What About Will Read online

  but Bram and I already know

  what we want to order.

  I must be hungry after all,

  because the smell of burgers

  sizzling on the grill and the sound

  of fries crackling in vats of hot oil

  make my mouth start to water.

  Maybe it’s noticeable, because

  Lily is staring at me.

  Has anyone ever told you how

  much you resemble your dad?

  Dad nods. Trace got my Puerto

  Rican good looks, that’s for sure.

  Lily laughs, then asks,

  And what about Will?

  He looks more like his mother.

  Handsome, but French descent.

  I see, says Lily. But where is he?

  I was hoping to meet him, too.

  He never came home? asks Dad.

  I Don’t Want to Lie

  “Well—”

  Did you try to call him?

  “His phone was off.”

  Bram elbows me in the ribs.

  I grunt, but no one notices.

  “Actually, Will came

  home for a few minutes.

  I told him about dinner

  and asked for a ride.

  He said he was busy.”

  Dad frowns so hard,

  his eyebrows touch.

  He knows there’s more.

  I worry about that boy.

  He hardly ever talks to me.

  Seems like all he does is sulk,

  when he’s not blowing up.

  What about therapy? asks Lily.

  He went regularly for a while,

  but now he refuses. I’ve asked

  him to give it another try, but

  he says it’s a waste of time.

  A waitress comes over

  to take our order, and

  I’m happy she interrupts.

  I don’t want to talk about

  Will with a stranger.

  But it’s Lily who changes

  the subject.

  Tell me about school, Trace.

  I hear you’re super bright.

  GATE. That’s gifted and talented!

  And he gets all A’s, too.

  Dad actually sounds

  proud of me. Weird.

  Guess I can talk about

  Rainbow Ridge. It’s a K–12

  public charter school.

  Will and I both go there.

  In fact, we moved

  to our neighborhood

  to be closer and make

  it easier. Dad said it was so

  Will could keep an eye

  on me, but I know it was

  the other way around.

  Not that we see each

  other much at Rainbow.

  I’m on the lower campus,

  but it’s attached to the upper,

  where middle and high schoolers go.

  I tell some of that to Lily

  but don’t mention I hated

  leaving my old school and

  friends behind, or anything

  too personal. I still don’t get

  why I’m talking to her at all.

  So when our milkshakes

  land on the table, I take a big

  slurp and ask, “Do you work

  at the casino with Dad?”

  Dad shakes his head. Lily’s

  the recreation coordinator

  at the retirement village

  where my dear old dad lives.

  Grandpa Russ moved out here

  from Minnesota after Grandma

  Isabel passed away.

  He didn’t like the cold, either.

  Said he only lived there

  because that’s where he grew up

  and he didn’t know better.

  “That’s how you met? Visiting Grandpa?”

  It’s a Duh Question

  The kind you already know

  the answer to, but you can’t

  stop your mouth from asking.

  Well, sort of, says Lily.

  I was organizing—

  “Wait. Let me guess.

  A shuffleboard tournament.”

  She giggles. No, though I am

  responsible for those, too,

  as well as golf, bridge, yoga,

  water aerobics, camping trips,

  movie nights, and ski weekends.

  I want to ask if lots of old

  people ski, but Dad interrupts.

  Lily was putting together

  a casino night, and my dad told

  her I might be a good connection.

  I was going to call, but happened

  to be downtown, so I decided

  to stop by and meet Sebastian

  in person. He was very helpful.

  Her hand floats down

  on top of his, like a leaf

  drifting onto the ground.

  I expect him to pull away.

  But their fingers lock together.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  She smiles.

  Looks into his eyes.

  Dad stares back.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  I’m about to say exactly

  that—one two-letter

  word, on auto repeat—

  when the waitress

  comes with our food.

  So instead, when I open

  my mouth, it’s to ask Lily

  to please pass the ketchup.

  At least it makes her move

  her hand, which I try to ignore

  while we finish dinner.

  Like Always

  The burgers and fries are killer.

  So much better than frozen

  stuff tossed in the microwave—

  three minutes to something

  that sort of looks like real food.

  Some kids have parents who

  cook. I know, because some

  of them are my friends, and

  that includes Bram. His mom

  could be a restaurant chef.

  My mom? Serene Etienne

  might be a killer singer,

  but her scrambled eggs

  were runny, and she always

  burnt the toast. And Dad?

  Once in a while, on his days

  off, he gives it a try. Will and I

  gag everything down, emphasis

  on the “gag.” Usually, he gets

  takeout. Pizza or Chinese.

  So when Lily says,

  We should all have dinner

  at my house soon. I’m a darn

  good cook, if I do say so myself.

  my first thought is, Sure!

  Then I remember who’s talking.

  Doesn’t Matter

  Because Dad’s all in.

  Great idea! It’s been a long

  time since we’ve had decent

  home cooking, huh, Trace?

  “What do you mean? Your

  grilled cheeses are primo.”

  If you like barely melted American

  on grease-soaked white bread.

  Yeah, sure. I see the way you

  and Will eat them—swallowing

  hunks with big gulps of juice.

  I’m sure they’re wonderful,

  Lily says. But I was thinking

  maybe enchiladas or carnitas.

  You like Mexican food, don’t you?

  I do! says Bram.

/>   My favorite! says Dad.

  Well, after Puerto Rican.

  Oh, man, she’s making this

  hard, because I cannot tell a lie.

  So I’ll just tone it down a little.

  “Uh-huh. It’s okay.”

  It’s Hard

  Not to like Lily.

  She smiles a lot.

  Has really good manners.

  Listens when you talk.

  Acts like she’s interested.

  Probably fake.

  Why would she care

  about what I have to say?

  But even in the car,

  when Dad drives her home,

  she keeps asking questions.

  So, you and Bram are teammates?

  What positions do you play?

  What’s your favorite Major League

  team? Ever been to a game?

  When I tell her no,

  she shakes her head.

  Let’s remedy that. My brother

  lives in LA. He’s a Dodgers fan

  and has season tickets.

  “No way! Seriously?”

  Third-base line, behind

  the Dodgers’ dugout.

  Cool! says Bram.

  Yeah. Why does she have

  to be so cool? Annoying.

  Dad turns the car into one

  of those neighborhoods

  where the houses all look alike—

  beige with dark brown trim—

  and there’s a palm tree in every yard.

  Actually, it looks a lot like

  our neighborhood, only those

  houses are gray and navy blue.

  Except for all the weird stuff

  on the Strip (which is wild!),

  Las Vegas isn’t very creative.

  When we get to Lily’s,

  Dad parks the car and walks

  her to the front door.

  She left the porch light on

  and I can see a bunch of moths

  swarming around the bulb.

  Lily puts her key in the lock,

  then turns to say goodbye.

  Don’t look, advises Bram.

  Too late.

  Dad Kisses Her

  Not on her forehead.

  Not on her cheek.

  Straight up on her lips.

  Not too long.

  Not real hard.

  But it means something.

  Maybe not much.

  Maybe too much.

  Now I need to know.

  Bram checks out my face.

  You okay, dude?

  “Sure,” I lie.

  You didn’t know, huh?

  “Know what?”

  That your dad has a girlfriend.

  The word hits like a torpedo.

  Girlfriend.

  One word.

  A girl friend, two words,

  might be okay, and until

  right now I could pretend

  that’s what she was.

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  The sentence scratches

  my throat. My eyes sting.

  Why didn’t Dad tell me?

  Who springs something

  like that on his kid?

  I wait till he gets back in

  the car and turns out

  on the main drag before

  asking, “So, is Lily

  your girlfriend or what?”

  He doesn’t say anything

  for a minute or two.

  We’ve been seeing each other, yes.

  “How long?”

  He shrugs. A couple of months,

  give or take. She’s nice, right?

  “Yeah, she’s nice.

  Yeah, I like her. But . . .”

  But what?

  “But what about Mom?”

  Dad Takes a Deep Breath

  Holds it, and my question,

  inside for a long while.

  Finally, he exhales.

  Trace, your mom and I have

  been divorced for over a year.

  Even before that, we weren’t

  really together. You know that.

  “Yeah, but . . . it just feels . . .”

  Wrong.

  But I’m not sure why.

  Like something ended.

  Even if it did a while ago.

  Like there’s no turning back.

  Not that I thought we would.

  Anyway, would turning back

  make everything better?

  Maybe yes.

  Probably no.

  It was Mom’s decision

  to leave. She wasn’t happy.

  Neither was Dad.

  I just don’t know why

  things have to get

  more complicated.

  “What about Will, Dad?”

  What about him . . . what?

  “What if this pushes him

  farther away?”

  I’m not sure that’s possible.

  “You haven’t given up

  on him, have you?”

  Of course not! Never! He’s my son,

  and so are you. You are the most

  important people in my life.

  “More important than Lily?”

  What did I just tell you?

  I glance over at Bram, who’s staring

  out the window, pretending his fingers

  are stuck in his ears. I should be quiet.

  Instead, my mouth just keeps going.

  “But you’re in love with her.”

  He’s quiet for a second.

  Yes, I guess I am, which

  doesn’t mean I love you less.

  “You’re not getting married,

  right?” Please no. Please no.

  Not tonight, Trace. Not tonight.

  It’s Almost Eleven

  By the time we get home.

  Will’s car isn’t here, which,

  of course, Dad notices.

  He glances at his watch.

  One hour until curfew.

  Wonder what he’s up to.

  This would be the time

  to tell him about my money.

  Instead I just say, “No clue.

  Can Bram and I stay up for a while?”

  Okay, says Dad. You can

  have until curfew, too, okay?

  “Cool.”

  The midnight curfew is a county

  law for kids under eighteen.

  It’s not really a house rule.

  But I’m usually in bed

  by ten unless a friend

  sleeps over.

  Bram and I play Minecraft

  for an hour, then say good night

  to Dad, who’s stressing

  because Will is still gone.

  “You can have the bed,” I tell

  Bram. “I’ll take the floor.”

  Eew, dude. I don’t want to sleep

  on your dirty sheets.

  “Me neither. Let’s both

  sleep on the floor.”

  I get a couple of quilts

  from the hall closet, fold them

  so they’re like sleeping bags.

  One half goes under us.

  The other half can go over

  if we get cold, but for now,

  it’s way warm enough without.

  We try to get comfortable.

  Now Bram asks, Why didn’t you

  tell your dad about Will?

  “After everything else,

  it didn’t see
m so important.”

  Are you mad about Lily?

  “Not really. It’s just, Dad’s

  been ‘too busy’ for Will

  and me, so how did he find

  enough time to fall in love?”

  The Question Floats

  Like a feather in the darkness.

  I don’t expect an answer.

  Not from Bram, for real,

  because what he says is:

  You want your dad to be

  happy, don’t you?

  “Sure! But I don’t want

  him to get married again.

  I don’t want a stepmom.

  I want my real mom back.”

  He thinks that over, then,

  Where does she live?

  “In hotel rooms, mostly,

  I guess. She’s on the road

  a lot of the time.”

  She doesn’t have a house?

  “No. When she isn’t traveling,

  she stays with Maureen and Paul.”

  Who’s that?

  “Her mom and dad. They don’t

  like to be called Grandma and

  Grandpa. They live in Denver.”

  How often do you get to see her?

  “Not very. The last time

  was right before Christmas.”

  He whistles real quietly.

  That’s almost four months.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Weird, but I think this

  is the first time I’ve talked

  to Bram about Mom.

  She’s like a secret

  I hide inside. But why?

  “Want to see something?”

  Okay.

  I grab the flashlight

  I stashed by my pillow

  in case of emergency.

  Scoot

  my butt

  across

  the floor.

  Open

  the closet

  door.

  Way in Back

  Behind a stack of Lego boxes

  is the bottle of my mom’s shampoo

  and a couple of magazines.

  Bram doesn’t need to know

  what Mom smells like,

  so I leave the shampoo behind.

  “Here. Hold this.”

  I hand over the flashlight,

  sit next to him.

  I’ve looked at the articles

  so many times, the magazines

  open automatically

  to the correct pages.

  The first is an old Las Vegas

  Weekly. The headline says:

  Serene Etienne and Obsidian

  Want to Rock Your World

  “That’s my mom when

  she was twenty-three,

  when she first came to Vegas.

  Obsidian is her band.”