Playing Tyler (19 page)

“Listen to me, buddy. You have to stay with your mom. I can't leave her here all alone, you have to watch out for her. Promise?” He looked serious.

I nodded. “Good, see you at home.”

Brandon waves and they head out towards the parking lot. Their outlines fading into the sun as they went.

It was the last time I saw my dad.

We got home and they weren't there and they didn't return Mom's calls.

A policeman at the door.

Mom. She said, “Hello.” And then he said something, I couldn't hear from where I was on the couch so I snuck closer. He looked at me and shut his eyes. Turned his head away.

Mom's face shattered. Shattered and then she fell and she was screaming. It was at that second, that second that my world of rainbows and tadpoles and bedtime stories became a world of black. A world of gray.

They pulled Brandon from the wreckage. He was alive but barely. We rushed to the hospital. The police said that Dad saw the drunk driver heading towards them. Saw that there was no way to avoid the crash. They said he turned the car, changed the angle at the last second before they hit so that they wouldn't hit face-first but rather so that Dad's side would be the first to make impact, the first to hit. So that Dad would die and give B a chance to survive.

I wonder if Dad would have done that if he knew what surviving would do to B. Mom knew. Mom and I both knew that world of color and light and happiness was over and would never come back. But B couldn't deal. Couldn't ignore the thud thud thud of the test choppers flying over our house day after day after day. Couldn't stop reading about collisions and angles of impact. Couldn't help but to smash the oxy they gave him for the pain.

Couldn't give up on the fucking rainbows.

 

CHAPTER 22

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26

ANI

Why does my phone always ring when I'm running late for class? I shuffle to the side of the stairwell and pull it out of my pocket. “Hello?” I huff as someone bolting down the stairs knocks me in the shoulder.

“Miss Bagdorian.”

My feet freeze into the stairs. Mr Anderson. What do I say? Does he know that I'm aware that the kids are live? If I tell him that I know, then that would unlock a world of badness. He's been very clear about his position about my contacting the test pilots directly, and if I talked to him about it, then he'd know that I've been talking to Tyler. I say, “Hi.”

“Listen, pilot three has been reporting that the images on monitor B are grainier than the others. Doesn't matter which camera he directs over to the monitor, that screen is just always grainy. Is there anything you can do for that?”

So he doesn't know. Well, doesn't know that I know. “Yeah, I guess I can get into his unit remotely and dig around, see if I can figure out what's going on.” I have to try it and see. “But it would really be easiest if I could speak to him or her directly. You know, troubleshoot while I have them on the phone.”

Silence. The stairwell around me teems with students coming to or from class, voices echoing around me, but all I hear is the silence on the other end of the line. “I know. Speaking to the test pilots directly would make things simpler on your end. I completely understand. But your having any contact with the test pilots could compromise the success of the program. I've explained this before.”

“Sorry,” I say, voice sounding small in the cavernous space. “It just seems more
efficient
.”

“Well, I agree. It would be. However, our focus is the integrity of the feedback that the pilots give us.” His voice softens somewhat. “Besides, I can't have them lying to show off because there's a girl who's smarter than they are on the other end of the line. One who knows her way around a motherboard better than just about anyone else on the planet. Men aren't used to that sort of thing. So we just have to make do with a less-than-ideal manner of providing tech support.”

“Sure, well, which pilot, number three?” I'll fix it the second I get to my laptop. “Got it, I'll see what I can do.”

“Let me know when it's fixed, and check the other units for any similar errors.”

“Will do,” I say, leaning against the wall, allowing the chill of the concrete to seep in through my sleeve, hoping that it cools the still-rapid pace of my heart.

 

Oh my God. Is that Tyler outside of my dorm? Sunlight trickles down through the orange and yellow leaves giving his brown hair reddish undertones. A group of girls in front of me smile as they pass him, and I feel sort of, I don't know, happy that someone so cute is here for me. Damn, do they even make guys hotter than him?

He swipes his hair back and out of his face as I walk up to him. “Hey. You eat yet?”

“A little.”

“You hungry? Cause there's this falafel place around the corner that's really good.”

“I have class in like five minutes. You should have called.”

“Which class?”

“Chem.”

“You failing?”

“No, I'm not failing.”

“So skip it.” He looks me in the eyes and for a second I forget to breathe.

“I can't skip class.” He reaches out, but I don't take his hand.

“Look, Tyler. It was rude to hang up on you the other night, but I'm not so sure if–”

“Stop. Listen to me. I need to talk. Need to tell you. I don't care if you forgive me. I don't care if you think that I'm wrong and that I shouldn't be OK with what's going on. I don't care if you hang up on me or even if you don't talk to me. You don't ever have to talk to me again, ever, if you don't want.” He leans closer to me, so close that I can catch the scent of the shampoo lingering in his hair. My throat tightens. “But please just be here with me. I'll take whatever it is you can give me, however you want to give it, I just need you to be next to me. Need to know that there's one person in this world I haven't lost.”

My fingertips stretch out, tracing the delicate skin on the back of his hand. “Tyler–”

“Skip class. Don't. That's fine. Just don't leave me.” He leans down and kisses me. His lips are soft and his breath is ragged and he licks my bottom lip with a flick of his tongue and I'm alive. It's as if electric currents hum through my veins. My bag hits the ground as his arms snake their way around my waist and he pulls me in closer. “Please.”

I run my fingers up through his hair and take his lips again. He did say “please.”

 

CHAPTER 23

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27

TYLER

Bristol Street is off of Dixwell Avenue, only minutes away from Yale's campus, but in socio-economic terms it could be measured by light years. Yale has architecture and fountains and courtyards with trees and Bristol Street, well, doesn't. It has clapboard three-story houses and abandoned warehouses surrounded by chain-link fence and all sorts of little side streets that function as drug drive-throughs. Those one-lane, one-way side streets where the dealer stands off to the side and a car slows down so he can come to the window. Scary, but it is what it is.

The three-story house that matches the address B gave me looks like it's coming undone. Like Legos stacked by a two year-old. Wires running to defunct antennas and satellite dishes that pre-date the Clinton era stick out from the sides and top of the place like birthday candles gone wrong.

Mom's car is so in trouble. It's the only car I had access to, though, and there's no way I was walking. Hell of a way to spend a Saturday night.

B wants to see me. Tonight, the text said. In person. I didn't want Ani to come, just in case, well, in case things were ugly and B was hurt or things with his friends were… bad. I didn't want to leave her room. I shiver, remembering the way she moved. She got hungry, after all, and wanted to order in some Indian food. So now I'm late since I can't say no to her like ever. It's only been what, a month since I've met her? Little more? Crazy how fast things can change. Maybe I can go back to the dorm and see her after I talk to B.

The door to the building does that click thing that signals that I can go in and I pull it open. Walking down the tiny, wood-paneled hall that smells like day-old frying oil and sandalwood incense, I feel a little sick. My brother lives here and he doesn't have to. He could be in a nice home or at a nice school or whatever.

The sound of
Jeopardy
and a chorus of people shouting answers in English at the TV and Spanish at each other flows through a door just in front of the staircase leading up. Damn, if I were that family, I wouldn't want Brandon and his crew living here.

Did I really just think that about my own brother? My heartbeat ticks up. God, I am an asshole. Assclown. Jackass. Brandon is
sick
. Druggies are not bad people, they are
sick
people and he just needs to get better. That's all. God, I am such an insensitive dick sometimes.

Upstairs. I can do this.

The industrial metal door creaks as it opens and I climb the stairs. The corners of the stairwell are full of crap. Condom wrappers, empty Doritos bags and broken, well, everything. No needles. Don't look for the needles.

Upstairs. Gotta get upstairs. My heartbeat's practically pulling me along, now, as I keep climbing, turning around the bend and everything seems to be a blur of blue and gray and squalor.

This hallway is worse. Even smaller, tighter than the first. The junk lines the baseboard of the hall. Dust and water bottles and old shoes lie kicked to the side, doors clustered and thin. The smells aren't as nice up here. Hot. A sticky hot that climbs up underneath my jacket and rises up to sit around my neck. My hand is shaking, pushing a button in front of a thin white door at the far end of the hall.

“Ty!” B's grin takes up his whole face, and he pulls me into him. He smells like shampoo and body wash and that cologne he's always liked.

“B, man, how've you been?” I choke on the words, eyeing him as he pulls me inside. His color is awful. Skin like old chalk. His eyes hollow. He's wearing a sweater and it's like eighty degrees in this apartment but he's still shivering. “You sick?”

“No, fine, just tired.”

Cut him a break. He called, finally. He invited me over.

He needs something.

I wish I could stop being such an asshole. It's an invite to check out the new digs, that's all. Relax.

His eyes widen as he sees me alone. “You didn't bring your girl?”

“Nah, she has to work tonight.”

We walk into B's small living room and he shuts the door behind us, being sure to latch the deadbolt. The place is actually sort of neat. Like he cleans it sometimes, which is good. The couch is small and the fabric is tearing. A bicycle leans up against one wall, next to a bookcase full of papers and books and magazines. Just on the other side of the couch is a small table with three unmatched folding chairs, leading into a pretty crappy, pretty cluttered kitchen. B doesn't cook, so if it's being used, it's not by him.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Ty, you need a beer? Pabst was all they had but it'll do if you really need one. Might have some Coke…”

I kick at the floor with the front toe of my boot. “So, B, whose place is this?”

“Kelly's.” His smile gets even wider. “She's at work now but she'll be back in a minute, if you want to meet her.”

“Sure,” I say, though the word sounds weak even to me. I don't want to meet Kelly. Kelly, the reason he's here. The reason he's not getting better.

I take my coat off, throw it over the back of the ratty couch. He walks around the couch, staring at me.

What? Why is he staring? I look down, did I spill something on myself? Typical. No, I don't think so, what the hell is he looking at?

“You're huge,” B says, voice soft, sad.

The long-sleeved tee does fit a little tighter around my arms, but wow, that's not really what I was expecting. I look at my brother. He looks small, old, even. So damn thin that he might just float away. Cheeks look too white beneath his long sandy hair. His sweater is high against his neck, sleeves long. Looks like it was a nice sweater once, like Abercrombie or something, but it's like him, worn. His jeans don't have any holes in the knees, and he looks way too preppy for his craptastic surroundings.

Does he expect me to say something to that? Like what? Yeah, I'm the freaking Hulk and you're back to being a junkie, holding your left side like it hurts to breathe. I shrug. Can't say that. Can't think that. “Why did you leave the center, B?”

He ignores me. Just walks past me and into the side bedroom, taking my coat from the couch to the bed and coming back. He needs time to think up an answer? Didn't he have all that time when he wasn't calling? When we didn't know where he was or if he was still alive? Couldn't he have thought of something then? He sighs. Looks at his feet, then meets my eye, smiling. Lame smile. Half-smile, not real, not true, not him. Shit.

“I don't need all their steps. They didn't show any respect for me as an intellectual, you know? Talked to me like I was some kind of idiot. I'm not unintelligent, I'm an addict. It's different.” He coughs. “That and I'm worried about you.”

Lying son of a bitch. He expects me to believe that line of bull? Like Rick is the one who's doing me wrong? Heart pounding, hurting my ears, my voice is low. “So you left rehab because you're worried about me? Really, B?”

His face, that half-smile, falters, shakes. I've never in my life questioned him before. Not really. He knows it. Knows he's gone too far. “Yeah.”