom floor of my house. It’s cleaner and more organized, too. In my experience, garages are where people store all the junk they don’t want inside their home. But Larry Murphy seems like the sort of guy who doesn’t tolerate junk. He just throws it away.

  Zoe’s father asked me to join him in here while the ladies cleared the dinner table. I usually help Cynthia, but tonight we’re just two guys talking shop. The fight with my mom is only a shadow now. Larry doesn’t want to interrogate me. He wants to help me.

  He’s showing me the contents of a plastic storage bin that he pulled off a high shelf. “Brooks Robinson,” Larry says. “Jim Palmer.”

  I don’t recognize these people as baseball players until he shows me their cards sheathed in protective plastic.

  “Look at this,” Larry says, probing deeper into his bin. “Here’s the entire ’96 team.”

  “Wow,” I say, because I assume I’m supposed to.

  “You get the right people to come to an auction, baseball fans, I bet you could raise a thousand bucks for the orchard, easy.”

  “It’s a great idea. I’m definitely going to talk to Alana about it.”

  Larry didn’t have much to say about our idea to rebuild the orchard when we first presented it. Cynthia was all in, but Larry just sat there quietly. Maybe that’s his style. For all I know, that’s the style of all dads.

  He pulls out a baseball glove from the bin and sets it aside. “I swear I have a Cal Ripken in here somewhere.”

  “This is really generous of you,” I say. “To donate all this stuff.”

  The door to the house opens and Zoe appears. “Mom says that your show is on and she doesn’t want to DVR it again.”

  “Well, tell her we’re busy.”

  “Dad, are you torturing him?”

  “What?”

  “Evan, is he torturing you?” Zoe says. “You can tell him he’s being boring and you want to leave. He won’t be upset.”

  “He can leave whenever he wants,” Larry says.

  “Evan, do you want to leave?”

  In the first moments alone with Larry, I was praying Zoe would come rescue me. He and I have never really had a conversation, just the two of us. But I’m actually having a good time talking to him. “No. Really,” I say, “it’s cool.”

  “Fine,” Zoe says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And, Dad, don’t let Evan take any more selfies for his groupies.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means,” Larry says.

  “Ask Evan. He knows.” Zoe smirks at me before shutting the door.

  Larry looks to me for guidance. I shrug, trying to not let the fact that Zoe just exhibited what I’m pretty sure was jealousy cause me to unleash an embarrassing fist pump.

  He’s quiet a moment. Then he says, “So, you and Zoe…?”

 

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