then, the universe puts an abrupt end to my fantasy. The sky opens and it starts raining so hard I swear Noah is gonna gather animals for the ark. Amanda holds her mail over her head to shield her hair and says, “I better get inside. Hope you don’t have a long ride home!”
The fact that she’s worried about me, even a little, makes me smile. There is a clap of thunder and I raise my voice because it’s so loud. “I’m actually headed to work. I’ll be all right. It’s only a few blocks. I don’t mind the rain.”
“Okay then.” She grins and starts up her driveway, then pivots on her heel and says, “Sorry if I upset you by saying something mean about your friend. I was just being honest.”
She runs toward her house as I call after her, “It’s all good. Like I said, Peyton and I aren’t really friends.”
Amanda gives me a wave before she disappears inside.
Standing there in the downpour, I feel the rush of talking with Amanda disappear as quickly as it came. I am a royal asshole for betraying Peyton not once, but twice. I’m soaking wet and the insides of my shoes squish water when I walk, but I tell myself that I deserve to miserable. What I did? I’m no better than Kyle, saying crap to sound cool at another person’s expense.
I swing one leg over my bike and am set to pedal toward Shop ’n Save when I hear a bang from the direction of Peyton’s house. It’s the sound of a window being slammed shut. More specifically, Peyton’s window.
Shit, fuck, shit.
How much of the conversation did she hear?
8
I get my answer later that night.
I’m lying in bed looking through an old Captain America comic that I got about a year ago, trying to chill out. It’s an old one from 1987 called Captain America No More! in which the Red Skull devises a plan to destroy Captain America, but ultimately his plans are revealed and order is restored. The comic book isn’t worth jack, particularly in this condition, but it’s one of my favorites, mainly because Dad bought it for me.
The night I got it stays with me because Dad and I don’t generally hang out. Things have been pretty messed up between us since I was a kid, even before Mom and Mickey died, and I’ve felt like an inconvenience for the better part of a decade. I’d always envied the closeness he and Mickey shared and wished he and I could be like that. That we’d have something more in common than our shared DNA.
It’s not like Dad has never tried. It’s just always been on his terms. Back when Mickey and I were kids, my parents would save up all year, and every August they would pack us in the car for the long drive to Boston to catch a Sox game at Fenway. My dad had an old Chevy that had no air-conditioning and was prone to overheat, so it was always an adventure. And on the ride, Dad and Mickey would be shooting off all kinds of stats from the season: RBIs, home runs, batting averages, that sort of crap.
We had the cheapest seats, way in the outfield, but I never cared because I was more interested in doodling on my concession-stand napkin than watching the actual game. I mostly liked how we were all together and it felt like we were a family. Then, when I was ten, I screwed everything up.
The truth is, I didn’t really like baseball that much, which was sacrilege in my house. My father was convinced that if I played Little League, I would turn into an all-star like him and my brother. It didn’t matter that I had zero interest or ability and would rather take art classes; Dad was determined that I follow in his footsteps. He coached my team every year. I went along with it because I wanted to make him happy, but I was miserable.
One day, I saw a poster at the comic book store about a showing of Steve Ditko’s original sketches from early Spider-Man comics at a gallery in Boston, and he was supposed to be there in a rare public appearance with Stan Lee. Even though I knew it meant missing the last game of my team’s season and that my dad letting me go was probably a total long shot, I begged him to take me. He laughed it