Page 4 of Try Me

“I’m really sorry about your dad.” I toed over the leaves I’d dug into, like I needed to erase my presence and leave them as they’d been before. Maybe us, too. As much as my dad drove me crazy, maybe he’d been right when he’d said I needed to stay away from Chet. “I mean that.”

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of water slapping against the dock and the distant hum of the lights. I bristled at being ignored, even though I understood why. Then, Chet nodded once, so minutely I’d have missed it if my entire body hadn’t been tuned to receive the tiniest signal from him.

Everything about him broadcasted a strong desire for me to go away.

So finally I took the hint and left.

* * *

In mid-July,Chet’s father was taken into custody for a list of offenses so long I didn’t even understand half of them. My dad stood at the kitchen island, watching the television with a gleam in his eyes as I arrived home from hanging out at Manny’s pool.

I greeted him with a customary nod and headed to the fridge. In my periphery, Alan Pynchon was guided toward the police car, his lawyer trying futilely to shield him from the press mob with a coat. Dad didn’t move, transfixed by the scene playing out on the TV. I couldn’t remember seeing him so damn satisfied since Tesla stock went public.

“Well deserved,” he murmured, cracking open a bottle of scotch as I unwrapped the aluminum foil from around the plate my mom left me. I stared at the chicken breast and vegetables, then the golden liquid my dad poured in the glass as he said, “Told you they were bad news.”

The camera zoomed out, and I caught a split-second view of Chet standing like a phantom in the open doorway of their gigantic house, his face drawn and somber, dull eyes trained on the crowd. The chaos of arms and elbows as the press jockeyed for position reminded me of beetle legs thrashing the air. Then the camera zoomed in on his father again. My dad aimed the mouth of his glass at the TV screen like a toast, then drank.

I rewrapped the plate, my appetite gone.

Sometime after midnight, I startled awake and shifted around in my bed, studying the play of light on the ceiling until a rhythmic tapping startled me again.

Sliding from the covers, I approached the window warily and lifted the shade. I’d know those shoulders anywhere, even in silhouette.

We’d figured out the route up when we were kids: a combination of the drainpipe, porch rail, and roof overhang. Chet’s mom had caught on at some point, because instead of my mom bursting in to check if he was here in the wee hours of the morning, we’d wander down for breakfast and there’d already be two plates set out for us, along with extra bacon and eggs. But it’d been years since Chet had used it. Given the height and weight gain, I was a little surprised he’d made it up.

I flipped the lock and eased the window open, Chet’s drawn expression stalling the sarcasm I’d been about to unleash. Even in the dark, the shading under his eyes was visible. Lost sleep, anger, and sadness rose off of him like a fog. I shoved the window as high as it would go and stepped aside to let him in.

He crawled inside and sank down underneath the window, resting his back against the wall below the casement. “It’s a fucking hornet’s nest over there. People everywhere. Noise and lights. Can’t sleep. Can’t hear myself think.” He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and sucked in a shuddery inhale that somehow managed to reverberate in my chest.

I grabbed a bottled water from the bedside table, flipped on the small lamp, and eased down next to him, handing him the water, which he guzzled half of after a murmuredthanks.

“How’d you sneak past them?” I asked. If the place was crawling with reporters and cops, I couldn’t imagine it would’ve been easy to leave unnoticed.

“All that ninja practice when we were kids wasn’t for nothing, I guess.” Just for a second, Chet’s lips curved up and relief flooded through me, even if it was one of those wan smiles with misery lurking beneath it. I felt my lips tilt in return. I couldn’t help it. That’d never changed.

He passed the water back to me, and I downed the rest, then sank the empty bottle into the trash can next to my desk in a smooth arc.

Chet ticked his chin in acknowledgment of the shot. “Noticed earlier in the season that your form’s gotten a shit ton better from the three-pointer line.”

“Busted ass all last summer practicing.” I shrugged. “Not that it matters now.”

“It counts, though. You could do intramural or even club ball easily if you wanted.”

“Maybe.” I didn’t really see the point, though. That was probably my dad’s influence. If you couldn’t be at the peak, why bother at all? He’d been very clear that since my basketball career was over, it was time to focus on scholastics when fall semester started at the U.

Chet shoved the hood of his sweatshirt from the crown of his head and raked a hand through his hair, fiddling with a strand before sweeping it away brashly. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could just sit here for a minute in the quiet. If that’s okay?” he tacked on a second later, eyes cutting toward me.

He had other friends. A slew of them. Or used to. I wondered why he hadn’t gone to any of their houses, wondered if between now and the last time I saw him at that party, they’d abandoned him one by one as the headlines had gotten uglier. Since I no longer qualified as a friend, I figured it must have been pretty bad. It seemed rude to ask, though.

Huh. When had I started caring about whether something was rude or not where Chet Pynchon was concerned?

“They seized my car.” Chet had been obsessed with cars since we were kids, used to draw them compulsively, trick them out with little details. I’d seen his sixteenth birthday gift around town, a vintage Charger. By all accounts he babied the thing. Or had. He was six months older than me, and we used to talk about where we’d go first the day he got his license. We’d sat in his dad’s mega garage in a vintage Stingray Corvette, our feet barely touching the pedals as we’d made plans. But that was silly kid talk long before everything else happened.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, dude. You can stay,” I told him, and then added when his gaze jerked toward me, “I mean if you want to. Overnight or…shorter. However long. Whatever.” My tongue was clumsy, and my heart beat in a funny rhythm. Being this close to him again was strange, and I was too aware of his hoodie touching the bare skin of my shoulder. “My mom goes to tennis early now, so she won’t be around. And my dad…” Working. He knew the drill, I imagined. That hadn’t changed either.

“Right.” Chet said it like he understood, and he probably did. I hadn’t seen my dad for breakfast in…maybe ever. Chet cut another look sideways. “Thanks.”

Silence fell between us until I asked the question that’d been bearing down on my chest like someone’s hand. “So did he do all that shit they’re accusing him of? Pump up the profits and then take all that money?”