am quiet as I walk upstairs. Suddenly there is nothing I want more than to leave this house, to walk outside into the fall night and breathe in deeply and sharply, to change out of the clothes I am wearing and into something sloppy and old.
In the bedroom I sit on the bed and think that if I were a good son I would drive to the hospital and sit instead on my mother’s bed, at her side, and put a cool hand on her forehead, as she used to do for me when I was a boy, and I would sing her a song of my choosing. And even if she couldn’t hear me this would be the right thing to do. I also think that if I were a good boyfriend, or whatever I am, a good person, I would call Lindsay Harper and tell her I’m sorry for not coming to her house today, which I really am. Sorry. I’m sorry for letting her believe I had it in me to be good to her and normal. For letting her think I’d do right by her.
Anyway I’m not a good son or a good boyfriend or a good person so instead of doing these things I take off my too-small shirt and my cheap Dockers and I leave them rumpled on the floor out of this same badness. Then I quietly pull open every drawer in the dresser, looking for the worst and most terrible outfit I brought with me, and finally I find a pair of huge jeans I haven’t put on since before I got to Pells. Now that I am bigger they fit me a little better but they are still baggier than what is fashionable and therefore they are right. I find a huge gray sweatshirt with a hood and I put the hood up. Then I find my tomato sneakers, the ones Pottsy made fun of, and I stick my feet into them with no socks. I look at myself in the mirror above the dresser and I see with satisfaction that I look awful, like the Grim Reaper under my gray hood: green under the eyes, a few days’ worth of weak stubble on my chin and cheeks. Skinnier than I should be because I have not eaten right. I’m too tall for the mirror and I have to duck to see myself.
I walk quietly as I can into the hallway and try to sneak past Trevor’s room but Trevor’s door is open so I have to stop. He looks at me calmly from his bed.
What are you doing, he says.
He’s caught me off-guard.
—Going to Yonkers.
He looks at me. Dude, he says, as if he can’t believe my stupidity and traitorousness. Kel. We just fucking lost to Yonkers.
Yeah, well, I say, scratching the back of my hooded head. Friend’s having a party.
I don’t tell him who invited me.
Trevor shrugs. Whatever, he says.
—You wanna come?
—Nope.
OK, I say, and walk down the hall relieved.
But then Trevor emerges from his room and I know it’s because he can’t stand to be left out of anything. He has nothing to do tonight. I turn around.
I am aching to leave. I am standing there on the tips of my toes.
Trevor says fine he’ll go. But only if we can roll in there with, like, a crew of four big guys, he says.
I want to laugh at him loudly. I want to tell him he’s the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met and I can’t believe I never realized it before this week. I want to tell him he deserves to lose at everything he ever does. Instead I tell him to invite whoever he wants.
Trevor drives. He puts on something boring and guitarish. He’s on his phone calling his boys. I have realized that I cannot call them mine. Cossy can’t come, his family says. Kurt says he’ll meet us there and asks for the address. Peters is coming and Kramer is coming and Matt Barnaby, who I don’t particularly want to see but Trevor likes him, so. We pick them up one after another at their homes, which are lit up inside and lined with little white lights outside and in general look like institutions more than houses. Museums. Some of the driveways are still filled with cars. To get to Matt’s house we drive right past Lindsay’s and I strain to look without moving my head so Trevor does not make fun of me.