Just One of the Guys. Kristan Higgins
a ten, by the way. A six and a half? Come on! You look like Mel Gibson!”
“Ew.”
“Well, okay, not the drunken, sun-damaged mug shot Mel. Young, wholesome Mel. Road Warrior Mel. You’re a good-looking guy, Mattie.”
“Well, you know, it’s weird to fill out all that stuff,” he says. “I do meet plenty of women, but you know. Haven’t met the right one. I figured I could cut through some crap. This single thing’s getting old. I don’t want to live with my sister for the rest of my life. No offense, Chas.”
“None taken,” I say. “Well, I’ll keep my eye out for you. And you do the same for me, okay?”
“Sure. Not that I know anyone I’d actually fix you up with, Chas. All I know are firefighters, and you don’t want to end up like Mom, do you?”
“Mom has twenty-three hits on her profile, Matt. And she just registered an hour ago.”
“Jeez! I only got fourteen all day. How many did you get?”
“Once you upgrade that attractiveness level, you’ll have more,” I answer, craftily ignoring his question. “Gotta go. Elaina’s over and she just made dinner.”
“Don’t tell her about this! And save some food for me.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.” Checking once more to see if I got any more hits—I don’t—I sigh, my humor evaporating. I’ve been registered for forty minutes now. Mom had twenty-three hits in that time…I’ve had one, and it’s from a blood relative.
“Come on. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Elaina says from the doorway. “Everything’s better after a quesadilla.”
I sign off the computer, and for the briefest second, I let myself recall Trevor’s voice. Then I shake my head and join my friend for dinner.
Chapter Five
WHEN TREVOR’S SISTER DIED, she and I were both ten years old.
Her family had moved to our town while I was in fourth grade. Michelle was a pale girl with pretty, dark hair. Being a well-dressed new kid had ensured her popularity, and for the first month, she was surrounded by admirers who wanted to hear all about the glamour of Springfield, Massachusetts, where she was from. When we were assigned to the same reading group, we chatted, found that we both wanted to be horse trainers when we grew up, and started eating lunch together. But a week or two later, she became sick—no one knew what she had, just that she was out. She came back after a few weeks, but only for a day or two.
When she’d missed more than a month of school, I went to see her, bringing some cookies that Mom had baked. She only lived three blocks away, and Mom allowed me go all by myself with strict instructions to call if I were going to stay more than a few minutes. I rang the bell, and Michelle’s big brother let me into the foyer. Over his shoulder, I could see someone lying on the couch, obscured by a puffy comforter.
“Is Michelle here?” I asked. “I’m her friend from school.”
“She’s kind of sick,” the brother said. “She can’t play right now.”
“Oh.” Blushing, I handed him the cookies. “Tell her Chastity said hello,” I said, scuffing my feet. The brother was a seventh-grader, and kind of, well, cute. I peeked again over his shoulder. Michelle lifted her hand. I waved back, not realizing that I would never see her again.
“Okay. Thanks for coming by, Chastity,” he said. “Thanks for the cookies, too.”
I learned later that Michelle’s leukemia was so virulent that her immune system couldn’t handle the risk of germs from outside visitors. While I missed her, it was more on the theoretical side—we hadn’t really had time to become good friends. My life continued on pretty much the same, basketball, homework, soccer, CCD. Then one night, months after she’d left school, my mom popped into my bedroom, her face unusually grim. “Say a prayer for Michelle Meade,” she told me. “She’s very sick.”
I obeyed, chanting the hot, fervent prayers of a child. “Please, please, please don’t let anything bad happen to Michelle! Please let her be okay. Please let her get better.”
She didn’t get better.
My mother let me stay home from school to go to the funeral, and I cried great gulping sobs as the small white coffin was wheeled down the church aisle. Her parents were limp and pale with grief, her brother standing thin and ignored between them, like something left at the lost and found. At the sight of him, the barefaced knowledge that a child could die, that I might lose Jack or Lucky or Mark or Matt the way that boy had lost his sister—that my brothers could lose me—made me almost hysterical. Mom carried me to the car, staggering a little—I was already nearly five feet tall—patting my back and murmuring. When she got behind the wheel, she wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “I love you so much, Chastity,” she said, her mouth wobbling. “I love you so, so much.”
A few weeks later, I saw Michelle’s brother, alone, dribbling a basketball at the school playground. Mom was inside for Mark’s parent-teacher conference, and I was pretending to read The Hobbit. Instead, I watched covertly as Michelle’s brother shot basket after basket until finally the fates acknowledged me and the ball bounced off his foot and rolled over to me. I picked it up and waited.
“Hi,” I said as he came over to retrieve the ball.
“Hi,” he said.
Being raised by the laundry Nazi, as Jack and Lucky called her, I noticed that the brother’s clothes were kind of grubby. His sneakers looked like they were on their last legs, and his hair needed to be cut. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his pants drooped at his waist.
“I’m Chastity O’Neill,” I announced. “I came to your house once.” Part of me wanted to get a reaction, to somehow state my importance and let him know that I, too, suffered and understood his pain.
He looked at the ground. “Right,” he said, offering nothing more.
“I’m Matt and Mark’s sister. Do you know them?” My youngest brothers flanked him in school, Mark a year ahead of him, Matt a year behind.
“Sort of,” he said, still looking at the ball that was tucked firmly under my arm. We didn’t say anything more for a minute.
“I’m sorry your sister died,” I blurted.
The brother looked at me from his dark eyes for a minute, then pinched the bridge of his nose and dropped his head. I’d seen my dad do that sometimes, when he banned us kids from the living room and spoke to Mom in a low voice, telling her about a bad day, a day when someone had been hurt badly…or when someone hadn’t made it. It seemed like such an adult gesture, and to see Michelle’s brother doing it now made my throat ache. I realized I didn’t understand squat about his pain, that I wasn’t suffering at all compared to him.
“Do you want to have supper at our house?” I whispered.
He hesitated, still looking at the ground, then nodded once. Then I stood up, and to spare him the embarrassment of being caught crying in front of a ten-year-old girl, showed him my excellent layup and jump shot.
Trevor’s parents divorced later that same year, as is common with couples who lose a child, I later learned. Things weren’t great to begin with, apparently, but after Michelle died, Mr. Meade moved to California, and Mrs. Meade stopped being much of a mother anymore. I gathered from many an eavesdropped conversation between my parents that Mrs. Meade was drinking a lot, and worse, that she was not nice when she drank. Mom called her up, talked in what we called her Father Donnelly voice, the gentle, compassionate one reserved for teachers and clergy members. Trevor started coming to our house more and more, where he was fed and fussed over and made to laugh almost against his will. Before long, he was sleeping in the bottom bunk in Mark’s room on weekends, shooting pool with Jack and Lucky in the basement, helping Mom wash the dishes after dinner.
After