The Boy Most Likely To

He stared at me, no expression. “No. No. You found me out. Don’t leave early. Asshole.”

No messing around with Dom.

Later I found out other stuff. That he was twenty-two. That he got married right out of SBH because he got his girlfriend pregnant on prom night. “In the car, on the way there,” he always adds. “I didn’t even buy her a corsage.” That his wife left and took the baby when they’d been married a year. That he spent the next six months so smashed, he still doesn’t remember if he went to work or not. That now he’s been clean for three years.

So, here we all are, at the end of the meeting, all holding hands like it really is kindergarten. A few months ago, that would have seemed lame as hell; something you do all the time when you’re little, crossing the street with your mom and all that. But after you’re, say, ten, who does it? But I actually kind of like it, here, sandwiched between Tough Guy Dominic and Mr Smooth Jake, who I formerly knew as Coach Somers, my gym teacher from Hodges. He smiles at me, which trust me, he never did when I was at Hodges on his team. He was more given, back then, to asking me to drop and give him fifty for my lousy attitude. Back then, I thought he was a bitter-ass old guy who didn’t get teenagers. He’s maybe in his late twenties.

Now, as I head out to get coffee with Dominic, Jake tosses me a salute. Feels good.

Dom and I are at Cuppa Joe and Piece-a Pie – sucky coffee, awesome pie – talking about whether he should buy this old junker truck with 100,000 miles on it – when he suddenly looks up, eyebrows raised, then smirks at me. “Some guy hates one of us. My bet’s on you. Because if looks could incinerate, you’d be a smoking pile of ashes.”

“It’s usually the girls I piss off – my money’s on you. Where is he?”

“Riiight, I forgot you were the big Casanova. Third table from the left. I’m pretty sure that one-fingered salute was all yours. He has good aim. If he had a gun –”

“No man detests me like that except my pop.” I pretend to be cracking my neck to get a glimpse of the guy.

Yeah, he looks like he hates my ass, all right. It’s Alice’s Brad.

“Need to go make amends?” Dominic asks. “I’m sure he’d be happy to accept it. If not, he only outweighs you by, maybe ninety to a hundred pounds. Might show some mercy and leave you almost dead instead of a bloody smear on the floor.”

“You seem to like imagining different ways for me to bite it, Dom. Way to be supportive.”

“What did you do, sleep with his girlfriend?”

“Uh – what? No!” My voice goes a little loud on that one. “No,” I repeat more quietly.

“You blushing?” Dominic asks, amused.

“No. So . . . tell me more about this truck thing – how does it, uh, handle?”

Dominic looks down, lips compressing to hide his smile. “Yeah, like that’s what you care about handling.” He sips his coffee. “Speaking of, what happened with the GED thing?”

Turns out that in Connecticut, you can’t apply for a GED unless you’re at least nineteen, or if you get a letter from your school saying you “withdrew.” Not precisely how it went down at Ellery.

I rub my thumb into a glob of cherry pie, lick it off. “Um, yeah. I took care of it. Not exactly sure it was . . . kosher, twelve-step-wise.”

“You didn’t forge anything, did you, Tim? Because –”

“No! I, um, relied on something I sort of maybe shouldn’t have. With the school secretary.”

Dominic cocks an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“My charm.”

Dom snorts. “Had that one fooled too, huh? She should have talked to Smiley over there.”

Christ. Brad’s still glaring at me like I stole his favorite pacifier.

“Ms. Iszkiewicz – she always” – I hunch a little lower in my seat – “thought I was cute or something. She said she’d type up a letter and get the headmaster to sign off on it. Dobson never paid attention to shit he was signing unless it was a donation check.”

“Tim,” Dominic says. “C’mon.”

“Did I cross the line?”

Dom takes another sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“But if I don’t lie, how can I get what I need?”

“Did you just hear yourself ?” He relaxes back in his chair, watching my face.

I curse.

“I know,” Dom says. “But part of this whole thing is not being a manipulative bastard anymore, remember?”

Brad’s leaving. As he walks by our table, he accidentally on purpose bangs into the back of my chair with his giant thigh.

What, no wedgie? What the hell does Alice get from this douchewit?

Chapter Twelve

Alice’s hands are behind her back, her beat-up purse hanging off her elbow. Green scrubs, circles under her eyes, smells like anti-bacterial gel . . . and she still kicks my pulse into high gear.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says, brushing past me.

“Is it kinky? Does it involve you, me, some body oil?”

She snorts. “In your dreams, junior.”

“Just the really good ones. But we could totally make those a reality.”

“Here.” She holds out what she’s had hidden behind her. A package wrapped in bright blue tissue. She shoves the box at me so fast, I have to snatch at it before it drops to the ground.

“You got me a housewarming present, Alice?”

“Unwrap it already.” She walks over to the sink, full of two days’ worth of dishes. Most with Grape-Nuts laminated to the sides.

I open it to find a box with the Nike swoosh on it.

“If I wear these, does it mean we’re going steady?”

“If you wear these while you’re running, it means you won’t wind up in a cast.”

I examine the sneakers. They’ll fit. Perfectly.

“You know my size?” I check the tiny tag. Yup, thirteens.

“You’ve left your disgusting Sasquatch shoes by our pool often enough. Your feet are like, freaks of nature.”

“You know what they say about large feet.”

“Uh-huh. Big smelly socks. Stop it, Tim. I just thought if you were even remotely interested in being healthy, you should have the right equipment.”

“Trust me, Alice. I have the right equipment.”

She starts to laugh. “Please. You’re like one of those overgrown puppies who can’t stop humping everything.”

My smile fades. But Alice has turned away, hands on hips, to survey the room. “You’re a bigger slob than Brad,” she says. “Impressive.”

This means that she’s been in lame-ass Brad’s room – quick one-two punch to the gut, even though, Christ, of course. I mean, she’s nineteen.

She squints at the apartment some more, walks around. Which is, ya know, embarrassing in the daylight. It was pretty dim when she was last here. In addition to the sink pileup, I have a small mountain of used boxers and shorts in one corner and the sweatpants I slept in last night draped over the couch.

“Hey. Uh . . .” I indicate the box of Grape-Nuts before she can notice the raised toilet seat and wad of wet towels on the floor of the bathroom. “I’d offer you cereal, but I only have one spoon. I know how anal you are about germs.”

“I’m educated about germ transfer. You drink out of the orange juice carton. I’ve seen you. Why do guys do that? Foul.”

“Because when we want things, we want them now. We’re thirsty, we need a drink – we take a drink. Finding a clean glass, washing out a dirty one and all that crap – nah. We’re just basic. We want what we want right this minute . . . or maybe that’s just me.”

“Tim, cut it out. Now. Please.” Her face is as expressionless as her voice. But of course, I keep going.

“Like that old song: Antici-pay-ay-shun is making me way-yay – yait. That could only be written by a chick. Guys hate anticipation. That’s why we all write about satisfaction. Why we never wrap presents. I notice you wrapped mine.”

“I thought it was because you’re all too cheap to buy wrapping paper. Or too clueless to find it in the store.”

“There’s that. But honestly, you go to the trouble of getting someone a present, something you think they’d like – why hide it and make them work for it? It’s coy.”

Alice laughs, shifting aside my sweatpants and dropping down on the couch. “It’s not coy. It . . . it shows you care.” She gathers her hair up in a knot, showing off her long neck.

“The present shows you care. The wrapping paper shows you aren’t as concerned about the environment as you should be. Like showering alone. A needless waste of resources.”

“Are we ever going to have a conversation without you coming onto me, Tim Mason?”

“I doubt it. We want what we want, right? Basic, babe.”

“Please. No ‘babe.’ No ‘chick.’”

“You prefer Allykins? Ally-o? Ally-ums? Noted.”

“Tim. Don’t.” Her voice sounds a little funny. Damn. Is she that sold on Brad?

She roots through her purse, pulls something out. “I have another present for you, actually. I didn’t wrap this one.” Holding up a small clinical-looking square box, she wags it at me without looking at my face.

“Nicotine patches, Alice – seriously?”

“I told you you can’t smoke here.”

“And I told you I’m trying to kick it.”

“I know.” She waves me over, clasping the box between her knees, and flips it open with her other hand. When I plunk down next to her, she slides the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt higher, cool fingers on my skin. “You need to put these on parts of your body that aren’t hairy. Not that you’re very hairy. Only a bit on your chest.” Her fingers freeze for a second before she continues. “Stick it on your shoulder or your back. Or your ribs. But rotate the spot, because the nicotine irritates your skin.”

She’s touching my upper arm, totally professional, like the nurse she’s training to be, and hell if I’m not reacting like she’s unzipping my jeans.

I edge away, scratch the back of my neck, which doesn’t itch, a little dizzy.

She pulls my arm to her stomach, holds it steady, and plasters on the patch. “Change it once a day. Different location. Six to eight weeks.”

“Did you have a secret vice, Alice? You sound so knowledgeable.”

“I read directions. Another thing guys rarely do.” Patting my arm, she flips my sleeve back down, hesitates a second before meeting my eyes. “What you’re doing is tough, Tim. Not drinking, no drugs. Living on your own. Add quitting smoking. I admire you for it.”

I stare at her. “For real?”

“Of course. I’m nineteen and still at home. This is no easy thing” – she reaches out and taps where the patch is under my shirtsleeve – “but you don’t always have to take the hard way. Not when there are easier ways.”

My throat tightens. Of all people I expected to . . . whatever, Alice might be dead last. I swallow. Her green-brown eyes are sincere. I lift my hand a few inches toward her cheek. Then drop it, shove it in my pocket as I stand, jingle the loose coins in there.

Alice inspects me sharply for a sec, school-marm-over-her-glasses-style, then licks her lips and looks away, wiping her palms on her scrubs. She stands up. “What’s it with you and the Grape-Nuts? Besides pizza, it’s almost all I ever see you eat.”

“I like Grape-Nuts.”

“You live on Grape-Nuts. That’s more than liking. It’s obsession.”

“You sure are getting worked up about this.” To keep my dangerous hands occupied, I pour myself a bowl, get milk out of the fridge, sniff at it.

“Well, it isn’t rational.”

Her tone is mad huffy. Why? What’d I miss?

“All this emotion over cereal? What do you care what I eat?”

“You’re all thin and pale, Tim. You look like you’re not sleeping. People worry about you.” She lobs her droopy, too-big purse back over her shoulder. “I should get going. I’m on babysitting call tonight.”

I move between her and the door before I can think. “Okay, Alice. I’ll grant that worrying people has always been a talent of mine. But my family’s pretty much given up. You’re the one who came all the way over here to save my ankles and so on. Are we talking worrying people . . . or are we talking worrying you? ” The words rush out, hover in the air. I’m noticing again how little Alice is, aside from those curves, barely coming up to my shoulders. Five two? Five four?

She yanks her purse onto her shoulder again, looks down. Her cheeks go pink.

“Well?” I ask, because I’ve pushed it this far already.

One finger after another, she ticks things off. “You’re my little brother’s best friend. Though sometimes I have no idea how or why he puts up with you. You’re a minor. You’re a potential, if not an ongoing, disaster. You –” Then she sighs, shuts her eyes. “Listen, I have a long day tomorrow. Three classes, a clinical. When I get through it” – her voice drops to a low mutter, like even she doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying – “could we just meet for dinner? Like a . . . sample date?”

This goes through me like an electric shock.

A date.

With Alice Garrett?

Wait.

A sample date?

“What would we be sampling?”

She looks like she might laugh. Doesn’t. “Not that. I don’t do hookups.”

“I didn’t mean that. I never thought that for a second.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “Of course not.”

“Okay. But it was like a millisecond, a nanosecond. Then I remembered how much I respected you and that I would never –”

Alice puts her hand, her fingertips, over my mouth. “Tim. Stop talking now.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“We’d be sampling dinner. ”

Then I remember a certain two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boyfriend. Who apparently already hates my ass. “Wait. Is this a setup? Are you trying to get my ass kicked by ol’ Brad?”

She shakes her head quickly, pulling her hand away from my face and burying it in the pocket of her scrubs. Her purse strap falls down again. My hand goes to slip it back up, but then no, I shove it back in my pocket.

Alice hesitates for a second, then: “This has nothing to do with Brad. He wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

“Then he’s even more of a putz than I thought. Hard to believe.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “It’s not like that.”

It’s not? Okay. So that makes me . . .

Dinner.

“Meet me at Gary’s Grill in Barnet. Six thirty. Tomorrow night.”

Barnet is three towns away. Apparently Alice isn’t prepared to be seen in the immediate vicinity with her underage, recovering alcoholic sample date.

I say I’ll meet her there. She nods, gives me a subdued version of her sexy, crooked, smile, then her lips brush my cheek. That Hawaii smell. Oh, Alice.

“See you then.”

I nod, speechless, and shy-Alice morphs back into take-charge-Alice, jabbing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare be late. I hate it when guys pull that, like my time doesn’t matter. Like they’re all casual and time is a relative thing while I’m sitting there with the waiter pitying me.”

“Should we synchronize our watches?”

“Just don’t let me down.”

Chapter Thirteen

Waiting out in front of Hodges, school number one of my three, is bizarre. I’ve been back for Nan’s this-or-that achievement awards, but my neck still starts to itch as I stand there, like I’m stuck in the old uniform, gray flannel pants and stiff white shirt.

Here to pick up Samantha, offered to walk with her to the condo she and her mom moved into a week ago – ol’ Gracie’s brilliant plan to get her away from Jase and the Garretts next door, by relocating crosstown. Out of sight, etc.

She comes out of the big-ass oak doors, down the steps with the stone lions, spots me, waves, then halfway down the path, gets called over by this cluster of girls. They’re laughing and gesturing, and in their matching outfits, long straight hair, prep-clean looks, Hodges could slap ’em right on the cover of the school catalog.

Sam’s not like that, but she blends.

Then I see something else. My sister, walking with her head down, rooting through her bag like she’ll find the Ark of the Covenant in there. She’s so preoccupied, I think she’s gonna crash right into the girls, but she makes a wide, careful path around them. So I get it. She sees them, but doesn’t want them to see her.

Sam does, though, raises one hand, hello. But Nan keeps walking, rummaging away, because that treasure in her bag must and shall be found.

She’s not short, Nan, five seven or so, but from here she looks it.

Text her: You okay?

I think she’s gonna look around and spot me, propped against the magnolia tree only a few yards from the brick pathway, but she doesn’t.

Nan: Why wouldn’t I be?

Chew my lip, try to figure out whether to say I’m right here or not. Nan would be . . . not happy with the Sam pickup – I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

I settle for: Just checking in.

Nan: That’s out of character.

She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

Me: Ha.

Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my time before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Tim? The apocalypse, much?”

Her tone is light, but the look she shoots me isn’t.

“The apocalypse? Come on. I ask for stuff.”

“Tim, I’ve known you since we were five. Cash, yes. Excuses, totally. But not this.”

“Well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

I haul her bag off her shoulder onto my own, hunting around for Nan, but she’s blended somewhere into the girl herd.

We walk. “It’s left up here.” Sam points to the road up the hill, the summit of Stony Bay, fanciest, richest part of town. “So, this is an actual date you’re going on.”

“Just – just something I’d rather not screw up. So – hit me with your best. Like, for starters, what the hell do I even wear?”

Samantha grins.

“Don’t,” I say. “I know exactly how lame I sound.”

“Start by passing the sniff test,” she says, smelling the air exaggeratedly, like some crazy bloodhound or whatever. “Which that shirt doesn’t, by the way. And” – she smacks me on the shoulder – “if she’s older than you, like you said, no shirts with school insignias. No point in rubbing it in that she’s a cougar.”

“She’s not a cougar. Jesus God.”

We’re a little over one year apart, me and Alice. It’s nothing.

Samantha studies me for a sec, then continues lightly. “Shower. Take her someplace low-key. Listen when she talks. Ask questions but only if you actually care about the answers. Don’t keep trying to interrupt with stories about the last time you got drunk.”

“Believe me, I’m not gonna touch that.”

Besides, Alice has been there. I puked all over her and she took off her shirt, calm as moon-low tide, owning this black lace bra with this tiny red ribbon and . . . it’s the one thing I remember perfectly about that night.

“You’d be surprised at how many guys do.”

Samantha’s shoulders stoop a little as we hit a bend in the road, cut off by huge black iron gates, tacked all over with signs: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO TRESPASSING, you are not welcome here. “Here we go, home sweet home as of last week. The code is 1776.”

“Sorry, kid. Should have given you a housewarming present. A casserole, at least.”

“Believe me, nothing could warm this place up. The condo makes our old house look festive. We’re right up by the clubhouse.” She gestures to this low building with a Swiss-chalet-looking roof, surrounded by a golf course spattered with dudes in pastel, knocking away at tiny white balls. It all looks like a retirement village.

“Wow,” I say. I got nothin’ else.

“I know.” Samantha shakes her head. “I haven’t even let Jase see it yet. I mean, did you notice the streets? General Dwight D. Eisenhower Drive, Lady of the Lake Lane, Pettipaug Peak? The names aren’t even consistent! And check out the houses. You could walk into the wrong one and suddenly find yourself living someone else’s life.” She waves her hand at row after row of identical houses.

“What time do all the handsome husbands pop out of their doors with their matching briefcases?”

“Leaving their blond wives to take their Valium, at the same second, elbows bent just so? Not sure. We’ve only been here a week. Give me time. It’s over here, Wolverine Wood Road.”

I squint. “Are there any actual woods? Or wolverines?” The landscape is green and grassy and flat, except for an unnatural-looking lake.

“Right? No, they took down all the trees to build this. I’ll keep you posted on the wolverines. We’re here.” She points past a narrow row of hedges. “By the statue of the non-specified Revolutionary War soldier.”

“Do I need to lay a wreath?” I ask as we head past the scarily smiling iron statue. “Or salute?”

“Why couldn’t we have stayed put?” She sighs.

Samantha knows the obvious answer to that, so all I say is, “Cheer up, kid. College next year. ’

Gracie, Sam’s mom, is out on the porch of Clairemont Cottage, planting some brassy orange flowers in big stone urns. She jolts to her knees when we turn the corner, trowel in hand, then, seeing it’s me with Sam, beams, waves, settles back down on her heels again. For reasons known only to her and God, Grace persists in thinking Jase is the delinquent and I’m the upstanding citizen.

Samantha studies me for a sec, then says, “One more thing. The most important. On this date? Just be, you know, smart and funny and sweet. Like you are.”

“Pretty sure that’s not actually me.”

“It is.” She flips her hair out of its braid, sliding her fingers through to shake it out. “If she’s going on a date with you, she probably thinks so too. Do I know her?”

“Not really.”

“Tim, c’mon.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just a” – I have no idea what it is – “thing.”

Not buying it. All over her face.

But Samantha smiles, tugs her bag off my shoulder, puts her hand in its place. “Two more things, actually – but they’re crucial. Don’t wear that stupid Axe stuff clueless guys think is sexy. It reeks of desperation.”

I fake scribble on an imaginary pad. “Noted.”

“And don’t let her break your heart, okay?”

“Sammy-Sam, I think that’s already a given.”

“I get to ride on the feet!” George squeals.

“Bro. You can’t ride on the wheelchair feet. I’d lose my job,” Brad says, maneuvering Dad out of the hospital room, skillful and grounded in his transporter role. We’re a parade to help move Dad to the rehab part of Maplewood. Joel’s got the duffel full of the clothes we brought so Dad would feel semi-normal. Mom’s arms are bundled full of his books. Andy’s carrying a stack of artwork the little guys made, carefully detached from the Scotch tape on the wall. Duff has the Xbox and the videogames. Harry, the old deck of cards, the pick-up sticks, the dominoes, the old-fashioned games we rediscovered to make time pass.

I have all the paperwork, most of which my parents don’t know about.

It would be Brad they sent to do the transfer, of all the ’porters in all of Maplewood Memorial. He’s ignoring me. I’m ignoring him. This is fun. At least he’s been decent to the kids, even though George keeps giving him sidelong glances, no doubt worried the tears will start again.

I check my watch – plenty of time to do what I need to do, get home, and get ready to go out with Tim, as long as this all goes quickly.