But Bram Says
It’s not really so long,
so I go ahead and tell it.
Cat whistles. That’s bad.
I think your brother’s in
need of an intervention.
What’s that? asks Bram.
It means getting involved
to try to change things
before it’s too late.
“Too late to what?”
Turn back around. Like Mateo.
“But your mom thinks
he can turn back around.”
She shrugs. Maybe, maybe
not. If she really believes it,
she’s fooling herself, and I
doubt she does. But she refuses
to give up on him. Yet.
“Did you give up on him?”
She looks away. I had to.
I couldn’t be sad every day.
Her Words Sink In
As I bike home.
Pedal
I
Pedal
couldn’t
Pedal
be
Pedal
sad
Pedal
every
Pedal
day.
Cat gave up
on Mateo.
Pedal
I
Pedal
don’t
Pedal
want
Pedal
to
Pedal
give
Pedal
up
Pedal
on
Pedal
Will.
He doesn’t care.
Pedal
. . . your
Pedal
brother’s
Pedal
in
Pedal
need
Pedal
of
Pedal
an
Pedal
intervention.
I don’t want to
push too hard.
Pedal
If
Pedal
I
Pedal
do,
Pedal
what
Pedal
if
Pedal
he
Pedal
just
Pedal
disappears?
Home Again
Alone again,
I text Dad.
Hey, Dad?
I need a new glove
or I can’t play Sat.
Now I shower, change
clothes, go find something
to microwave for dinner.
I’m halfway through
my chicken Alfredo
when I get a text
back from Dad.
Where’s your old glove?
Don’t know.
Looked all over
but couldn’t find it.
Left it somewhere?
I thought about
that answer with hot
water streaming
through my shampooed
hair and down my back.
If I said Will took it,
he’d only deny it, and
everything would blow up.
Last time
that happened,
Will took off.
What if this time
he doesn’t come back?
It would be my fault.
No, I have to figure
out how to fix
things myself.
Then it’s your responsibility
to pay for a new one.
I was afraid
he’d say that.
A decent glove
is at least fifty dollars.
I don’t have enough money.
Where’s your savings?
Oh, man. Now what?
Quick. Think fast!
I loaned most of it to Bram.
He’d better pay you back.
And I hope you’ve learned
a lesson. Darn shame, too.
The autograph and all.
Sure, Rub It In
So, what now?
I can tell Will
he’d better pay me back
or else I’ll tell Dad he took
my money and my glove.
But if the reason he took
it is that he needed
even more money,
I’m sure it’s gone already.
I can talk to Mr. Cobb
about doing some chores.
But he lives on a “fixed
income,” which means
he doesn’t have much money
and can only pay me
three bucks an hour.
There won’t be time to save
up enough before Saturday.
Still, I wash my fork
and glass, toss
the microwavable container
in the trash, go next door.
Mr. Cobb is sitting on
his front porch, staring
at the darkening sky.
“Hey, Mr. C. What’s up?”
Not much at the moment.
Sit down for a spell.
What can I do for you?
“I was hoping maybe
you had some work for me . . .”
I tell him what I need
without mentioning Will.
Hmm. As a rule, baseball gloves
don’t walk off on their own.
“Yeah. It’s kind of weird.”
I wish I could lend you the money
and let you work it off, but
my retirement check doesn’t
get here until the first of the month.
“That’s okay. I still need
to save up for a new one.”
You come on over after school
tomorrow. Weeds are not
in short supply around here.
Oh, and the ivy needs attention.
Ugh. That’s one of the worst
jobs. Lots of bugs in the ivy.
But if it needs to be done, I’ll do it.
I Should Go Do My Homework
But it’s kind of nice
having someone to talk to.
It gets lonely at home.
“Hey, Mr. Cobb. Do you
have a brother?”
No. A sister. Why?
“Did you ever have to
worry about her?”
He laughs kind of quietly.
Not really. I think she had
to worry about me, though.
“How come?”
I was a . . . I guess you could
call me a troublemaker.
“Really?”
He nods. A regular rebel.
As far as I was concerned,
rules did not apply to me.
Ended up I had a choice:
go to jail or join the army.
I figured Vietnam was better
than lockup, but it was
its own kind of prison.
“You were in that war?”
I’ve heard of it but don’t
know much about it.
“What was it like?”
He goes back to staring
at the sky, which is now
decorated with stars.
The air was suffocating—hot,
wet, and it carried th
e smell
of jungle and sweat and rot.
They told us fear was our friend,
which would’ve been good
if I needed a buddy. I didn’t.
I was nineteen, and figured
every day would be my last.
I sure didn’t want to die,
but death was always close by.
The hair on the back
of my neck prickles.
You want to know the most
ironic thing about that?
The military in general, and
war in particular, are all about
rules. I learned to respect them.
All I can say is “Wow.”
I Start to Get Up
But Mr. Cobb stops me.
Hold on a minute.
You’re worried about
your brother, aren’t you?
What is he, psychic?
But I have no reason
not to say, “Yeah.”
Do you think he had
something to do with
your glove disappearing?
It’s embarrassing,
but, “Probably.”
Have you told your dad?
Even more
embarrassing. “No.”
Why not?
“I don’t . . .” But I do know.
“It’s just, when Dad gets mad
at Will, they fight, and . . .
I don’t want them to get hurt.”
He’s quiet for a minute,
like he’s trying to find
the right words.
I see. You’re a good boy,
Trace. You love your brother
and want to protect him.
But here’s the deal, and I
hope you’ll think about it.
Looking back, I wish
I would’ve talked to my parents
about the stuff I was struggling
with. Things might have gone
a whole lot differently.
Parents.
Hang on.
I have two.
“Okay. I get it. Thanks,
Mr. Cobb . . .”
Wait.
“You won’t say anything
to Dad, right?”
Not if you don’t want me to.
But you really should.
Will’s Home
When I get back.
I can hear him clunking
around in the kitchen,
fixing something to eat.
I march right up to him,
stick my face three inches
away from his.
“Where’s my glove?”
What glove?
“Don’t even! Why did
you take it? I can’t play
without a glove, Will.”
Why do you think I took it?
“Because the last time
I saw it, you were holding it.”
Anger flashes in his eyes.
Is that what you told Dad?
“No. I covered for you,
don’t ask me why. I told
him I left it somewhere.”
Okay. Good. I don’t need
trouble with Dad.
“What about trouble with me?
I need a glove before Saturday.
What happened to mine?”
Will puts a take-and-bake
pizza in the oven.
I’m supposed to stick to
the microwave, but Dad
says Will’s mature enough
to bake stuff without
burning down the house.
I kind of doubt it.
Finally, he says, Okay, look.
I took it to show a friend.
A gasp of hope.
“So, it’s in your car?”
Well, no. I forgot to lock
my car and someone took it.
“You mean, stole it.”
Yeah. That’s where I went
after school today. To try
and get it back. I thought
I knew who had it, but no.
His Story
Makes sense.
Sort of.
I think it’s a lie.
But even if it’s not,
he still took my glove
and now I don’t have one.
“You already owed me
money. Now you owe
me a glove, too. Dad says
it’s my responsibility,
but the truth is, it’s yours.”
I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make
things right as soon as I can,
but right now, I’m broke.
How is that possible?
The buzzer goes off,
and Will pulls his pizza
out of the oven, takes it
over to the table.
Want some?
“Nah. I already ate.”
He digs in, slurping the sauce
and making a bunch of other
gross eating sounds.
“You’re disgusting.”
Yeah, but everything tastes
better when some of it
leaks out of your mouth.
That makes no sense.
Nothing he does makes
sense anymore. But as I study
him, something strikes me.
His face hasn’t twitched
once since I got all up in it.
Come to think of it,
it’s been a while since
I’ve noticed the tic
that used to be so obvious.
Also, though I saw a quick
flash of rage earlier, lately
he hasn’t seemed so mad
at the universe all the time.
“I’m going to do my homework.”
Good plan. I mean,
I’m Working
On my Greek myth
when my phone buzzes.
It’s a number I don’t recognize,
but I pick up anyway.
Will taught me how to prank
sales calls, which I only
get once in a while,
by pretending I’m old
and senile, or a serial killer.
Or both.
I’m kind of looking forward
to that, so I answer in
a crotchety voice,
“Who’s there? Is that
you, Martha?”
There’s a long silence
on the other end.
But then, Trace?
It’s a girl. That’s new. “Cat?”
Yeah.
Weird. “How did you
get my number?”
From Bram. Duh.
Bram. Right. Double
duh. “What’s going on?”
I was wondering what your dad
said about your glove.
“He said it was up to me
to replace it. I can’t by Saturday.”
I was afraid of that. Did you
ask your brother about it?
“Yeah. He said someone
stole it out of his car.”
She pauses, then mumbles
something to someone not me.
Nicolás says you should check
out the pawnshops.
“Good idea. They’d probably
want me to buy it back, though.
Which still doesn’t help much.”
We’ll figu
re something out.
See you tomorrow.
Pawnshops
Are places you go when
you need money fast.
Vegas is crawling with them,
mostly because of the casinos.
Dad says gambling can be fun
for some people, but for others
it’s an addiction. Even after
losing a whole lot of money,
they believe just one more bet
will win it all back and then
they’ll get rich. Dad also says
they didn’t build those giant
casinos by giving money away.
Anyway, if people need cash
fast, they take valuables
like jewelry or electronics
into a pawnshop, which gives
them a small fraction of what
those things are worth.
Then the pawnshop sells
them for a lot more.
Now, a used baseball glove
wouldn’t be worth a lot all
on its own, but it would be with
a Victor Sánchez autograph.
So Much for My Myth
My brain has wandered
out of Greece, off the page,
and on to other things.
Will.
Gloves.
Pawnshops.
Casinos.
Dad.
Lily.
Mom.
The last hits me like a fist.
It’s only been, like, a couple
of weeks since we talked,
but why hasn’t she called
to check up on Will?
Called.
That works two ways.
Why haven’t I called her?
I look at the clock.
8:16 p.m. Pacific.
I have no idea what time
zone she’s in, or what
she’s up to right now.
I wouldn’t want to bother . . .
Hold On
If a call from me
bothers her,
that’s her problem,
not mine.
I could text her.
But I want her to hear
my voice on the message
I’m asked to leave.
“Hey, Mom.
It’s Trace.
We haven’t talked
since I called you
about Will.
“I thought maybe
you’d care enough
to see how he’s doing.
Not good, by the way.
“If it’s late where
you are, I’m sorry.
I don’t want to bug you,
but I just need to know.
“Are you there?
Are you okay?
Are you alive?”
I Don’t Expect