“Thanks,” I said, managing to get half the word out before being overcome by a coughing fit. In response, Layla plunked a glass of water by my elbow. The girl thought of everything.
“They’re better with hummus,” Mac told me as I tried to catch my breath. It was like that one piece of cracker was clinging to my esophagus with a death grip. He pushed the spread toward me, the knife balanced on top. “Here.”
I smiled, sucking down a sip of the water. Across the room, the toaster pinged. “Saved!” Irv said, opening the door. He reached in, immediately burning his fingers. “Shit, that’s hot.”
“You never learn, do you?” Layla grabbed a wooden spoon, then used it to pull the tarts out, piling them on a plate. “Grab the frosting. It’s go time.”
They settled at the table on either side of me. Layla tore off two paper towels, giving one to Irv, and then distributed a Pop-Tart to each of them, along with a healthy dollop of frosting. They each dipped, then toasted each other. I looked down at the remains of my cracker. Then, purely out of loyalty, I plunged it into the hummus.
It was better. Not good, mind you. But better. I only coughed a little. “What are these, again?” I asked Mac.
“Kwackers,” he told me, turning the box so I could read the label. “They’re sugar-free, low-carb, and fortified by additional Kwist Seeds, which are like soy, but healthier.”
“Yum.” Layla fixed me a paper towel plate and a tart, then pushed it toward me. “Don’t be a martyr, Sydney. Even for Mac.”
“Are those my Pop-Tarts?”
I looked up to see Rosie squeezing her way into the kitchen, two girls of her same build and size—one dark-haired, one white-blonde—following. The brunette had on leggings and a Mariposa sweatshirt, featuring the trademark pink butterfly character I remembered from the Saturday morning cartoons of my childhood. The blonde was in shorts and a crop top, displaying one of the most perfect sets of abs I’d ever seen.
“They didn’t have your name on them,” Layla replied. “But help yourself.”
Rosie walked over and took one, holding it out to her friends. When both of them shook their heads, she tore off a piece and dunked it in Mac’s hummus, then took a bite.
“Ugh,” Irv said.
“It’s actually not so bad,” Layla told him.
“You’ve tried that?”
“Desperate times, desperate measures.”
The brunette stepped out from behind Rosie, sticking her hand out to Mac. “I’m Lucy. And you are?”
“My brother,” Rosie said flatly as they shook. “He’s seventeen.”
“I love seventeen,” Lucy said, smiling.
“I’m Layla,” Layla said, offering her own hand. “I’m sixteen.”
Lucy shook, with visibly less enthusiasm. “Hi.”
The girl with the abs, for whatever reason, was not introduced, nor were the rest of us. I reached over to the box of Kwackers Mac was holding to take another one, and he moved it closer to me. This time, I was well aware that Layla, and everyone else, was watching.
“So we’re in your room tonight, just so you know,” Rosie told Layla, dipping the other half of her Pop-Tart in the frosting.
“What?” Layla asked.
“Mom said it was okay,” Rosie told her as the song wound down in the other room. There was a burst of laughter, some scattered applause.
“It’s not her room. And I have Sydney here.”
“You know I basically sleep in a closet. There’s not enough space for all three of us.”
“Where are we supposed to sleep?”
“The couch? I don’t know.”
“They’ll be out here all night, though.”
“Rosie!” Mr. Chatham called out from the living room. “Come back in here, gal, and sing us another one. For your dear old dad.”
Mac sighed. Irv said, “How many beers has he had?”
“Not as many as he will.” He got up, then held the box out to me one last time. I shook my head as Rosie turned, leaving the room with the blonde following. Lucy, however, lingered in the doorway, watching Mac as he reached up to put the Kwackers back in his cabinet. It was a stretch, and his shirt inched up, exposing his belt and a strip of his stomach. “You guys can take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“And he’s a gentleman, too,” Lucy said.
“Down, girl,” Layla said. Lucy, either not hearing this or ignoring it, finally left. She was walking entirely too slowly, as far as I was concerned.
“Ugh,” Layla said as Rosie began singing again. “Those Mariposa girls are all so gross, I swear. If all those little girls who buy tickets only knew.”
“They’re not all bad,” Mac said, shutting the cabinet.
Layla rolled her eyes, but said nothing as Rosie’s voice, which had been quiet at first, began to soar, filling the living room and then our ears. This song had a quicker pace, more of something you’d dance to. Mrs. Chatham, in her chair, was flushed and smiling, tapping her foot, as the woman playing the violin closed her eyes, the bow slashing back and forth across the strings. It seemed amazing to me that one night could hold so much, from a merry-go-round to a Pop-Tart with frosting to the most beautiful singing I’d ever heard. I thought of my own house, across town. Perched on a hill, all lights off except those in use, with just my parents and myself bumping around its large space.
Rosie’s voice was rising now, the violin player going even faster. Someone was stamping his feet, and my own cheeks felt hot. It was amazing to feel so at home in a place I’d only just come to. The night was not even close to over yet. Still, I could think of nothing but how I so very much did not want it to end.
* * *
“Just so you know,” Layla said, stretching a sheet across the bed, “this was not what I had in mind when I invited you over.”
It was about two hours later, and we were in Mac’s room. After listening to the music for a while, we’d gone out to the garage, where Layla had roused Eric, then made him walk a few laps around the house to sober up before Irv drove him home.
“It’s been great,” I told her.
“I don’t know about that.” She slid the pillow into a fresh case, then plumped it. “It’s so typical that Rosie just takes over my room. She gets whatever she wants.”
“I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” I said.
“No way. You are a guest. Mac will be fine there.” She turned, picking up one of the two sleeping bags we’d brought in from the garage and shaking it out of its sack.
I sat down on the bed—Mac’s bed, I realized belatedly, which made it feel different suddenly. As she spread a blanket over the sleeping bag, I looked around the room. It was small, with a twin bed and bureau, both made of the same well-worn yellow wood. Two car posters—one Audi, one BMW—were up on the wall, along with a map of what looked like Lakeview, dotted with pencil marks. On a metal desk, dinged with dents, there sat a computer, speakers, and a row of books, mostly about running and exercise. At the far end, there were several clock radios, all in different stages of disrepair: some were missing knobs, another the glass screen, and one had several springs poking out of it, as if it had exploded.
“He’s kind of a mad scientist,” Layla said. I looked at her, and she nodded at the desk. “Or maybe not mad. Just curious. He likes to see how things work.”
“Where did he get all the radios?’
“Yard sales,” she replied, plumping her pillow. “Thrift stores. The same places my mom gets all the stuff she collects. Get dragged along enough and you’ll find something you’re into. It’s inevitable. With Mac, it’s Frankenstuff.”
“Frankenwhat?”
“That’s my word for it,” she explained. “He calls it improving on design. Like you can take anything and make it work better. You just have to figure out what it needs and add it on. See that cl
ock?”
I looked where she was pointing, on the bedside table by my elbow. There sat a clock radio that, at first glance, I’d assumed was totally normal. Now that I looked more closely, though, I saw it had been retrofitted with a large circular lens that pointed straight upward, as well as a small keypad attached to the back. “Yeah,” I said slowly.
“It was great, except it always reset itself, and he wanted to have it reflect the time on the ceiling. He had another one that did that, but never brightly enough to see. So he combined them, added a custom time-setting apparatus—”
“A what?”
“His words,” she explained. “Anyway, that’s the final result. Time always right and bright as hell overhead. I told you—he’s a freak.”
I looked back at the clock, taking in the careful, neat attachment of the keypad, how the projection lens looked like it belonged there. “He’s good at it, though.”
“I know. He should totally be an engineer or build airplanes or something,” she replied. “Too bad he has a pizza future instead.”
I blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Seaside.” She adjusted the blanket, pulling it a bit to the right. “As far as my dad’s concerned, Mac will take it over, just like Dad did from my grandpa. Don’t need college to toss dough.”
“So he won’t go?”
“Doubt it.” She looked over at the desk again, all those broken pieces. “It stinks, right? That’s why I’m always telling him I should take over the business. I’m the logical choice, you know? Rosie will hopefully have her skating thing, and I’ll be thrilled when school is over. But Mac’s different. He’s always been the smart one.”
I thought of Mac, always with a textbook beside him at lunch, or while he—yes—tossed dough at Seaside. It seemed crazy to me that someone curious and driven enough to vastly improve on basic alarm clock design wouldn’t have a chance to go to college and learn how to do it on a bigger, better scale. From the start, I’d known the Chathams were different from my family. But the proof just kept coming.
Outside in the living room, it was quiet: most of the guests had left. Layla’s mom had gone to her room even earlier, about the same time Rosie and her Mariposa friends disappeared. Now I could only hear one person playing a banjo, the sound distant and plaintive.
“So, speaking of brothers . . . I read that article you sent,” she said suddenly. “About that kid. I showed it to Mac, too.”
I looked down at my hands, then said, “I was worried, sending it to you.”
“You were?”
I nodded. “I thought you guys might judge.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Everyone else did.”
“Sydney.” She said this in a way that made it clear I should look at her, so I did. “We’re not like everyone else. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
I smiled. “I’m getting an idea.”
“If it were me,” she said, shifting on the sleeping bag, “I’d want to talk to that kid. Apologize.”
“I do,” I said, surprised she’d nailed it so quickly. “But it feels selfish. Like what good could it possibly do for him? My ‘I’m sorry’ won’t bring back his legs.”
“If it were a movie,” Layla mulled, looking up at the ceiling, “you guys would become best friends, bond over some shared hobby, like, say, competitive eating, and you’d help him learn to walk again. Cue the happy ending.”
I just looked at her. “Competitive eating?”
“I only just started thinking about this movie!” she said, and I laughed. “Cut me some slack.”
We sat there for a second, the banjo outside still playing. I said, “It’s not a movie, though. And there is no happy ending. Just . . . an ending, I guess.”
Layla tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I hate when that happens,” she said softly. “Don’t you?”
Before I could answer, there was a light rapping noise on the door, and then Mac stuck his head in. “Mom’s calling for you,” he told Layla.
She immediately got to her feet. “Everything okay?”
Instead of answering, he opened the door wide and she slipped through, quickly turning down the hallway. In the living room, I could see Mr. Chatham was standing now, holding his banjo by the neck. His face was flushed, and when he saw me, I could tell for a second he had no idea who I was.
“You want some water?” Mac asked him, and he started, pulling his gaze from me.
“I can get it,” Mr. Chatham told him. He put the banjo down slowly, then took a step back from the couch. Mac glanced at me, then eased the door shut.
It felt like I sat there a long time by myself. But that alarm clock beside me only marked two full minutes before Layla returned. “Just the woozies. Nothing to worry about.”
“The woozies?”
She nodded, resuming her cross-legged position. “My mom’s on a lot of meds. It takes, like, all of us to keep track of them and how often she takes them. Sometimes when she gets overtired or has too big a night, they make her dizzy and she wakes up confused. Sometimes she calls Rosie. But tonight it was me.”
She’d left the door open behind her; the living room was empty, the coffee table cluttered with beer cans and food wrappers. “How long has she been sick?”
“Since I was in sixth grade.” She laced her fingers together, examining her nails. “It wasn’t so bad at first. She was still walking the same, bossy as ever, hitting every yard sale every Saturday morning. But it’s a progressive disease. This last year has been really hard, and it’s only going to get worse.”
“There’s not a cure?”
“Nope.” She let her hands drop. “Drugs can do a lot, but eventually it will just break her body down to the point where she can’t function. Hopefully not for a while, though.”
I’d only known this family a short time, and it was a testament to the power of Mrs. Chatham’s personality that I couldn’t imagine them without her. Like my mom, she was that center of the wheel, with everyone connected drawing strength from her. She needed a saint of her own.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah,” she replied, with the sad solidness of tone that came with the acceptance of an unpleasant fact. Even if it was just one word, you knew a million thoughts followed that were not said aloud. “Me too.”
The house was quieting now. Layla went down to her room to change into pajamas and brush her teeth, pointing me to the small bathroom where I could do the same. When I came out, there was no one around but Mac, at the coffee table with an open garbage bag, cleaning up.
“You need help?” I asked him.
“You don’t have to,” he replied.
I picked up some crumpled napkins and a couple of half-full plastic cups from a nearby end table anyway, sliding them into the bag. “Quite a party.”
“It’ll reek in the morning if I leave it like this,” he replied, tossing in a handful of bottle caps. “Plus it’ll feel like I slept in the recycling bin.”
“Sticky.”
“And stinky.” He picked up a heap of blanket, exposing one of the dogs, who snapped at him. Unfazed, he scooped it up and put it on the floor, and it slunk under the couch, glaring at us.
“Sorry about taking over your room,” I said to him.
“Not your fault.” He grabbed a stack of wet napkins, making a face. “Rosie’s always had a bit of an entitlement complex. Funny, she never ends up on the couch.”
“I told Layla I can sleep out here,” I told him. “I really don’t mind.”
“The dogs would eat you alive,” he replied.
“What?”
He smiled at the look on my face. He had a nice smile. Seeing it, I felt like I’d won a prize, because he was so sparing with them. “I’m speaking metaphorically. Although their gas does feel deadly at t
imes.”
“Who’s got gas?” Layla asked, returning from the bathroom.
“The dogs,” I told her.
“Oh, God, no kidding.” She shuddered. “Don’t ever think of letting them under your covers. You’ll dream you’re suffocating. True story. You need another garbage bag?”
Mac nodded, and she padded off to the kitchen to get one. He and I kept cleaning in companionable silence until she returned, and then we all finished the job together. By the time Mac took the other sleeping bag and pillow out to the couch and we turned out the light, it was after one a.m.
Layla insisted I sleep in the bed, even though I told her I was fine on the floor. I knew she was just being a good host. Still, knowing that this was where Mac slept was both weird and thrilling. God, I was such a nerd.
Once the lights were out, she fidgeted around, getting comfortable. “I’m a thrasher,” she’d explained to me at my house before beginning these same adjustments. “But once I’m out, I am out. If you need me for anything, kick me. Hard. Okay?”
“Will do,” I’d said. In contrast, I was lying very still, my hands crossed over my chest. I tried to picture Mac in this same place each night, looking at this same ceiling, where his hybrid alarm clock was projecting the current time very brightly onto the ceiling above us: 1:22 a.m.
“God, I hate that thing,” Layla said. By her voice, I was guessing she was already drifting off. “The last thing I want to be reminded of every single time I wake up is how much longer I have to sleep.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, though,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I take care of my mom in the mornings.” She yawned outright. “So I’m always up at six, when she is.”
“Oh. Right.”
A silence. Then she said, in a flat monotone, “One twenty-three a.m. Get to sleep, you loser. You’re already going to feel terrible tomorrow.”
I laughed, and she moved around a bit more, then told me good night. Moments afterward—but really, three minutes, at 1:26—I heard her breathing go deep and steady.
I, however, felt very awake. So at one forty-five, when someone started talking out in the living room, I heard it right away.