All That I Can Fix Page 11

  “Someone has to make sure the living rooms don’t have mold,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Sam said.

  That seemed to satisfy Mina, because she skipped over to Mom, who was heading out to run an errand. Sam and I went outside, watched them leave, and sat on the front porch. I zipped up my hoodie; the sun was warm, but the air was cool. Sam zipped up his hoodie too and shoved his hands in his pockets. I had to admit, it was pretty nice just hanging with him on the porch.

  A car drove by with a dad and mom and some kids in the back, and the mom was holding a rifle. A fucking rifle.

  “It looks like we’re all on safaris now,” I muttered.

  Sam watched them with me. “Everyone is so afraid.”

  “Bingo,” I said. I paused. “Why are you so afraid of being at home?”

  Sam struck his heel against the step of our stoop. “I’m not afraid.”

  Silence.

  Sam looked away. Squirmed. “It’s different with Nick gone.”

  I looked at Sam’s arms. The bruises were still there, yellowed and faded. “And the bruises?”

  Sam blushed. “I got mad.”

  “Being mad does not give one bruises,” I said.

  “Yes it does.”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  Sam hesitated. “I was shouting at Dad and Mom. About Nick. About how he ran away because of them. And how I’m going to run away too.” He paused. “That’s when I hit Dad. And that’s when Dad grabbed me.” He paused. “It didn’t hurt much.”

  “Huh.” Another car drove by, this time without someone holding a rifle in the front seat. “Does this happen a lot?”

  Sam grimaced. “No, this was the first time. But they were throwing away more of Nick’s stuff, and I got really mad.”

  It had to suck to see your parents throwing away your brother’s shit. I couldn’t blame him for being angry.

  A cool breeze picked up. Sam struck his heel against the step again. “I’ve been checking my e-mail a lot,” he said.

  “I bet you have.”

  A gun went off in the distance.

  Sam looked at me. “Why hasn’t he e-mailed me?”

  “No texts?”

  Sam shook his head. “Ronney?” His fists went deep into his hoodie pockets.

  “Yeah.”

  “Help me find Nick.”

  I stretched open my arms. “I can’t, Sam. Where would I even start?”

  “Please?”

  I winced. “I’m telling you, I don’t go looking for missing people.”

  Sam’s eyes started to water, and he looked away angrily and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “No one else can help me,” he whispered.

  I sighed inside. That was the third time. The third goddamn fucking time. How was I supposed to know how to help him? I work on houses to stay out of problems like this. But as Sam sat with me on my front porch, he sure looked like one of those poor helpless kids that the world didn’t give a shit about. Maybe because I knew how tough this kid was, or maybe because he kind of reminded me of myself, or maybe because it was a Tuesday and I feel nicer, in general, on Tuesdays, I found myself giving a shit. A small shit, but a shit.

  “Yeah, fine, let’s do it,” I said. “You lucky bastard.”

  14

  I WASN’T EXACTLY TELLING THE truth when I told Sam I don’t go looking for missing people, because I went out looking for Mina when she ran away from home after Dad shot himself. I wish I could say she ran away like a lot of other kids do when they decide they’re going on an adventure or something like that. Then running away would have a bit of . . . fun . . . to it. But not with Mina, and not with my family.

  So I guess I do go looking for missing people. However, with Nick, it was worse: I wouldn’t even know where to start. That’s what I was thinking as I watched Sam walk home.

  The thing was, I had promised to help find Nick, so I needed to start somewhere. Which was bullshit. How do you start looking for someone who’s been gone for six months? For all I knew, he’d been eaten already. I know it sounds cruel, but a lot of crazy-ass shit can happen when you run away from home, things you had no idea could ever happen. Homes are funny like that: In some ways they shield you from the world, and in other ways they leave you more exposed than you ever want to be.

  That’s what I was thinking about when Mina and Mom came home from their errand. Mom was putting away her jacket when she said, “I’m supposed to tell you that George wants you to text her.” Mom’s lips turned up slightly. “She really likes to write with smiley faces.”

  My blood pressure spiked. “What? She texted you? How did she get your phone number?”

  Mom looked at me strangely. “Remember when she babysat for Mina a year ago—I had given her my number. I guess she never deleted it. Why? Is something wrong?”

  Mina didn’t notice that I’d gone all tense, or maybe she pretended not to notice. If that was the case—the latter, I mean—then she was getting just as good as the rest of us at pretending not to notice shit.

  Instead, she tugged on my shirt. “Ron-Ron,” she said. “Guess what?”

  “What?” I asked, trying to cool down.

  “Guess.” She boinged a black spiral curl of hers that was dangling by her face.

  “You have a new pet baby hippopotamus,” I said, waving my hand in the air.

  She grinned. “No.”

  “You got all As on your progress report.”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not it.”

  “You did five handstands.”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled a little. “You flew to the moon and back.”

  She tugged on my shirt again. “You’re not trying, Ronney.”

  I shrugged. “So tell me.”

  “I gave my bouncy ball to Sam,” she announced.

  My jaw dropped. “Really?”

  Mina nodded bigger than necessary. “When Mom and I were coming home, Sam was walking on the sidewalk. We slowed down, and he was so happy to see us that he waved us down. Mom stopped the car and he opened the door and twirled me around on the street.” She giggled.

  I was stunned. “Seriously?”

  Mina nodded. “He was so happy, and I wanted to make him even happier. So I gave him my bouncy ball. He twirled me around for a while more until I started getting dizzy and Mom told me to get back in the car.”

  My jaw would have dislodged if possible. “He was dancing? Sam?”

  Mina nodded again, all wide-eyed. “Yup. For real.”

  Mom was smiling with her eyes. “It was really cute. I was going to give him a ride home, but he said that he was just a couple of blocks away.”

  Sam was dancing. Probably because I’d said I’d help him. What would he do if I let him down?

  “Ronney? Mina?” That was Dad, from his bedroom.

  “Yes, Dad,” we called back, almost in unison.

  “Linda?”

  “We’re home, honey,” Mom said. “What do you want?”

  Silence.

  Dad shuffled out from their bedroom. He was still in his pajamas, even though it was late in the afternoon.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Mina said cheerfully, and gave him a hug around his waist. He didn’t touch her.

  He did that all the time, but it didn’t stop me from getting pissed off. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Did the computer break?”

  Mina’s arms fell, and she came and stood by my side. I put a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned into me.

  “How was your day, dear?” Mom asked.

  Dad ignored us and went to the refrigerator. He opened the door and stared at its contents.

  “Roger, do you want something?” Mom asked.

  Dad shut the door. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked.

  “The only thing Dad’s sure about,” I said, “is that he hates his life.”

  “Enough, Ronney,” Mom said pleasantly. “Your dad has been going through a hard time.”

 
; “I know, he’s sensitive,” I said. “We’ve been through that.”

  “I’m sensitive too,” Mina chimed in, looking back and forth at us.

  “Yeah, what about the rest of us?” I asked Mom. “We might be just as sensitive, but we don’t get any of the perks.”

  “They’re not perks,” Dad said, almost mumbling.

  “Checking out on being a dad is certainly a perk,” I said.

  “Maybe some of that curry,” Dad said to Mom.

  Mom went to the refrigerator to get the leftovers. As she was opening the refrigerator door, the doorbell rang. Mina bounded to get it.

  It was Sam. Again.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I said, a little confused. He’d just left.

  “Can I eat dinner with you guys tonight?” he asked. His face was all pinched.

  My stomach did a flip-flop. Something had happened.

  “Sure he can,” Mina said. “Right, Mom?”

  “Right,” Mom said. “As long as he calls his parents.”

  Sam came into the house and I gave him a high five, and that alone seemed to perk him up. Freaking crazy, all the little things that matter.

  Sam looked at Dad. “Why are you still in your pajamas?” Sam asked.

  I snorted. I was liking this kid more and more.

  Dad hesitated. “It was a long day,” he said.

  “Oh,” Sam said, pulling up a kitchen chair. “What did you do?”

  Dad shifted uncomfortably. “I was online,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Sam looked at him.

  Mom put the curry in the microwave, but I knew she was listening.

  Sam kept looking at him.

  “I might have found some new clients. . . .” Dad trailed off.

  Sam kept waiting.

  Mom pushed the start button on the microwave.

  Mina looked at Dad.

  I looked at Dad.

  Dad swallowed. “I . . .”

  And to my shock, Dad started to cry.

  For the record, dads don’t cry. That’s a universal rule from the ancient caveman to today: Dads don’t cry. But my dad was crying as he sat down at the kitchen table, as his shoulders shook and he made these weird crying noises I’d never heard before, and as Mina crawled into his lap and threw her arms around his neck, saying, “Daddy, Daddy, it’s okay, Daddy.” Mom stayed where she was, watching the curry heat in the microwave, as if this whole scene wasn’t happening. For some reason, I was immediately pissed at everyone.

  Except Sam. I turned my head away and took a deep breath. “You sure you want to eat here?” I tried not to show how shaken I was.

  “It smells good,” Sam said.

  “Well, okay,” I said.

  It turned out that we all ate curry, right then, even though it was early for dinner. Call it an impromptu meal, I suppose. Maybe Mom didn’t want Dad to eat alone again, especially with him crying. Or maybe she wanted us to eat together for Sam. Whatever it was, she reheated the rice, and we sat down and ate.

  And I have to hand it to him, Sam ate everything we gave him, even though it was a curry casserole with meats, vegetables, and chicken feet. Most people are idiots when it comes to eating and don’t know how stupid they look throwing out perfectly good food. But Sam, he was a sport. We had to show him how to eat the chicken feet, but once he caught on, he ate it all. Even said he liked it.

  I smiled when he said that.

  • • •

  After we were done eating, Sam was going to walk home and said to me, “Want to come with?” And though I didn’t want to, I put on my shoes. Mina had to study her spelling words, thank God, and didn’t ask if she could come with us. I shouted to Mom that we’d watch out for the tiger. And the cougar. And maybe the hyena.

  It was one of my favorite kinds of nights: The air had a crispness that goes down your lungs like a cold glass of water. I zipped up my hoodie, and Sam did too. We walked in silence, and I couldn’t help but remember that pinched look on Sam’s face when he first came over. Clearly, the kid wanted to talk. A part of me didn’t want to ask what was wrong. That part of me was saying, His shit is none of my business. I don’t get messed up with other people’s problems. I have enough problems of my own. And while all of that was true, another part of me couldn’t forget how my stomach fell when I saw him standing in our doorway, his face tight, like he wanted to cry. My stomach freaking did somersaults. I couldn’t remember the last time that happened. Then, another thought: If his shit is none of my business, why the hell did I tell him I’d help search for his brother? I tried to think of the precise moment Sam wormed his way into my crappy life, and I realized I couldn’t remember. Who knows, maybe it was when I was feeling pity for him, or I was having a good day, or maybe when he kept coming back after I smacked him with that tree limb. Whatever it was, here he was, waiting for me to ask him what was wrong. As if I cared.

  But then, I did care. I had to admit it. I was worried about him. And I liked that Lennon poster on my wall.

  “Goddammit,” I said to myself.

  “What?” Sam said, confused.

  “Nothing, kiddo,” I said. I paused and steeled myself. “So, what’s up?” Asking this question was like pulling teeth. It physically hurt.

  Sam looked away. “What do you mean?”

  “Why’d you eat dinner at our house?”

  Sam pulled up the hood on his hoodie. “My dad was mad.”

  “Oh, you beat him up again?”

  Sam shook his head. “No, a kid at school.”

  “You beat up a kid?”

  Sam nodded and kicked at a stone on the sidewalk. “The principal called my dad.”

  I stopped. “Way to go. Now everyone’s pissed at you.”

  Sam stopped. “You too?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Okay, everyone except me,” I said begrudgingly.

  Sam relaxed.

  A foghorn went off in the distance.

  “But why the fight?” I asked, and we started walking again.

  “It was with a classmate of mine. Ben. He was telling me that Nick would never come home.” Sam’s voice wobbled. “He said Nick was a drunk loser. So I hit him.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “First in the stomach. Then in the face.”

  I whistled. “Did he bleed?”

  “Yeah. He got a cut on his cheek by his eye.”

  I smiled faintly. “Not bad.”

  Sam took his hands out of his hoodie and spread his fingers open. His right hand was swollen, all right.

  This was why I gave a shit about this kid, I thought. Precisely this. Sam’s a fighter in the realest sense of the word. “How big was the other kid?” I asked.

  “Big. Bigger than me by this much,” Sam said, lifting his hand over his head about four inches.

  “And you won,” I said.

  “Yup.” He took out Mina’s bouncy ball and bounced it a couple times.

  Gunshots went off. A squirrel ran halfway down a tree, looked at us, then ran back up and disappeared into the leaves.

  “I once beat up a kid larger than me,” I said.

  “Really?” Sam’s eyes were bright.

  “Yeah, I was about as old as you,” I said. I wasn’t planning on telling this story, but I was stuck now, and a part of me said why the hell not. “He picked on me every day. You know, taunting, pushing me around, that kind of shit. He was big and he knew it, and all the kids were afraid of him.”

  “Were you?” Sam asked.

  “No . . . well, okay, a little,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from getting in his face.” I smirked. “His name wasn’t Jack, but that’s what I called him, because it went well with his last name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ass.”

  Sam laughed.

  “One day, we were hanging outside before school, and Jack comes up to me and starts pushing me around, calling me names and shit,” I said. “And I started saying stuff like, ‘Oh, sorry
, Jack,’ and ‘You better leave me alone, Jack,’ but that didn’t seem to work. Then he got the idea that punching me would be a lot more enjoyable, and I was sick of it. So I hit him with a brick.”

  Sam’s eyes grew huge. “Really?” he asked.

  I was surprised at how much I enjoyed telling the story. “Yeah, I launched it at him and he turned away from it, but not before one of the edges caught him on the arm and gave him a huge gash. He bled everywhere, needed stitches. I got a long-ass suspension for it. His parents threatened a lawsuit and said they were going to call the police, and I got months’ worth of lectures that I could have killed him. It was bullshit, but let me tell you, Jack left me alone.”

  “What an ass,” Sam said.

  “Exactly,” I said. As Sam grinned at me, and as I was shaking my head, a spot in my chest relaxed. I had never noticed it was tight, but now here it was relaxing, and it felt damn good. Right then, Dad didn’t matter, and neither did crazy animals or Jello or George or even Mina. It just felt damn good to be walking with Sam and telling him my Jack Ass story. It was a little thing, but it mattered.

  We walked in unison to the front door of his house. It was a normal two-story house with a mowed lawn and a ceramic statue of a gnome, and the lights were on. Sam was opening the front door when it swung open from the inside. His dad looked at us. He was pale and balding and had combed his hair over the balding spot in the way I hated. He sized me up in the way I hated too. “So this is Ronney,” he said, hooking a thumb around the belt loop of his dress pants.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, looking down. I swear to God, that kid lost five inches right in front of me.

  I met Sam’s dad’s eyes. “Just walking him home,” I said. “There are some big animals still out there, you know.”

  Sam’s dad laughed louder than he needed to as Sam reluctantly stepped into the house. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “They’re probably busy stalking someone right now.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  Sam squirmed under his dad’s grip. His dad removed his hand and peered at me hard. As he did, my skin actually felt darker than his—squarely on the other side of the color spectrum.

  “What are you?” he asked, almost accusingly.

  “Why did you just call me a ‘what’?” I asked back.

  “No, I—” He paused. “You’re not from around here.”