“I’m really sorry,” Uncle Myron said.
I said nothing. He hated my mother and knew this would happen. He must enjoy being right. We drove a few minutes in silence before Myron broke it.
“We can cancel the trip to Los Angeles, if you want.”
I thought about it. There was nothing I could do here. Christine had made it clear that she wouldn’t let me see my mother tomorrow. Plus my grandparents were already on their way out there. They wanted to see their son’s burial place. I understood that. I wanted to see it again too.
“Don’t cancel,” I said.
Myron nodded. There was no more conversation. When we got home, I hurried down to the basement, closing the door behind me. I did my homework. Mrs. Friedman had assigned us a term paper on the French Revolution. I started working on it, trying to focus hard so I could get rid of other thoughts. I lift weights four days a week but missed today, so I dropped to the floor and did three sets of sixty push-ups. It felt great. I grabbed a shower. At midnight, I climbed into bed and tried to read a book but the words just swam by in a muddy haze. I flicked off the light and sat in the darkness.
No way I was going to fall asleep.
Myron hadn’t hooked up a television down here yet. I considered going up to the den and watching SportsCenter or something, but I didn’t want to run into my uncle. I picked up my phone and texted Ashley for the umpteenth time. I watched for an answer. None came, of course. I considered telling Mr. Waters about her—but what exactly would I say? I thought about it for a few more minutes. I flipped on my laptop and started doing searches on Ashley’s “parents,” but that got me very little. Mr. Kent was indeed Dr. Kent, a cardiologist at Valley Hospital. Mrs. Kent was, per Ashley, an attorney working at a big firm in Roseland. So what?
At one A.M., my phone buzzed. I jumped for it, hoping against hope it was Ashley. It wasn’t. It was Ema: u awake?
I texted back that I was.
Ema: should we try to break into Bat Lady’s again tomorrow?
Me: Can’t. Going to L.A.
Ema: why?
And then I surprised myself and did something truly out of character. I typed the truth: Visiting my dad’s grave.
For nearly five minutes there was no answer. I started to scold myself. Who just blurts something like that? Okay, maybe it was a weak moment. It had been a horrendous, confusing, emotional day. I tried to think of what to type, how to backtrack, when another text came in.
Ema: look in your backyard
I slid out of bed and made my way to the window in the laundry room—one that faced out back. In the distance, I saw someone—I assumed it was Ema—flashing the light on her cell phone.
Me: Gimme five.
It took less. I slipped on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed into the yard. Not surprisingly, Ema was in black, fully “gothed” up in vampire mode. Her earrings had skulls and crossbones on them. The silver stud she normally wore in her eyebrow had been replaced with a silver hoop.
She jammed her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drifted toward the basketball hoop. “Must help,” she said.
“What?”
“Basketball,” Ema said. “Having a passion like that.”
“It does.” Then I asked, “Do you have one?”
“A passion?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flicked to the right. “Not really.”
“But?”
She shook her head. “This whole thing is weird.”
“What is?”
“You being nice to me.”
I sighed. “You’re not going to start that again.”
“I’m the fat outcast. You’re the new hot boy being eyed by Rachel Caldwell.”
“Rachel Caldwell? You think?”
Ema rolled her eyes. “Men.”
I almost smiled and then I remembered. It’s funny how you can let yourself forget for seconds, how even in the heat of the horrible you can have moments when you fool yourself into thinking it might all be okay.
“Listen, I’m the real outcast here,” I said. “I’m the new boy with the dead dad and junkie mom.”
“Your mom’s a junkie?”
More blurting. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Ema had moved a little closer. She stared into my eyes with the softest look.
“You better not be looking at me with pity,” I said.
She ignored my outburst. “Tell me about your mom.”
And again—don’t ask me why—I did. I’d never had a friend like her, I guess. That would be the easiest explanation. She had known that I was in trouble, and now, at one in the morning, she had made it her business to be here for me. But I think that there was something deeper at work. Ema had that way about her. She just got it. It was as though she already knew the answers and just wanted to make it better.
So I told her. I told her everything. When I finished, Ema shook her head and said, “Garlic bread. Wow.”
That was what I meant—about her getting it.
“You must be so angry,” Ema said.
I shook my head. “It’s not her fault.”
“Bull. Do you know what an enabler is?”
I did. An enabler is someone who helps a loved one act in a destructive matter. In a way, she was right. I was making excuses. But how do you make someone understand . . . ?
“If it wasn’t for having me,” I said slowly, “my mother would have been one of the greatest tennis players in the world. She would have been rich and famous instead of a widowed junkie with nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Ema said. “She has you.”
I waved her away, afraid to speak because I knew that my voice would crack.
Ema didn’t push it. Again she somehow knew that would be the wrong move. We sat outside together in silence for a few minutes. It was nearing two in the morning.
“Won’t your parents wonder where you are?” I asked.
Her face closed like a steel gate. “No.”
And now I knew not to push it. A few minutes later, we said good-bye. Once again I asked her if I could walk her home. She frowned at me. “I’m serious,” I said. “It’s late. I don’t like you walking alone. Where do you live?”
“Another time,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just . . . another time, okay?”
I wasn’t sure what else to say here, so I went with, “Okay.” Then I added, “But promise me one thing.”
Ema looked wary. “What?”
“You’ll text me when you get home.”