Page 11 of What Boys Learn

I moved toward the refrigerator, where there was a coupon stuck beneath a magnet—a photo in a chipped frame from the last time Benjamin had played soccer, at age seven. He’d stopped after getting a concussion from an overzealous goal shot by a young player who didn’t belong in our non-comp league. A week of nausea, headaches. A hospital trip for MRIs. A follow-up when the headaches still weren’t going away.

There was no long-term damage, but it took me weeks to get over the feeling of almost losing my son. Weeks of making promises. That I’d do anything for him. Benjamin was the only real family I had, the only thing that mattered.

“I’ll be back from Giuliano’s soon,” I said. “Keep the doors locked, okay?”

I’d told him about the deaths. But I hadn’t told him about Jack Mayfield.

Benjamin was still standing in the living room, waiting for me to leave. “Nobody locks their doors here.”

“Nobody who goes to Summit locks their doors, maybe,” I said, not even believingthat. “But we live on the other side of the tracks. So listen to me, Benjamin.Lock the doors.”

6

Giuliano’s was so busy I could barely get the guys behind the counter to take my order. They said it would take forty-five minutes. That usually meant an hour or more.

I texted Benj.Long wait.

I thought about the talk we still needed to have, how important it was that I stay calm and open, neither fretful nor impatient, neither skeptical nor insatiably curious. He needed to learn that silence and walking away were only temporary solutions. I needed to learn that even an incomplete conversation was worth having.

I added a smile emoji to my last text.

His reply was quick.

I promise not to eat the couch cushions.

I hearted the message.

I was just leaving the pizzeria with a paid receipt but no pizza when a young girl called out from behind me. “Ms. Rosso?”

Her glossy black hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing the thick eyeliner she usually wore at school. “Chandra. I didn’t know you worked here.”

She wiped her hands on her dirty apron. “Dishwasher. It’s not too bad.”

“Good for you,” I said, wondering if her wealthy doctor parents were using the job to build character or to work off the several hundred dollars of clothes she put on their Visa account without permission.

“I just wanted to say thank you for helping me talk to my mom after spring break. Things are getting better.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” I wanted to say something more, or maybe I just wanted to hold on to this moment. “You’re sure you’re doing all right now?”

“I am.” She smiled. “I’ll ask my manager to upsize your pizza.”

“It’s already the biggest size you make. But thank you, Chandra. Really.”

She started to turn back, then changed her mind. “It’s really sad about Izzy. Some people didn’t like her. She was—you know—a show-off.”

I didn’t know what “show-off” meant—whether it was something about clothes, money, or grades. But I could tell Chandra wanted to say more.

After a moment, she added, “People tried to hassle her, but they couldn’t really, because she didn’t care about what people thought.”

I nodded, encouraging her.

“There was a photo going around. It didn’t matter, though. I mean, she was still popular.”

Oh, lord. One of those sexting things, probably. Didn’t kids ever learn?

“Do you think Izzy was being bullied?”

“No. She wouldn’t let people bully her.”