What About Will Page 6

  Wow. She was hot!

  “Bram . . . ,” I warn.

  Well, she was.

  In the picture she’s wearing

  leather pants and a studded vest.

  Her black hair is spiked and

  tipped blue, and her skin

  is smooth. No sign of wrinkles.

  Like, duh. She was young.

  Next I open a Rolling Stone

  magazine. “This was last year.”

  It’s a short article about

  a song Mom wrote finding

  a ton of fans on YouTube.

  Etienne Ballad Resonates

  The photo is a close-up

  of Mom singing into a mic.

  Her hair is softer, longer,

  with sparks of silver.

  Little lines like spiderwebs

  decorate the corners

  of her mouth and eyes,

  which seem to stare

  at some faraway place.

  She’s still pretty.

  No. She’s beautiful.

  I Put the Magazines Away

  Stash the flashlight

  beside my pillow again,

  lie back beneath

  a blanket of night.

  Bram goes quiet,

  and soon the way

  his breathing sounds

  tells me he’s asleep.

  I try, but my brain

  is stuck thinking

  about Mom.

  Four months without

  seeing her, and she’s only

  called a couple of times.

  Once on Will’s birthday.

  Once on mine.

  Does she ever think about us?

  Does she keep the pictures

  we send to her?

  Does she ever look at them

  and wish she was with us?

  Where is she tonight?

  I’m Slipping Toward Sleep

  When suddenly

  doors slam

  feet pound

  voices yell.

  I sit up so fast, I go

  dizzy and have to wait

  before I jump up

  and crack the door.

  Where have you been?

  At a friend’s house.

  What friend is that?

  No one you know.

  What were you doing?

  Just hanging out.

  Curfew is midnight.

  Not if you’re driving.

  Yeah, well, you’re grounded.

  Whatever, Dad. Not like

  you can stop me from leaving.

  I Slip Out

  Into the hall, watch Will stomp

  toward the front door.

  Dad steps between.

  He draws himself up tall,

  thrusts his chest forward.

  You do not have my permission

  to go anywhere. Do you understand?

  Will should shrink away

  from Dad. Instead, he gets

  right up in his red, puffing face.

  How are you going to stop me?

  Knock me down and tie me up?

  If that’s what it takes.

  Even from here I can see both

  of their fists knotting, unknotting.

  Will tries to go around Dad.

  Dad pushes him. Not hard,

  but enough to move him back.

  Still, if Will happened to fall . . .

  “Stop!” I yell. “What are you doing?

  Somebody’s gonna get hurt!”

  Both of them freeze,

  like they never even

  considered the possibility.

  Dad softens first.

  Trace is right, son. I don’t want

  to hurt you. Please listen.

  I’m worried about you.

  Will glares at him. Since when?

  Anyway, don’t bother worrying

  about me. I’m doing just fine.

  I could argue with that.

  And I probably should.

  But maybe tonight will make

  him think. Turn him around.

  I hope that’s true, Will.

  I don’t tell you this enough,

  but I love you lots. If you’re

  going through something—

  Will laughs.

  Really loud.

  Out of control.

  Sounds crazy.

  Seriously, Dad? I’ve been going

  through something for a while now,

  remember? Look. Everything’s jake.

  Everything Is Not Jake

  “Jake” means okay, and Will

  is so not. He turns, clomps

  up the hall past me, goes

  into his room, slams the door.

  Dad . . . what’s the word?

  Deflates, yeah, that’s it.

  Like a bike tire with a leak.

  He looks at me with sad eyes.

  Thanks for stepping up, Trace.

  Go on back to bed now.

  “Okay, Dad. See you

  in the morning.”

  Unlike Will,

  I close the door quietly

  behind me, in case

  Bram managed to sleep

  through all of that.

  He didn’t.

  Your brother’s messed up.

  If I talked to my dad like

  that, phew! Big trouble.

  Not much to say but “Uh-huh.”

  Bram’s quiet for a couple

  of seconds, then he asks,

  Maybe you should call

  your mom and tell her

  what’s going on. Maybe

  she’d have some good ideas.

  “Yeah. I will. But she doesn’t

  ever answer, and doesn’t call

  back very often.”

  Leave a message anyway.

  If she doesn’t know

  something’s wrong, how

  can she help make it better?

  I don’t reach out to her

  very often. It hurts to be

  ignored, and I figure if I bug

  her too much, she won’t want

  to be my mom at all.

  Bram goes back to sleep,

  but I have a hard time,

  mostly because a bright

  yellow moon is beaming

  through the window.

  It’s shining on Mom somewhere, too.

  I get up to close the blinds

  and happen to catch a glimpse

  of Will’s car, disappearing

  down the block. He escaped.

  Despite Tossing and Turning

  So much last night

  that I actually rolled

  clear across the floor,

  I wake up early, mostly

  because Bram is snoring

  into his pillow.

  I find my phone quietly.

  Just ’cause I’m awake

  doesn’t mean my friend

  has to be, too. I check

  the time. Six thirty-five.

  I go to the window, crack

  the blinds. Phew. Looks like

  Will came home at some point.

  His car’s out front.

  Bram’s words from last

  night drift into my brain.

  . . . how can she help make it better?

  Mom’s probably asleep

  wherever she is, but I go

  ahead and text her, hoping

  it doesn’t bother her too much.

  Hey, Mom
. Miss you. Hope

  you’re good. Will’s acting

  weird. I’m worried. Call me?

  I’m Not Sure

  If Dad knows Will left again

  last night. He doesn’t say

  anything at breakfast.

  I don’t mention it, either.

  What Dad does say is Your

  next game is Saturday, right?

  Lily said she’d like to come,

  and it happens to be my day off.

  He can only make a few

  of our games, and I’m happy

  this is one. Even if Lily tags along.

  “Yeah. It starts at five.”

  Will wanders in. What does?

  “Our Little League game.”

  When he’s tired, like from

  staying out way too late,

  the tic in his cheek

  goes into hyperdrive.

  I wonder if it’s painful.

  Dad doesn’t seem to notice.

  You should come to the game,

  he tells Will. There’s someone

  I want you to meet.

  That Sounds

  Like a disaster waiting

  to happen. At my game.

  In front of my coaches,

  teammates, and friends.

  “That’s all right,” I say.

  “Will doesn’t care much

  about baseball, Dad.”

  Both of them look at me,

  wondering why I’d try

  to convince Will to stay away.

  What’s the matter? asks Will.

  Afraid you’d be embarrassed?

  Well, yeah, but not for

  the reason he thinks.

  “I can hold my own. I’m one

  of the best on our team.”

  We’ve got new competition,

  though, says Bram. A girl,

  and she’s really good, too.

  Is that a fact? That right there

  might be a good reason to watch.

  I doubt he’ll come. That’s cool.

  And he never even asked Dad

  who he wanted him to meet.

  Late Morning

  Bram’s mom picks him up.

  Dad leaves for work.

  Will waits for both,

  then he takes off, too.

  Which leaves

  me,

  myself,

  and I.

  The three of us

  could watch TV

  or play Xbox, but

  Mom is on our mind, so we

  decide to practice keyboard.

  Mom mostly sticks to guitar,

  but she can play piano.

  Drums, too. She taught

  Will the guitar, but since

  he was five years older,

  he was that far ahead.

  Catching up would be hard.

  I asked for a keyboard instead.

  She gave one to me

  for my sixth birthday,

  showed me the basics.

  I picked up more on my own.

  Mom says I have a gift.

  It’s like my fingers know

  what to do to make music

  that sounds pretty good.

  Right now they start playing

  a keyboard-heavy song by

  one of Mom’s favorite bands:

  Queen. Obsidian used to cover

  this song sometimes. Mom

  said she could never measure

  up to Freddie Mercury’s vocals,

  but I thought she sounded awesome.

  The song is called “Too Much Love

  Will Kill You.” It’s about someone

  who has a new love while still

  loving whoever got left behind.

  I know Mom still loves us.

  That’s in the mothers’ rulebook,

  right? But is there anything

  in there about falling in love

  with someone else after walking

  away from your family?

  Is that what happened to Mom?

  Is that why she doesn’t call?

  Is that why she won’t visit?

  Is too much love her problem?

  Or is it not enough?

  I’m Halfway

  Through the song when

  my phone tells me someone’s

  calling. When I see who it is,

  a piece of me scolds

  the rest for not believing.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Hey, Trace. What’s going on?

  “Not much. It’s spring break,

  so no school or anything.

  Mostly just baseball. Oh, and

  when you called, I was playing—”

  Right, right. But what I meant

  was, what’s going on with Will?

  Oh. Yeah.

  “Well, I think he’s running with

  a bad crowd. Staying out late.

  Taking off without permission.”

  Oh, so it’s not about his health?

  “No. I mean, kind of.

  He might get hurt, right?

  Or he could get into trouble.”

  She should be concerned

  about him, too. She’s not.

  I wouldn’t worry too much.

  Most teenagers go through

  that stage. I know I did.

  You probably will, too.

  Nope. No way. “You don’t

  know me very well.”

  It hits me that I’m not sure

  she knows me at all.

  But it doesn’t seem to bother

  her, because she laughs.

  We’ll see. We’ll see.

  In the meantime, keep

  on being you. You’re the best.

  She Wants to Go

  Sounds like she’s signing off.

  I want to keep her longer.

  “Will still gets depressed,

  too. Like, when he’s home,

  he mopes in his room

  and hardly even talks

  to Dad or me.”

  Is he taking his meds?

  “I guess so.”

  He’ll be fine, then.

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  I do. Anyway, you’re too

  young to worry about stuff

  you can’t do anything about.

  “Hey, Mom. Any chance you can

  come visit sometime soon?

  Maybe that would help Will.”

  I’ll do my best. Right now

  I’m stuck in Colorado.

  Doing a gig in Telluride.

  “Still snow on the ground?”

  I’m getting a little skiing in,

  if that’s what you’re asking.

  Snow’s slushy and my legs

  are getting a bit old for spring

  runs. But I’m not giving up yet.

  Mom’s legs aren’t that old.

  She’s just trying to make me

  feel better about not being

  there on the mountain with her.

  “Hey, Mom? Could Will and I

  maybe come visit Maureen

  and Paul in Denver this summer?

  I mean, if you’ll be there, too.”

  I think that could be arranged.

  How long has it been since

  you’ve seen them? Two years?

  It was the summer before Will’s

  incident. “Yeah. Give or take.”

  We’ll have to make plans.

  Do some hiking or something.<
br />
  “Sounds good. But, Mom?

  Would you please call Will?

  Maybe it would cheer him up.”

  Think so? Okay. Love you.

  Don’t Forget

  That’s what I tell her

  before I hang up.

  Please don’t forget

  about Will.

  And please don’t let

  him know it was my idea.

  I go back to my keyboard,

  but not to Queen.

  Instead, I pound out a song

  of my own, one with a hard,

  driving beat. I call it “Guilt Trip.”

  I hope

  I made Mom feel guilty

  about not calling more often.

  I hope

  she follows through,

  and the next thing she does

  is dial Will’s number.

  I hope

  she tells him he’s on her mind,

  he’s important to her, and

  most of all, that she loves him.

  I hope.

  I hope.

  I hope.

  Saturday Rolls Around

  Hot and still, and I feel

  lazy for most of the day.

  I stay inside, reading

  and playing video games.

  With Will.

  For whatever reason,

  he’s been okay the past

  couple of days. Not reliably

  here. Not always nice

  when he was, but more like

  the brother I used to rely on.

  Maybe Mom did call him.

  Maybe that’s why.

  But if I ask, he’ll know

  it was my idea, and that

  would ruin everything,

  so I stay quiet.

  Right now I’m sitting

  at the kitchen table

  while Will fixes a late lunch.

  He comes over, sets a huge

  sandwich down in front of me.

  Better ingest a few extra pregame

  calories, especially if you want

  to play better than a girl.

  My cheeks go all hot.

  He laughs. Just teasing.

  Don’t freak out.

  “I’m not.” That might be a lie.

  At least he remembered.

  I was sure he’d forget.

  “Are you coming to the game?”

  I was thinking about it.

  You have any idea who

  Dad wants me to meet?

  Probably better to tell him

  up front than to let it be

  a surprise. I nod. “Lily.”

  Lily? Who’s that?

  “Apparently, his girlfriend.

  Pretty sure he’s at