Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
This Isn’t a Booty Call
Beck
“Listen, Beck,” Forest says, and my mind wheels. It’s unusual to get a three o’clock call from Forest. This isn’t a booty-call time. This is either a something-is-wrong time or a butt-dial time, and Forest doesn’t seem like a butt-dial kind of guy.
“I’m having a difficult time. My truck just fucking died. For good.” His voice is gruff, frustrated.
“Oh shit.” He doesn’t ever complain to me, but it’s obvious that money is tight.
“Look—I know you’re allergic to asking for favors.
But are you stranded? I’ll come pick you up.
” There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for this man.
Even if he asked me to root for the Ducks against an Original Six team. It would hurt me, but I’d do it.
The line gets very quiet for a second. “It’s both. I’m stranded. And also allergic to asking for favors.”
“If I offered you a ride, are we talking hives? Or anaphylactic shock? Where are you, by the way?”
Another pause. “I’m waiting for a rental car, but it’s gonna be a while, and, well…” He sighs. “It’s Charlie who needs a pickup from hockey practice.”
My heart does this weird skip. Forest asking for help is like spotting a unicorn. If unicorns were grumpy and had commitment issues. “I’ll go get him.” I say quickly. “It’s no bother.”
Another long pause, and I wonder if he’s about to change his mind. “I’ll text you the address. They just walk outside after it’s over at four. He’s supposed to be at his mom’s tonight, but she’s stuck at the hospital…”
I’m already pocketing my keys. “No problem. I got this. I’ll just bring him to your place?”
“That makes the most sense,” he agrees. “Are you sure I’m not tearing you away from something?”
“Well yeah—video games and masturbation. But not at the same time.”
A snort of laughter. “You kill me.”
I guess I’ll take that as a win, too.
He sighs. “Thank you. I’ll be stuck here for another hour at least. Charlie has a key. As long as he’s safely inside, you don’t need to stay.”
“Don’t worry about a thing.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m pulling up to a hockey rink where a few kids lurk near the drive circle. I roll down the passenger window and wave at Charlie.
He lights up when he spots me, like I just announced that school’s been canceled for the rest of the year. “Beck!” He picks up a backpack and hockey bag that’s almost as big as he is and bounces toward the Jeep. “What are you doing here? Where’s Dad?” He drops his gear and yanks the door open.
“His truck died, so he asked me to pick you up. Did you get the text?”
Charlie shrugs. “Nah, no text.”
I get out to stash his gear in the back of the Jeep. “So you’re going to jump into a strange car just because I said your dad sent me?”
Charlie laughs, but I pull out my phone and text Forest.
Beck
Got Charlie. Did you text him to tell him I’m coming? He seems fine with it but maybe it’s better to close the loop.
Forest
Fuck me. I forget to text everyone. Even my own kid. **Headdesk** I’ll do it now.
Huh. Forest seems a little stressed out.
Once the gear is squared away, and I’ve checked to make sure Charlie is buckled, I pull away from the curb.
A moment later I hear Charlie’s phone ping. He reads the text and then groans.
“Problem?”
“Did you make him text me? Because it says—Beck is picking you up today. Say thank you and NO VIDEO GAMES UNTIL MATH IS DONE.”
“Oh man, I’m sorry.”
Charlie sighs. “Beck, you don’t give serial killer vibes. We could have done without the text.”
I snort. “That’s the nicest thing anyone said to me today. Maybe I’ll put it on my Grindr profile. No serial killer vibes.”
Oh shit. I shouldn’t mention Grindr to a child.
“You should delete that app,” Charlie says sagely. “And just date my dad.”
“It was a poor joke,” I admit. “I deleted that app a long time ago, mostly because it’s full of—” I just barely stop myself from saying assholes, which would be an unfortunate double entendre. “Jerks.”
“My dad needs a boyfriend,” Charlie presses. “I mean, my mom has one. His name is Mick, and all he talks about is pickleball.”
“Hmm,” I say, wondering how to get off this topic. “So what’s the deal with your math homework?”
Another teenage groan. “Math is a BFD all of a sudden. Ever since I failed that test. I’m supposed to redo the whole test as homework, and my parents are all freaked out. Especially my mom.” His voice goes all high and he says, “In this family we don't fail tests, Charlie.”
“Ouch, buddy. What was on this test anyway?”
“Variables.”
“What kind of variables?”
“X. Y. What difference does it make? I do fine in math.
It's just this one chapter that's killing me.
Math is supposed to be about numbers, and now there's this letter right in the middle of everything.
And I'm supposed to know what that means?
I'll just do better on the next unit. It'll be fine.
There can't be a lot of letters in math.”
Oh, little man. I turn at the next light. It’s only another five minutes to Forest’s house, so I have to think fast. “So… want some help knocking out that test? I remember variables.” From every single math class since eighth grade.
“Really? You’d help me?” He sits up straighter. “If I got it done tonight, everyone will finally shut up about it.”
“Sure,” I say, wondering just how uncomfortable Forest will be if he finds me hanging out with his kid. “Let’s knock it out. No problem. Maybe we can get it done before your dad comes home.”
Okay. Well. This is going to take a little longer than I thought.
“The answer is four,” Charlie says. “Why can’t I just write down four and be done with it?”
The first math problem is: X + 3 = 7. Four is, of course, the answer. But until Charlie learns to manipulate expressions, he’s going to keep on failing. “They need you to show your work.”
“Why?” he complains. “This is stupid.” He has the panicked look on his face of someone who’s deeply in the weeds and doesn’t want to admit it.
We’ve all been there. And maybe I’m an asshole for imagining I could solve this problem so easily. “Let’s look at the next one. 2X + 5 = 11.”
Charlie’s face turns red. He looks away from the page. “This is stupid,” he repeats in a small voice. “I’ll never get it.”
“That’s not true, pal,” I say, feeling a little sweaty, myself. “This whole thing is just like a hockey team.”
He gives me a dark look. “Not hardly. If this were hockey, I’d know what to do.”
“But you will,” I insist. “Just follow my lead here for a second. You need the same number of players on every team, right?”
“Well, yeah, unless there’s a penalty.”
“Right. But there aren’t any penalties in math.
And the equals sign? It’s like the center line, okay?
You need the same number of players on each side.
Look at this problem again.” I tap the page at 2X + 5 = 11.
“Whatever happens to one team also has to happen to the other one. So, what if I took these five players away from the left side?”
Charlie frowns down at the test. “You better take five away from the right side.”
“Yes.” I cross out the “5” and then write “-5” on the other side. “Now how many players remain for righty?”
“Six,” he says easily, and we’re left with 2X = 6.
I write that down. “Now here’s the thing—I want you to think of X as a player with a blank jersey on. He’s, like, wearing a disguise, and we have to move the other players around until we can figure out who he is. That’s all a variable is—a guy in a blank jersey.”
Charlie chews his lip. “So who is he?”
“Let’s try the same trick one more time. If we divide 2X by two…”
“Then you have to do it again over here.” He points at the other side of the equation.
I push the test in his direction. “You do it.”
Charlie divides each side by two.
“Great!” I say, relieved. “So now who is X?”
“Uh, three?”
“YES!” I shout. “Go on. Do another one. How about this one down here?”
“That one looks hard. Is Y the same as X?”
“Yup, just another imposter. Treat him the same. You got this.”
And he does. It’s all going great until the door suddenly opens.