Lance
Chapter three
Parker is in the backyard when I get out of the shower. I watch him pacing back and forth, staring at his phone.
Dad comes home from his shift in the afternoon, and together, we walk around the truck and look at the damage. The entire back of the truck seems to be one scorch mark. Dad kicks the tires and shakes his head.
“Well,” he finally says, sounding tired, “if your mother asks, I gave you a real talking-to.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He claps me on the shoulder. “The truth is that I’m right proud of you. What you did was foolhardy and boneheaded, but there’s a person alive today because of you. The rest is just a matter for insurance to settle. Do anything like that again, though, and I’ll kick your teeth in.”
“Mom wants to ground me.”
He shrugs. “Believe me, I agree with her, but under the circumstances…” He sighs. “Your mom says Parker’s a mess, and I think lowering the boom on you would make him feel worse. How is he?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t know what to do with himself. I just wish Mrs. Bishop would hurry up and call. The waiting is killing him.”
I keep thinking about Elliott. The last time I saw him, he was waving at me from the back seat like it was a game. If they’re stuck somewhere—some overcrowded shelter full of strangers and noise—he’ll be falling apart. Parker’s mom can’t handle that alone. They just need to call.
“And what about you, son?”
“I’m...” I stop. “I’m scared. I’m more scared now than I was four hours ago.”
Dad sits down on the driveway with his back against the front bumper. He pats the ground next to him. “Sit down.”
I sit next to him and we stare at the house in silence. The cement hurts my butt and the front bumper hits my back at a weird angle.
“I should have helped them more. If I had convinced his mom to follow me, Parker would have her and Elliott and his grandmother. He’s so unhappy and I can’t do anything about it.” I choke up.
He reaches over and rubs my shoulder. “But he’s here, he’s alive, and there’s still plenty of hope for his family. The news said there are some pockets that got spared. I saw the pictures. It’s been chaos at all the collection points. One hand doesn’t know what the other is doing.”
I lean into him and nod. He’s right. I know he’s right.
“Dad, can you just sit with me for a few more minutes?” I ask. “I just can’t let Mom see me like this. Or Parker. She’ll lose her shit and he’ll think it’s his fault I’m upset.”
He relaxes next to me. “Your mom already knows. Unless I miss my guess, she’s only holding it in for his sake. But when it comes to your friend, if I can give some advice, tell him what you told me.”
“Why?”
“Because that way you can share that and he’ll remember that you’re more human than superhero.” He rubs my shoulder again. “Think on it and decide how you want to say it. You’re the only one in the house who can relate to him about this, even a little bit. It might help remind him he’s not alone.”
I think about that. Parker has always been alone, in one way or another.
I’ve watched it happen—the friends who stopped calling, the invitations that dried up, the way he’d show up at the start of every school year a little more withdrawn than the last. I’ve wanted to close that distance for longer than I can admit, but the timing was never right.
Now the timing is a catastrophe, and he’s here, and I still don’t know how to reach him.
“Parker’s great, you know. He’s kind and creative. You’ll like him.”
“You like him. That’s enough.”
The day after I came out to my family, Dad sat on the front porch swing and quietly told me that no matter what, he would have my back. I didn’t think much about it then, because I’d never once had a reason to think he wouldn’t. I’m thinking a hell of a lot about it now.
The front door opens and my mother appears on the porch, scowling at us. “What are you doing on the filthy cement? Dinner’s almost ready and that table is not going to set itself.”
“I’ll get it,” Dad says, standing up. His knee cracks and he grimaces. “Think about what I said.”
I can already tell that my mother is upset because she’s making comfort food. She’s cooking meatloaf, and that’s only trotted out for disasters.
Parker is still in the backyard scrolling on his phone when I let myself out the sliding glass door. He doesn’t look up until I’m only a few feet away, and when he does, something shutters behind his eyes. He slides his phone into his back pocket.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say.
“Right. Thank you.” His voice is quiet and raw. He looks everywhere but at me.
It was raspy before today, but after the screaming and the smoke it sounds like something tore. While he was in the shower, I looked it up on my phone. Smoke inhalation, vocal strain, prolonged exposure—it can cause permanent damage. The word permanent sat on the screen and I closed the tab.
“Any news?” I ask. Even though I know the answer, I feel like there’s a concrete wall between us, and I only have a couple of twigs and a hammer to break through it.
He shakes his head.
I hesitate, out of words. “Well—”
“I didn’t say thank you,” he blurts out.
“Oh, well, Mom’s the one who made the dinner.”
“I mean, for earlier today. For everything today. You’re the bravest person I know.”
I want to say something cool. “It was nothing,” I say.
He looks down at my shoes and wraps his arms around his chest.
I take a deep breath. “Actually, it wasn’t nothing. I was scared shitless the whole time.”
He looks up in surprise.
“Actually, I’m still pretty shaken up, to be honest with you. And I was wondering if I could ask you for a hug.”
He nods once and puts his arms gingerly around me, like he’s not really sure what to do.
I pull him in before I can think about it.
He goes rigid for a second, then softens, and I feel his hands clutch the back of my shirt.
He smells like my soap, which is strange and intimate in a way I wasn’t ready for.
He’s so thin. I can feel his ribs through the fabric, his shoulder blades sharp under my palms. I hold on tighter.
When I let go, he is gazing up at me, his face tight. “I’m really sorry about my mom not listening to you,” he says. “When she comes here, I’m going to make her apologize.”
“I honestly don’t care about that,” I answer, and I’m surprised at how true that is. “I just...I wish I could have convinced her to follow me. I’m so...” I don’t know what the word is for how I feel. It’s like an ugly stew of things.
“Thank you. For everything.”
My mother calls for us to wash up.
We’re barely through the sliding glass door when the front door bangs open so hard it hits the wall. Bree comes tearing through the house at full speed, backpack bouncing, and throws herself at me like a seven-year-old cannonball.
“You’re in so much trouble,” she says into my stomach, squeezing me with both arms. “Are you okay? Mom said you drove through a fire. That’s so cool. You’re so grounded.”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to peel her off. “Bree—”
She spots Parker and stops. She looks up at me, then back at him, then back at me again. “Who’s that? Why is he wearing your clothes?”
“This is my friend Parker. He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
She examines him like a scientist examining a new species. Parker looks at me in mild alarm. “Hi,” he manages.
“Parker…” she muses, one finger on her lip. “Oh, wait—are you the one that drew that picture of Lance as a knight?”
Parker colors. “Yes.”
“How long are you staying? Do you like Minecraft? Can you draw me?”
“Bree,” I say. “Give him some space.”
“I’m just asking.”
Mom appears in the hallway with one eyebrow raised and her arms folded. “I see you’ve met my daughter. Is Ariel’s mom still in the driveway?”
“No, she had to go,” Breanna says. “Mommy sent me to Ariel Stone’s house, which is cool because she has a new puppy. Are you going to be my new brother? Lance likes boys. You know that, right?”
Parker looks at me. “Ummm, he told me.”
“What’s wrong with your voice? Are you getting sick? Can you give it to me? I don’t want to go to school.”
“Breanna Marie,” Mom says. “Stop pestering him. All of you, wash your hands. I didn’t cook this for it to get cold.”
Bree grabs Parker’s hand on her way past. “You can use the blue soap. The white soap is Lance’s and it smells weird.”
“It doesn’t smell weird,” I say, but she’s already dragged him around the corner, and I catch a glimpse of his face—startled, and maybe for the first time today, not miserable.
Mom’s set the place next to me for Parker, and when we’re finally washed up and sitting down, he stares at the food awkwardly for a long while, letting everyone else take their portions before carefully cutting a piece for himself.
Bree turns to Parker. “You know, you did a good drawing of him, but it’s not very realistic. He’s much dumber-looking in real life.”
The slice of meatloaf he just cut slides straight off his fork and lands on the tablecloth. He gapes at it in horror as the grease permeates the clean white linen. He immediately tries to dab it up.
“Can you draw me as a ninja princess riding a unicorn?” she asks as he’s picking it up.
A huge chunk disintegrates on the tip of his fork.
Parker seems frozen in horror as half of it lands back on the tablecloth and the other plops straight onto the carpet.
He glances at me, then at the food on the floor, then at his nearly empty plate.
I reach down and pick up the bit on the floor with my napkin and stow it beside my plate.
He gives me a grateful, faltering half-smile.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, pressing his napkin on the blot on the table.
“Don’t worry about it, Parker,” Mom says. “Happens all the time.”
“Especially with him,” Bree says, pointing at me.
Parker lifts his napkin and I see a moment of almost blind panic as he stares at the grease stain on the cloth. My family grows quiet.
“What were you planning to do after graduation?” Dad asks.