“I doubt that,” I say.
Zack unwinds from the twisted leash and exhales as he looks at me. “Coach said you haven’t even responded to Dean Maxwell’s request.”
I run a hand over my head and mutter, “Not this again.”
“It’s one fucking essay, dude. You can do that. Hell, you can pay someone to do that.”
“It’s more than an essay,” I say. “It’s me. I lost focus. And I don’t know if I even want to go back.”
He steps over the leash as Marvin moves in circles again. “So what, then? You’re just going to fix toilets for the rest of your life?”
I shrug, a thin burst of stress layering my skin. “Maybe.”
That’s my biggest fear. There’s nothing shameful about being a handyman. In a way, it’s actually pretty rewarding work. But it’s not what I want for my life, and with every day that passes I feel any future in something other than handiwork slipping farther and farther away.
He curses and pulls Marvin away from the nearby lavender flowers. “You’re unbelievable. And selfish.”
“Me? Or the goat?”
Zack looks up. “YOU, dude.”
“I’m selfish?”
“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “Me and the guys chose to be on this team because Levi Fucking Andrews was going to be our quarterback. This isn’t just about you anymore. Don’t screw us over, man. Get your goddamn head figured out and come back and play.”
Well… shit.
The kitchen’s back door opens and Pixie comes out carrying a bag of trash. She throws it away, completely oblivious to us, until Zack opens his giant mouth.
“Sarah!” he shouts out merrily.
Her face breaks into a wide grin. “Hey, Zack.” Her smile slips a bit as her eyes catch on mine, then quickly move back to Zack. “How’ve you be—is that a goat?”
Marvin bleats out a noise that sounds eerily similar to the cry of a small child.
“This is Marvin,” he says. “He eats everything and yells like a distressed baby to get attention. I’m goat-sitting him this summer.”
“Why?” She steps to the side as Marvin tries to lick her apron. “Did you lose a bet?”
He grins. “Better. I gained a phone number.”
She shakes her head. “You will do anything for a hot girl.”
“Present company included.” He winks.
“In that case…” She gestures to me. “Think you can get this schmuck to stop using all the hot water so I don’t have to take a cold shower every morning?”
I glare at her, but she simply cocks an eyebrow in return.
“Levi is depriving you of hot showers?” Zack turns to me and slowly says, “Interesting.”
I look at Pixie. “Maybe you could set an alarm and hog the hot water yourself.”
She says, “Maybe you could shower at night and save us both the trouble.”
“Maybe you could quit nagging me.”
“Maybe you could rock a half-beard for the rest of the summer.”
“Wow.” Zack appears thoroughly amused as he looks back and forth between us. He nods. “This feels good. This feels right.”
Marvin goat-yells again.
“Whatever,” Pixie says. “I have a job to get back to. It was good seeing you, Zack.” She gives him a little wave before heading back inside.
“Later.” Zack looks after her until she disappears, then turns back to me and smiles.
I stare at him. “What?”
He laughs. “I don’t know what your endgame is here, but you really need to get your shit together.”
I sigh and step out of the way as Marvin tries to bite my foot. “I know, I know. Everyone wants me to write the damn essay.”
“No, I mean with Sarah,” he says. “But yeah. The essay thing too.” He lets out a whistle. “Damn, dude. You have a lot of shit to get together.”
Marvin looks up and yells again.
“Tell me about it.”
After I finish working for the day, I head back inside and to the stairs. As I round the banister, I come face-to-face with Ellen and a stack of mail.
“There you are.” She smiles and presses the envelopes against my chest. “More mail.”
“Gee. Thanks.” I take the letters from her hands.
“Anytime.” She moves past me.
I walk upstairs, enter my room, and throw the letters onto my desk. One of the envelopes skids across the surface and hits my laptop, bringing the screen to life. My e-mail window glares back at me with a new message. Stepping closer, I see that it’s from my mom, and my chest immediately tightens.
I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in months.
After Charity died, Mom and Dad went a little crazy. Instead of coping with their daughter’s death, they took their sorrows out on each other. They fought constantly. They grieved endlessly. But not together. They didn’t know how to console each other, so instead they slipped deeper and deeper into their own personal pits of grief.
They separated three months after the accident, and both of them left town.
My dad took a job in Nevada, where he promptly buried himself in his work and took up smoking. He didn’t even bother to say good-bye before he left. I think the thought of making his move “official” with a send-off and a good-bye hug was just too much for him to bear.
But he called me once, after he moved. We spent the entire phone call rehashing a recent NFL game and kept away from any real-life topics. I haven’t spoken with him since.
My mom moved to New Hampshire, where she was far away from Charity’s memory and my facial features. After the funeral, she could barely look at me, the living son who so resembled her deceased daughter. And when she did chance a glance at me, her eyes would flash with pain before quickly darting elsewhere. Maybe she thought putting twenty-five hundred miles between my face and her eyes would make things hurt less.
“I’ll call you and you can come visit,” she said to me the day she left Copper Springs. I lifted her heavy suitcase into the white minivan she used to drive Charity to piano lessons in and leaned down so she could hug me good-bye. She smelled like lemons. She always smelled like lemons.
She squeezed me tighter than necessary and mumbled a bunch of things about taking care of myself, but she didn’t make eye contact. Not even when tears dripped down her soft cheeks.
She drove away, and I watched the white minivan disappear down the street like it was any other Tuesday. Headed to school, to piano lessons, to football practice.
Headed to New Hampshire.
That was last winter. I’ve talked to my mom twice since then, and both conversations were strained and short, like we no longer know how to interact with each other.