long to bring me here.
“Don’t worry. He’s not home,” he says, rolling the bike up next to the car. “This piece of shit doesn’t run. It used to belong to my mother.” I notice the bumper sticker, a faded red-and-white thing with an apple that reads: “Teachers Do It with Class.” “I’m only sorry you won’t get to meet the old man today,” he says, turning off the bike and removing his helmet. “He’s a real charmer.”
I take off my helmet and hand it to him, and he hangs it from the handle of the bike. As I follow him around the side of the house, and up a flight of dilapidated porch steps through an unlocked side door, he mumbles, “Remember, Jailbait, I warned you.”
* * *
The inside of Max’s house is sadder than anything I could have imagined. Water stains on the ceiling, and actual holes in the dirty white walls. The furniture looks like it came from a thrift store, and the worn carpeting smells of mildew, smoke, and stale beer.
As we walk past one of the holes, Max reaches a fisted hand out to it. “For when he gets really mad. God forbid he patch it up after,” he says.
“I’m so sorry—” I start, but he shrugs.
“Don’t be. Better the Sheetrock than me, right?”
When we pass the empty recliner in the living room, Max kicks it. “And here we have Exhibit A: the Beer King’s throne. The good news is, when he runs out of beer at home, and TV shows, he heads out to Healy’s for the duration. Especially easy to do when you don’t have cable. Basically, haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”
“How does he afford that?”
“Friend of his owns it, so he’s got a tab there. He’s sort of their mascot, or advertisement, or something—seat at the bar near the window and all that, so the place always looks open for business, and since he can’t work a real job on account of his back…”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish. I do a quick count of the empties on the table next to the chair. Four cans of Budweiser, two bottles of Michelob, and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, all of which make me wonder if Max also drinks too much, more than he should, more than most kids our age, more than a guy with an alcoholic father should. But I don’t dare ask. He didn’t want me coming here in the first place.
“What did he used to do?” I ask instead.
“Lineman, electric company. Got hurt on the job six years ago. That’s when everything went to shit. The year after, my mom left, and I got held back.”
I knew Max had been held back in middle school, but I wasn’t sure why. There were rumors, all sorts of dumb stuff, but I learned months ago not to believe what other people had to say about Max Gordon. No one knows him the way I do. They only pretend to. I do the math in my head. Six years ago, Max was thirteen. So his mother left five years ago, when he was fourteen.
“You coming, Jailbait?” He’s stopped halfway down the hall.
“Doesn’t he work at all?” I ask, catching up.
“Nope, still out on disability. He claims the herniated disks in his neck and his back are stopping him, but I’ve seen him lift a forty-pound case of Budweisers, no problem. He was probably drunk off his ass when he got hurt in the first place. They pay him something, but I’m not sure what. Enough that they avoided a lawsuit.” We stop at a closed bedroom door, and he adds, “A little better in here. You won’t catch any diseases, at least,” and he turns the handle and pushes it open.
SPRING
END OF EIGHTH GRADE
Principal Goldstein marches us single file through the heavy blue double doors and toward the gym. My nerves are humming, and I’m tempted to take your hand, but I don’t. We’re too old for that. We’ll be in high school soon.
“Steven Shilling,” you whisper, nodding as we pass a cute boy with shaggy black hair who stands, one leg bent up, leaning against the baby-blue-painted brick wall, talking to a pretty girl with red hair. “He’s friends with Ethan’s friend Patrick. And Adie McKane. Co-captain of the girls’ soccer team.”
Principal Goldstein turns and holds a finger to her lips as we enter the gym for the various boring speeches by the faculty and administration.
After, we head