1. Dylan
ONE
DYLAN
TEN YEARS OLD
My uncle died the way he lived: quietly and unobtrusively. Like he was afraid otherwise his death might be an inconvenience to people. He slumped over at his desk at work. A brain aneurysm. Nothing could be done by the time his assistant found him, so nobody had to feel guilty.
We bury him in the family plot next to my mother and grandparents on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
People come from all over to pay their respects.
In his own quiet way, Uncle Jonathan was “one of the good ones” as one great-aunt put it when she slipped a crumpled bill into my hand and patted me on the shoulder.
Sorry everyone who cares about you keeps dying. Here’s a fiver.
My aunt holds her head high and stares into the distance with an unseeing gaze. The only sign she feels anything is her hand squeezing my shoulder tighter and tighter the longer the service goes on as the priest keeps narrating Jonathan’s life.
She doesn’t shed a single tear. Not at the funeral. Not later, when she’s setting Uncle’s affairs in order. Not that there’s much to set. Uncle Jon liked paperwork, so everything that could be organized already was.
For her part, Aunt Nina approaches mourning like the stages of grief are a handy, efficient, step-by-step guide.
Week one, we’re in denial. Week two it’s anger.
Then we swiftly move through bargaining and depression and bada bing, bada boom, we’ve reached our destination of acceptance.
Pack up Uncle Jon’s clothes for Goodwill, and we’re done.
Thank you for taking the grief express with us.
It starts with a soccer ball to the face.
I’m walking past the Olsens’ house on my way back from my piano lesson, hands stuffed in my pockets, shoulders hunched, head down, gaze firmly on my feet.
When the Olsens first moved in, they called out cheerful greetings whenever any of them saw me in my yard.
The first time it had happened, Aunt Nina was sitting on the patio, leafing through some documents for work, and I froze on the spot, not sure how to navigate between my aunt’s obvious disapproval and my own fervent wish to somehow be included in the chaos that was the Olsen family.
I don’t know why I wanted to go over there so badly, I just did.
The loud, messy household called out to me, beckoning me closer, seducing me with a promise of life .
I never quite managed to figure out how to go there.
How to let the Olsens know that their invites were welcome, despite the way my aunt regarded all of them with her lips sourly pursed and a constant something-smells-here expression on her face.
After a while, the cheerful greetings were replaced by curious looks.
Then those disappeared too, as they took the hint and stopped trying.
The only thing that remained was the sadness that I’d let the opportunity to make friends—actual friends—slip away from me.
I had none. You have to fit in to make friends.
I never learned how, instead effortlessly settling into the role of the weird, quiet kid.
The one who was always picked last in PE class, and the one who never got invited to birthday parties or to just hang out.
I wasn’t memorable enough to get bullied. I was an afterthought.
I’m almost past the house. The Olsens had given up trying to include me and my aunt in their large circle of friends a while ago, so when somebody suddenly shouts a loud “Watch out!” from their yard, it doesn’t even register that it might be directed at me.
Next thing I know, something slams into the side of my face. I go down like rock. One moment I’m walking, next I’m staring up at the cloudless blue sky with no idea how I got there.
“Oh crap! Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap.” The frantic voice comes from the blurry blob above me.
I blink until a face comes into focus.
“Oh crap!” The boy keeps saying over and over, followed by an “Are you okay?”
A warm palm slides over the side of my face.
A startled gaze rakes over me while hands start patting me down.
I swallow and blink some more. I can taste copper in the back of my throat.
“I think so?” I say slowly. My voice sounds nasal and weird.
“Let me help you up.”
I clasp the hand and let the boy pull me up enough that I’m sitting. He quickly kneels down in front of me and gives me a hesitant smile.
“Crap,” he says. “You’re really bleeding. Just wait a sec. I think I have a—aha!” He pulls out a tissue and a moment later he’s pressed it against my face. He gently prods at my nose. It makes my eyes water, and I have to blink through it to see.
“There we go.” The boy sits back on his haunches. “Much better, right?”
I nod distractedly while I sift through all the Olsen facts I’ve covertly gathered over the last two years and come up with a name.
This is Adrian. Second oldest, right between Will and Harriet. He’s ten, like me. I watched his loud birthday party through the attic window a few months ago.
“Adrian,” he says, confirming his name by holding out his hand like we’re in a business meeting. It feels very grown-up. His palm is warm and slightly sweaty. There’s a streak of dirt on the back of his hand and grass stains on his knees. He smells like grass and smiles like sunshine.
“Hi,” I say back, staring like an idiot, still holding his hand.
“You’re Dylan, right?”
I clear my throat, remembering the manners my aunt has drilled into me for years.
“Dylan Emerson Lang,” I mumble.
He laughs, but it’s not mean. He doesn’t mock me or anything. It’s just pure and bright.
“Very official. Nice to meet you, Dylan Emerson Lang.”
His smile is kind, too. Maybe a bit curious, even. I’ve never seen a smile like this aimed at me.
He leans closer and pulls the tissue he’s been holding against my nose away from my face, then gives me an assessing look.
“It’s all good. I got most of the blood off.”
I’m fascinated. Starstruck. Dumbfounded.
“Thank you?”
“For accidentally kicking the ball in your face? You’re welcome.” His grin widens. “Hey, want to come check out our soccer field? I was just getting the ball. The others are waiting.”
He looks at me expectantly, and I become a rebel. Rules fly out the window. I ignore my aunt’s disapproval.
“Yes!” I nod for emphasis. More than once. “I’d like that.”
My heart gallops in my throat.
My face throbs uncomfortably.
We’re still sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, but Adrian smiles, and it lights everything up inside me.
He jumps to his feet. “You’re on my team. It’s mega awesome.”
“Mega awesome,” I echo him, like those are words I use regularly. I feel cool for the first time in my life. Included for the first time in my life. A thrilling bolt of excitement makes my insides sizzle with electricity.
I’m on my feet and sprinting after Adrian, through their backyard into the woods.
It’s going to be the blueprint of my life.
He leads.
I follow.
Because that’s it.
That’s the day I meet Adrian Elias Olsen.