That’s not why he’s suspended.
“Well, it was one day, and
he told me he was sick, and
he did puke in the parking lot, and—”
I never heard anything about
him getting sick and leaving school.
Yeah, that’s what I figured.
But I’m not going to say so.
“Sorry. Thought you knew.”
Hey, Trace. Anytime you think
there’s a problem, whether
with Will or with you, please
come to me, okay? I can’t fix
anything if I’m left in the dark.
I’m Starting to Think
I can’t fix everything
all on my own. That maybe
it might take Dad and me
working together.
Suddenly, I remember
that Will interrupted me
that day I wanted to ask
Dad about his medications.
“Hey, Dad. You know when
we talked about the pills Will takes?”
He nods. For his depression.
“What about the other ones?”
What other ones?
“The pain pills he takes.”
You mean like aspirin?
“No. I don’t know what
they are, except not aspirin.”
His only meds I’m aware
of are the antidepressants.
What makes you think
he takes pain pills?
“I saw them. That day
he got the ticket. He told
me they’re for the awful
headaches he gets sometimes.”
Dad gives a low whistle,
and his forehead creases.
I know he used to get headaches,
but he hasn’t said anything about
them lately. Are you sure about this?
“One hundred percent!”
It’s been a while since he’s
seen his doctor, too. Guess I’d
better make an appointment.
Thanks for the nudge, Trace.
“I just want him to be
okay. And I don’t want
you to be in the dark.”
That makes two of us, son.
But the Reason
It’s going to be hard
becomes clear before long.
We’re almost home
when Dad spies Will
walking in that direction.
He pulls against the sidewalk.
Want a ride?
Will looks confused.
Spacy, even. His eyes
are unfocused, and it seems
to take several seconds
for him to recognize us.
Dad checks him out,
and I think he understands
that this is the Will I worry about.
Will? You solid?
Sure, Dad.
Great. So do you want a ride
or don’t you? PS: Say okay.
Uh . . . I guess so.
Will slides into the back seat,
slumps, closes his eyes.
Dad looks in the rearview
mirror and takes note.
We had sushi for dinner, he says.
Missed you being there.
It’s okay. I’m not hungry.
Headache?
Pretty sure Will’s glaring
at the back of my skull.
Not at the moment, he says.
Why haven’t you mentioned
them? They’re worrisome.
No big deal. I’ve got them
under control.
“Will! You said—”
You keep out of this or I’ll—
That’s enough, Will, barks Dad.
We’ll get you in to see your doctor.
Meanwhile, what about these
pain pills Trace mentioned?
Will snorts. You mean Motrin?
You Can Buy
Motrin at the store.
It’s sort of like aspirin.
I don’t think that’s what
I saw in the prescription
bottle with Will’s antidepressants.
But I’m pretty sure
Will’s already mad at me,
so I keep my mouth shut.
Besides, how would
I really know?
Well, please be careful, says
Dad. Too much of that stuff
can mess up your gut.
We wouldn’t want that.
Will’s snarky comeback.
His arms tense and his hands
tighten around the steering wheel.
Where have you been, by the way?
Nowhere. Walking around.
For almost three hours?
Better than arguing with you.
Which Leads To
An awful argument
as soon as they get home.
They’re barely across
the threshold when
Dad throws the first
grenade, which happens
to be about ditching school.
I hear you think attending
school is discretionary. It’s not.
I suffer Will’s evil stare,
but as soon as he launches
his counterattack, I decide
I don’t want to listen.
My brother has a big mouth.
I don’t suppose he told you
I was feeling sick that day?
Why didn’t you go to the nurse?
Or at least let the office know?
I didn’t think they’d want
me to puke all over their floor.
I rush down the hall
to my room. Close the door.
Turn on my music.
Plug in my headphones.
That mostly disguises
their ugly words until
they move into the hall
outside my bedroom
and yell so loudly
that not even heavy
metal can drown
them all the way out.
It’s like a tennis match
of words, and not nice ones.
thoughtless
selfish
incorrigible
heartless
punk
idiot
It goes on for a very
long time, and it’s almost
enough to make me want
to escape out my window.
It’s Gray Outside
When I wake the next morning.
Spring rain is rare in Vegas,
but it sure looks like the skies
might open up and pour.
It hasn’t started yet, though,
so I jump up and get dressed.
No one’s in the kitchen,
and I doubt Dad or Will
would care if I skip breakfast.
I leave a note on the counter:
Doing chores for Mr. Cobb.
It’s not quite eight, and he
might be asleep, but I know
where the garden tools are.
I’m only a little surprised
to find him drinking coffee
on his front porch. “Morning!
Figured I’d better get to work
in case it decides to rain.”
Sure looks like it could.
Wouldn’t that be a blessi
ng?
Even the clouds are a blessing
because it’s not too hot.
Still, the work is hard, and
before too long I’m sweating.
After an Hour or So
Mr. Cobb brings me a cold
tumbler of water.
Thought you could use this.
I gulp down half the glass,
and he looks over the large
pile of weeds I’ve pulled.
You’re doing good work, son.
“Thanks. Hey, Mr. C. I’ve been
thinking . . .” I have, actually.
About Mateo and Will, and
what might happen to them.
“You know when you went
to Vietnam? I know the war
was bad, but was there anything
good about joining the army?”
Well, yes. I trained to be a medic.
My job was to keep fallen soldiers
alive until the evac helicopters
could arrive and get them out.
After the war, the army put me
through college and helped
me become a civilian nurse.
“You were a nurse?”
He laughs. Oh, yes. A good
one, too. Maybe not as pretty
as some of the lady nurses.
But that was my job for thirty
years. My Leona was a nurse, too.
In fact, we met at the hospital
where we both were employed.
As some people say, the good
Lord works in mysterious ways.
I don’t know about that,
but if it’s even a possibility,
I sure hope the good Lord’s
mysterious ways can help
my brother. Mateo, too.
I go back to work.
The weed pile grows.
Next, I clip back the ivy
where it crawls too close
to the grass. I’m still trimming
when it starts to rain.
Fat drops soak the soil,
and I smell wet desert.
People who don’t know
what that means should.
It means life.
I Learned That
From Dad, and I remember
exactly when he told me.
It was the night Will got hurt.
We were at the hospital,
and he and I took a little walk
outside. The moon was almost
hidden by a big bank of clouds.
Looks like it’s going to rain,
Dad said. Smell it coming?
I sniffed the air, which
was thick with moisture.
That’s really obvious
in the bone-dry desert.
“Yeah. It’s almost here.”
Your grandma Isabel
always said rain is life.
I grew up on a farm
in Minnesota, as you know.
We relied on rain to make
our fields grow, and that corn
and wheat and beans fed people.
Drought years decimated crops.
When I was little, I used to wonder
how many other kids went hungry
when the rain didn’t come.
That was the first time
I really thought about food
in the grocery store being grown
somewhere like Minnesota.
It was probably the first time
I pictured Dad as a boy, too.
I knew about the farm, but
he hardly ever talked about it,
or his mother, who gave him
his “Puerto Rican good looks.”
“Do you miss Grandma Isabel?”
Sure. She was my mom.
How could I not miss her?
Now, she wasn’t real happy
about me throwing my stuff
in a backpack and moving
out here to Vegas. She swore
I’d come running home in a month.
“But you didn’t.”
No. I’ve never regretted that.
But I do wish I’d gone back
to visit more before she passed.
You always think you’ll have
plenty of time, but sometimes
life throws you curveballs.
That Made Me Sad Then
And it makes me sad now.
Because it reminds
me of Mom.
I don’t guess Will and I
are going to die anytime
soon, but what if one of us
did, and she never came
to visit before it happened?
Would she even feel bad?
Would she wish she’d made
different decisions?
What if something bad
happened to her?
It isn’t my choice
not to see her.
She’s the one
who’s staying away.
What if she died today?
I’d be crushed
because I love her.
But I think I’d hate
her just a little.
And I’m not sure
I could ever forgive her.
The Rain Starts to Fall Harder
I keep working until
I’m soaked and my muscles
are tired of squatting
and pulling and carrying
sopping piles of yard
waste to the compost bin.
Finally, Mr. Cobb calls me
over to the porch. Guess
he doesn’t want to get wet.
It’s past lunchtime, and you
look like you could use dry
clothes. Here’s an IOU until
my check gets here.
I look at the piece of paper.
“Thirty dollars?”
That’s more than usual.
You deserve it.
I don’t guess Will would
borrow an IOU, but when
Mr. C gives me the money,
I’ll need a new place to stash it.
I’ll have to think about that.
Now go on. Get some lunch.
But first, change your clothes.
You don’t want to get sick.
I Don’t Get Sick
Which is good, because the next
few weeks are really busy.
Little League ramps up
because the season will
end soon, and we want
to play in the regionals.
We’re practicing extra.
Working twice as hard.
And it’s really, really hot.
But no one complains.
In school, it’s year-end
testing, which isn’t too bad.
I know most of the answers,
think I’ll earn high scores.
Cat and I have built our robot.
One of the challenges at the big
event requires throwing
objects at targets, which
is exactly what we designed
our Strike ’Em Out bot to do.
The trick now is getting
the programming exactly
right, and that’s what we’re
currently working on.
I’m glad Cat’s my partner.
She’s super good at this.
At Home
Things have been mostly
qui
et, at least when
it comes to Will.
No fights.
No arguments.
No real trouble.
He’s been good
about transportation.
Hasn’t made me late.
Hasn’t left me stranded.
I also doubt in all this time
he’s said more than a hundred
words altogether to Dad and me.
He hangs out in his room.
Plays video games, and
sometimes I hear him talking
on his phone. Not sure to who.
He’s easier to get along with
mostly because he avoids
confrontation.
But I don’t think
that makes him
all right.
What Really Worries Me
Is the rafting trip.
Not the trip itself.
I can hardly wait!
But the way Will refuses
to participate in the planning.
It’s so fun!
Dad and Lily have made
a big list of stuff we’ll need.
We don’t have to worry
about things like tents
or sleeping bags. The tour
company provides them.
But we’ll want
to bring
sunscreen
swim shirts and shorts
beach towels
reading materials
seasick patches
UV-resistant sunglasses
straps for our sunglasses
waterproof bags for our
phones
towels
extra clothes
prescriptions
Prescriptions. Yeah.
But Even
If Will doesn’t care
about any of that,
he should be interested
in the videos Lily shares.
Most are of the Colorado
above where we’ll actually be,
but man, are they thrilling!
One day, I’ll do those crazier
stretches of the river, too.
We’re actually lucky
because we live in Vegas.
Most people who run the Colorado
down the Grand Canyon
have to make their way
to Las Vegas first.
This is where most river-
rafting trips begin and finish.
The tour companies
pick you up at a Vegas hotel.
Then you drive or fly
to the far end, where
you “embark.”
That means get on
board the raft.