12 #2
Enough for at least one year, that’s the answer.
I know you think I’m joking, but I’m not.
Tean said, I’m worried you’re not joking.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tean’s dad said. “Look at this.”
In one hand, he held a small block of wood. It had been painted red, with wheels fixed to the bottom, and if you were generous and viewed it from a certain angle, it might even resemble a car.
“I made this,” Tean’s dad said. “Pinewood Derby. Fifth grade.”
“That’s nice that he kept it,” Tean said.
“He put Andrew’s name on it.” His dad turned the car to show the bottom, where someone—apparently, Tean’s grandfather—had written Andrew in thick black marker. “Andrew never did the Pinewood Derby. Not once. He said it was stupid.”
“Well, if you’ve finished going through that box, I can tape it up,” Tean said in what he hoped was the most diplomatic way possible to say, Let’s hurry this up.
But his dad only said, “He bought Andrew his first car. Did you know that? And it wasn’t a piece of junk, either. It was a Firebird. For a sixteen-year-old. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“No, Dad, I didn’t know that. Where is Uncle Andrew—”
“He can’t come. He can’t leave Susan. But he’ll be here for the funeral, you can bet that.
And instead of actually coming and helping, do you know what he’s doing?
He’s calling me every hour, asking me what we’ve gotten done, telling me what we should do next.
He’s my brother, not my boss. If he wants it done a certain way, he can come down here and do it himself. ”
Tean forced himself to take a deep breath. As gently as he could, he took the box from his dad’s lap. When he held out a hand, his dad stared at him as though confused, and then he passed the car over.
As Tean taped up the box, his dad got to his feet and began to pace.
He stopped at the wall of boxes and flipped a flap open.
Then he shut it again. “It’s not enough he came along and took my place.
” The words were joking, and the aggrieved tone was joking.
But, at the same time, not. “When he was born, I bet you don’t know where they made me sleep. ”
But this bet, he finally lost, because Tean had heard this particular tale of family treachery more than once. “In the basement.”
“And it’s not like it was a room, either. They just put a bed down there and hung some curtains. I was six years old. I was scared to death.” He wiped his hands down the front of his shirt, over the swell of his belly. “That’s why it was so important to me that you kids always felt safe at home.”
For a moment, Tean was eleven years old again, in the bedroom he shared with Amos, listening to the voices carrying through the door as his dad talked about how strange Tean was.
He hadn’t meant to be heard; he must have assumed that Tean and the other children were asleep.
But whether he’d intended it or not, Tean had heard, and the fear had opened like a night flower in his chest. He didn’t even have words for it yet, how he was different, all the ways he knew he wasn’t like other boys.
But it didn’t matter; he was eleven years old when he had his first panic attack alone, in the dark, while Amos breathed softly on the other side of the room.
Slapping the last strip of tape in place, Tean got to his feet. As he stepped out into the hall, he said, “I need to make a call.”
The facility had a handful of patios that were accessible during the day.
Tean emerged into sunlight as thin as water and air that smelled like frozen earth and, from farther off, the kitchen’s industrial fryers.
He was still wearing his coat. He was sweating, and the sweat flashed to cold on the back of his neck.
He pushed his hands through his hair. He caught himself trying to fix his glasses, but they didn’t need fixing anymore.
Fuck him was his first thought. And his second thought wasn’t clear enough to be put into a sentence—a jumble of words and emotions that made it hard to breathe.
He opened and closed his hands, focusing on the movement.
Drew breath into his lungs. The air was cold, and the ache in his chest made him think of a dull wedge of metal.
The hog-splitter. And for a moment, he was on the brink of crying.
Then the moment passed. He took out his phone.
I’m going to go crazy, he texted Jem.
And then, I’m going to kill him.
Is it legal to murder him if it’s totally justified?
But Jem didn’t text back, which meant he was probably in the backyard again, letting Scipio run off some energy. Or he’d gone out for another of the strange jobs he managed to find—recovering feet pics, Tean’s brain supplied. Or he and Scipio were sleeping off a binge of Quarter Pounders and fries.
And he still hadn’t finished his vows.
Tean snipped off the thought.
Let it go.
Be kind.
You’re stuck here at least until Amos gets back, so you might as well do something productive.
He placed a call to Uintah High School and was transferred to Ms. Winfield’s classroom.
She answered on the second ring.
“This is Tean Leon,” he said. “We talked the other day.”
“I remember. What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. I mean, well, you know what I mean.” In the background, kids were talking over each other. “Am I interrupting your class?”
“They’re fine,” she said. “They’re making dioramas of a doll’s house.”
It took a moment for Tean to hear the words as the title of the play and not, as he’d first taken them, as a random dollhouse. He said, “Oh, if you have a moment, I was wondering if you might help me identify someone.”
“I suppose,” she said. “If I can. What do you mean, identify them?”
“We found a personal message to Kai from someone who identified themselves only as S. I believe this was something given to Kai during high school. I was wondering if that rang a bell.”
Ms. Winfield didn’t say anything. In the background, someone was shouting, “Give me that! Ms. Winfield, make her give me that!”
“Caroline, give him the glue,” Ms. Winfield said distractedly. But then she stopped.
“For example,” Tean said, “do you remember if Kai had any close friends whose names began with an S?”
“I know what you’re asking me,” Ms. Winfield said. “But you’ve got to understand that this was ten years ago. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the theater kiddos I remember. If I have them in a freshman Language Arts class and don’t see them again, I forget their names by the next semester.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Hold on. I don’t remember a boy with an S name, but let me look. I’ve got the ITS rosters right here next to the photos, one for every year.”
“Thank you,” Tean said. “Although it may not be a boy.”
Ms. Winfield gave a short laugh, but she didn’t respond. After a moment, she said, “No. I checked every year I had Kai. He’s right there in the photos, but there’s nobody with an S.” Dryly, she added, “Boy or girl.”
“Okay. Thank you for checking.”
“If I think of anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thank you.”
He was lowering the phone to disconnect the call when he saw, in his mind’s eye, the yellowing photograph of his grandfather’s class. He fumbled the phone back to his ear. “Ms. Winfield?”
“Yes?”
“What about the yearbooks?”
She was silent for a beat. “That’s a very good idea. I’m afraid I don’t have any yearbooks in my classroom, though.”
“But maybe the library?” Tean asked. “Or the school administration?”
Someone said something, and Ms. Winfield laughed.
“Thank you, Gracie.” Then, into the phone, she said, “The joy of having teenagers. They’re not even ashamed of eavesdropping.
As Gracie just reminded me, you don’t need to see the physical yearbooks.
A few years ago, our yearbook staff digitized all the previous books.
There’s a website now. I’ll send you the link. ”