Page 26

But the second he got in the car, something seemed off. His lips tugged down at the edges and his shoulders were hunched like he was preparing himself for a blow.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
He shrugged.
That was it? A shrug? I mean, he wasn’t as wordy as Whitman, but I usually got at least a yes or a no. Maybe a grunt.
“Are you still good with Waldo’s?” I asked.
Again, he shrugged.
God, it felt like being rejected. Fucking worse than waking up in my house alone to find that Birdie was gone. No note. No number. No nothing.
Instead of pulling out of the parking lot, I turned into an empty spot and parked. He didn’t even look up from his phone. But his screen was black.
“Ollie, what’s going on?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”
His jaw tensed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Everything in me wanted to pry. To see what prick upset him—student or teacher, I didn’t care—but all the parenting books I’d ever read (and that was quite a few) said that digging for information was a bad idea. That good child-parent relationships were built on trust.
So instead, I said, “If you don’t want to get shakes, that’s fine. I actually have something to show you.”
He didn’t seem curious at all. Instead, he shrugged again.
I let out a sigh, as much frustration as I’d let myself show, and texted Linda. I was planning to take him by the house after going to Waldo’s, but sitting across from a sulking Ollie for an hour didn’t sound like a good time.
Cohen: Hey, can we meet at the house a little early?
Linda: Sure. Be there in 30.
I locked the phone and set it in the console, then backed out of the parking lot. It was mostly empty now, save a few cars I was sure belonged to student athletes. I hadn’t played sports in high school—there had never been enough money—but I’d been so excited to have Ollie in all the things. Baseball. Football. Track. Any sport with or without a ball, I signed him up for.
It became very clear during his first (and last) t-ball season that sports were not for him. Although I had great footage of him running backward around the bases, he’d also acquired a black eye from overswinging, had sat in the outfield to play with the dirt, and only went to the last couple of games because we’d bribed him with candy. After that, I’d promptly signed him up for guitar lessons and acting classes and that was that.
As I drove toward the house I was hoping to make our own, Ollie sat slumped in his seat, staring at his phone. Thankfully now he had his earphones in and some video playing on YouTube.
A pit formed in my stomach—Ollie might have been a teenager, but his down days had never been this bad. What was going on?
I took another turn and saw the house through the windshield. It looked even more endearing now than it had before, with mature trees casting shade over the yard in the bright afternoon light.
The second my car was parked, Linda got out of her car and waved at us. And for the first time, Ollie said, “What are we doing here?”
“This is going to be our new house.”
His mouth dropped open, and I grinned, excited to show him the surprise.
Wordlessly, he followed me out of the truck. Linda, of course, fawned over him, saying how beautiful his curls were and how much he “looked like his daddy.”
Ollie managed a small smile, probably not used to someone like Linda.
“Let’s go inside, shall we?” she said.
I nodded, clapping Ollie’s back, and followed her toward the house. As we walked up, I hurriedly began talking, not wanting Ollie to be worried about all the updates it needed. “I’m going to have Jim’s company paint the exterior, and Steve’s brother does landscaping, so I’ll have him get some good grass growing in the yard.”
Linda unlocked front door, letting us inside.
“These are all hardwood floors, original to the house. Can you believe they’re more than seventy years old?” I stepped into the kitchen. “I know you’re not much for kitchen, but these appliances are actually pretty good. And let me show you the bedroom that’ll be yours. It has a great view of the yard.”