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  Amber knows she’s going to see him on the Mothership sometime soon and welcomes him aboard the writing staff. She wants me to checkin with the guy with the plaid T-shirt and learn about cameras, quick.

  “But I want to be a reporter.”

  “I read your articles. We could’ve had someone review the game’s statistics and come up with a more dynamic story.”

  “I was conveying the facts, the news.”

  “Being a good writer isn’t bland documenting. It’s about feeling and experiencing and dreaming and hurting. You can’t be a writer if you’ve never felt pain. Have you ever cried in your whole life?”

  How can I tell her I hurt all the time? I’ve become a master at hiding it.

  “You want to prove you’re a writer? Prove you can feel something.”

  Amber says it, but she doesn’t believe I can do it.

  “You come up with a story you want me to write, I’ll make sure you feel something or I’ll stay out of your way.”

  She pauses, obviously trying to come up with a challenging assignment.

  “I know. How about a story exploring people’s reactions to a guy crying... in public.”

  Sweet. This will be a cakewalk. All I have to do is find some wimp loser, set up the location and bingo, I’m on the paper.

  “No problem.”

  “And not just any guy. A big tough jock-o… You. Prove to me you have the soul of a writer.”

  6

  Will

  I roll over, reach for Dad’s beat-up travel alarm. It’s still dark out, but I can’t see the hands on the clock because they don’t glow anymore. Doesn’t matter that I can’t see the clock, I know where it is. It’s been next to my bed for the last seven, eight months. Mom said I could pick something from the box the hotel in Afghanistan sent to us, stuff that was found in Dad’s room. When it’s quiet, I can hear the clock tick like a heartbeat. It’s one of the only things I like about this place.

  I dig underneath the covers, fish out my iPad. My room is so small, the screen’s light illuminates everything. I have the same amount of junk, just half the space. It’s like being inside a stuffed Christmas stocking, only there’s hardly any room for a foot, much less a body. The walls are the only place with space. I haven’t hung anything up yet, doing that would admit to Mom I’m willing to stay here. I can do blank for a while.

  I check out the news online. Nothing super big happened last night so I log into my e-mail. It’s mostly junk mail, which I hate. When I’ve been away for eight hours, and people on the East Coast have been up for at least three, I can’t understand why there isn’t something important to tell. Wait, there’s an e-mail from Amber.

  Will – You want to be a reporter for real?

  Meet me before school 7:15 at the mini-mart by school.

  How did she get my e-mail? Bet she thinks she was clever. Yeah, like it’s so hard to Google me. I hope she didn’t look too far down the search results and see anything about Dad. That’s my choice to tell, or not. Mom knocks on my bedroom door.

  “Do not open the door.”

  “Are you finished in the bathroom?”

  She does this all the time, she knows I never go into the bathroom this early. I don’t answer. She’ll figure it out. Finally, I hear her slippers shuffle down the hall. I look at the clock. It’s almost seven. I’m going to be late.

  I hop in the shower and as I’m washing my hair, the water turns frigid. I bang on the wall, the water heats up again and I rinse off the shampoo. Finding no towels, I manage to dry myself with the T-shirt and boxers I wore to bed last night. I’m dressed and out the door in five minutes.

  As I pass the basketball court, the guys from the varsity team call out.

  “C’mon, Will. We only got five today, you play, we can do three-on-three.”

  “Gotta be somewhere.”

  They’re all looking at me, the new guy, like if I don’t play right here, right now, then I might as well never walk onto the court again.

  “Nothing’s more important than basketball.”

  Wrong.

  The varsity team turns its backs on me, the captain tosses the ball to Jake Jenkins, who jumps at the chance. I get the message, I can be replaced, even by guys who aren’t as good.

  I keep going. I’m already sweating. Sometimes I forget I live in the desert until I take a shortcut through the arroyo. It’s the West Coast version of a dry riverbed that only has water running through it for like a couple hours a year. No joke. I was actually warned to keep out of the wash when it rains because the water runs so fast, it’ll sweep you away. To where, I have no idea. I hear there’s an L.A. River somewhere but I have yet to find it. Anywhere would be better than here. The arroyo is the first place I’m headed if we ever get a storm.

  I can’t believe how warm it gets here so early. At least if there were dew, it’d keep all the dust from blowing into my eyes. Back in Pennsylvania, I’d be able to see frost on the grass. I wish I realized it was going to be this warm, I wouldn’t have worn a sweatshirt. Not that I’m complaining. I’m not. Amber thinks she can break me, but she doesn’t know. Takes a lot more than getting up early to beat me. Last February, I spent nearly every waking hour outdoors when I found out Dad was missing. Ten days straight, I couldn’t sleep, eat, sit still. So I’d get up and start shooting hoops in my driveway. Neighbors didn’t like it, but what were they going to say? They felt bad. I could see them peering through their windows, watching, worrying. I had this routine, this game I played where I told myself if I made the next basket, the phone would ring and Dad would be rescued and on the next flight home from Afghanistan. Made me feel like I was doing something, even though I wasn’t. The times I missed the shot, I changed the rules to best-out-of-three, six-out-of-ten, 26-out-of-50, 81-out-of-160 until it got dark and I couldn’t lift my arms. When the call finally came telling Mom a body had been found and asking if Dad had a birthmark shaped like a hand print on his lower back, it didn’t matter I was on a winning streak. Basketball doesn’t matter anymore.

  At my new school, thousands of miles away from my old house, people don’t know who I am. My first week here, some guy asked if I wanted to jump in a pick-up game. What was I going to say? That I couldn’t because the last time I touched a ball, I found out my dad was dead along the road far away from home? That he was dumped naked as a show of disrespect? No way. It’s easier to go along, so I play ball. If I can suffer through that, there’s no way Amber’s going to break me.

  I get to the mini-mart. She’s not here. This is ridiculous. I could be sleeping. Finally, she’s here, riding her bike. Hold on, she’s got a camera. Didn’t know there’d be pictures.

  “Ready for your close up?”

  She grabs the camera by the big lens, totally knowing what she’s doing.

  “Why aren’t you the paper’s photographer?”

  “Because I’m the editor. I tell everyone else how to do their jobs better. This year’s paper is going to win awards. You want to be part of my team, show me you can deliver.”

  She looks at my face. I know it’s blank, devoid of emotion. I worked hard to get it that way this past year.

  “I’m giving you 15 minutes. I don’t see obvious tears streaming down your face in front of big burly guys, I’m out of here.”

  “Give me a second to get in the mood.”

  “Sure you can do this, because if not...”

  I stare her down. Amber slinks off to her position, crouching in the bushes. I hope it’s disgusting. I see people walk their dogs there, flick butts in the bushes before they pump gas. She’s not looking now. I turn away, pull out a mini bottle of hot sauce. My dad told me American soldiers were given hot sauce in their rations back in World War I, but the Army stopped because instead of putting it on food, they used it to keep their eyes open on patrol late at night. A few drops every 15 minutes kept them in pain, but awake, ready to fight.

  Hot sauce scorches. When I was little, my dad and I had this crazy coyote con
test to see who could go the longest without downing something icy cool as hot sauce dripped on our tongues. We’d be howling, panting, trying not to drink, even though that doesn’t help, you have to eat rice or yogurt to stop the fire. Learned that on a trip to Thailand with my dad. There they call it Sriracha, their version of hot sauce. I keep a bottle of the Thai stuff in my desk, sometimes I stare at it when I’m home alone. I shake the hot sauce I'm palming a couple of times, drop some on my thumb.

  “It’s nasty back here. Hurry up.”

  I rub my thumb against both eyes, it hurts. At first, it burns so much I swear my eyeballs are going to flame. It’s a zillion times worse than when sweat gets in your eyes on the court and you can’t see. It feels better when I open my eyes, let the tears run. Okay, I’m ready.

  I sit on the curb near the door to the store. A man with a cane lumbers out of his Buick to pay for his gas. He sees I’m crying. Coughs so he has an excuse to look away. I hear Amber’s camera clicking away. One down.

  Two girls park their Prius. One with black-and-blue shins sees me on the curb and smiles, doesn’t even flinch as she passes me and ducks inside for smokes. That wasn’t so bad. Maybe she’s a field hockey player, who has been bashed in a game and let some tears roll. The cute girl sits in the car changing the music when her cell pings with a text. It’s from the bruised one, who tells her about me, the guy crying on the curb. The cute one gawks like she’s behind tinted glass and I can’t see her. I hear the bruised one laughing in the mart. Great. Amber’s camera clicks like crazy. Today’s going to be a long day.

  A mom walks by with her kid. He sees I’m crying. He points as they approach, looks to her for an explanation. She rushes him inside. A minute later, the manager comes out of the store.

  “You can’t sit there. You’re blocking the entrance.”

  I’m not. I’m off to the side. But I slide over a little.

  “I’ll give you the key to the washroom. Just go.”

  I slide over again. The manager is not pleased, but what can he do? He disappears back inside the mart. As the mom and boy leave, she body blocks him from seeing me. The boy sneaks a look as she drags him to their car.

  My nose is running, which always happens when I cry. Not that I’d know what it feels like. I haven’t cried since I was five. Last year at the funeral, everyone stared at me. Mom worried I didn’t cry. She did enough for both of us. Now she tries to hide her tears, but I can still hear her, especially at night.

  A Los Angeles Globe truck driver parks his rig by one of the pumps. As he tosses a newspaper bundle onto the ground, he spots me and shoots a disgusted look, like he’s pissed I’m crying. I’m ruining his day. One of the stacks lands inches from my feet. That was on purpose.

  I look at Amber, that’s got to be enough. Crap, my vision is blurry again. I keep hearing clicking, but can’t tell if it’s the sound of Amber taking pictures or someone walking by in high heels. Then I hear the trucker’s voice.

  “Loser.”

  I look up, he’s bigger up close than I thought.

  “Didn’t your father teach you how to be a man?”

  “Go to hell.”

  I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth. I also don’t see the punch, the one that clocks me in the jaw. Not a smart idea to fight if you can’t see clearly. I try to throw a couple punches back, but I don’t hit his face, only his massive hands, which block mine from landing anything. Next thing I know, he’s picking me up. He’s going to dump me into a giant garbage bin. I try to wrestle myself away from him, experiment or not, I’m not going to be garbage. There’s a limit. The manager comes racing out of the mini-mart to help.

  “See what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

  He stands there and watches. That was helping? I can’t believe the manager isn’t trying to stop the trucker, who flings me through the air like a piece of furniture. Fortunately – or unfortunately – there’s no trash in there so I land with a thud on the metal floor. Being in here is way worse than anything you’d ever find in the bushes. I clamor out as fast as I can. The manager points his finger at me.

  “You better not have dented it, these are really expensive, not for playing around.”

  He must’ve had a tough life if he thinks that was fun in any way.

  “You cause any more trouble, I’m gonna have to call the cops.”

  I ignore him, walk over to one of the gas pumps, snag some paper towels, wipe off my hands. Then I sit back down in the same spot in front of the mini-mart.

  I’m going to be on The Spectator. Even if it kills me. I rub more hot sauce on my fingers, rub it in my eyes and lean over, scrunching my eyes as the tears start to flow.

  7

  Sasha

  My mom wanted to drive me to school this morning, but I left before she finished dressing. I didn’t want to be stuck in a car with her, and since my dad had already left for work, the only other option was my brother’s truck. Plus, this way I can stop at the mini-mart on the way and get some soda. I’m trying not to eat so much. If I’m going to make people notice me, it’ll be easier if there’s less of me. I know that sounds kind of backwards, but it’s true.

  My stomach grumbles as I see the store farther up the road. Maybe I should buy a breakfast bar, too, so I don’t pig out at lunch.

  Will’s sitting in front of the store. Do I have to say hi? He doesn’t even know who I am. Wait a minute. He’s crying. I try not to stare. Some rude girl is staring and giving him a face, like he should stop it right now. I don’t think he should stop. If you have to cry, you should cry. I hide it all the time, going into the bathroom stall and trying not to breathe too hard so people can’t hear I’m upset. I can’t control crying. I wish I could. I don’t cry when I’m sad, that wouldn’t be as bad. I cry when I’m mad so at the precise moment I want someone to listen and take me seriously, all they see is some hysterical teenage girl crying, and they don’t hear anything I have to say. Maybe it’s not mad, but frustrated at not being heard. So I cry and give them an excuse not to listen. Then I’m even more pissed, so I cry harder.

  But he doesn’t look angry or frustrated. He looks sad. Like a normal person who cries when they're sad.

  I wonder why he’s sad. He’s cute, popular, he can even shoot a ball. Not that I care, but the rest of the world seems to think that’s worth something.

  I wonder what happened. Maybe his dog got hit by a car, or a girl broke his heart. Some girl back home sent him a Dear John letter because she didn’t want to do the long-distance relationship thing. No, that can’t be it. Never seems like he has enough heart to break.

  I know that sounds stupid since I’ve been almost stalking the guy. But just because I lust after someone doesn’t mean I like them. I assumed he was a dumb jock. It’s got to be his dog. But he lives across from school and I walk by his house every day. I’ve never heard a big dog bark or one of those annoying little dogs yip. So why is he crying?

  A guy walked by and I swear it looked like he was going to spit on Will. He didn’t, he spit on the ground, but Will saw. I can’t ignore him. But, hello, this is me. I’m incapable of walking up to him and asking if he’s okay.

  A tear actually fell onto his leg. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so sexy. What am I going to do? If I go up to him, he’ll think I'm flirting and then I’ll just die.

  No. I won’t die. If I didn’t die lying in my brother’s pickup under the semi when I couldn't breathe and then I saw the blood and realized it was mine and realized I could breathe, but it was too fast and I might hyperventilate, if I didn’t die in the ambulance when my whole body started to tingle in waves and I tried to remember if people having heart attacks felt only their left arm tingle or their whole body, if I didn’t die when the paramedic claimed he couldn’t find a pulse and he didn’t care that I was sitting right there and could hear him and I was sure that alone would scare me to death, then I will not die if I sit next to him.

  So what am I afraid of, what
is the worst-case scenario? He laughs at me. Someone else sees us and laughs and I become the big joke at school. The geek who thought she could talk to the dude. So what. He’s crying and maybe I can help him. Everyone in the hospital said I was good at listening. One-on-one, I’m pretty good with people, at least I was in the hospital where everyone was damaged.

  They all felt bad for me because my brother was a criminal who put his sister in danger and she ended up hurt, and that made them feel superior and empowered and just plain better. So seeing me now has got to make him feel better. Because we all know he’s superior.

  Here I go. Walking toward him, not looking at him, of course, but I think he sees me.

  Well now, he definitely sees me because I’m sitting right next to him. I stare straight ahead so I don’t have to look at him. I guess I should say something. I hold out a bag of nuts.

  “Want some?”

  Will grabs a handful and chews. It drives me crazy at home when my mom chews loudly. I can’t stand it. But he chews nice. Even when he uses his sweatshirt to wipe his nose, which is running because he was crying, I still don’t think it’s gross. We’ve all done it before. His sweatshirt arms are frayed. I wonder what it would be like to wear his sweatshirt. I’ve got to stop thinking in my head. It’s weird if I don't say something.

  “I’m really good at keeping secrets. And it would take a lot to shock me. So if you want to talk about something, just to get it out there... Sometimes in your head things seem worse than they do when you tell someone else.”

  Did that make any sense?

  “Some things suck no matter what.”

  “But you can use the bad to make things better.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to use anything. There is such a thing as respect for...”

  He doesn’t finish. He didn’t get what I was trying to say and now I’ve made things worse. He’s not crying, but he looks physically crushed, like there’s a semi on top of him.

  “I just meant, something pretty awful happened to me, and I could have just laid there and given in, but it made me get up and look at everything differently.”