Page 122 of What Boys Learn

Matt-Troy-Dr. C taps his nose. “You know, I think I know your father. Maybe he came in to see me for—let me remember—bunions, was it?”

“Could be,” Lenora says, glancing over like she wishes I’d rescue her from the boring conversation.

Dr. C makes a smarmy face. “Should we give him a quick call to make sure you have permission to be out for a spin?”

“I already asked him,” she says too quickly. She knows, and I know, and Dr. C definitely knows that she didn’t ask, just like Dr. C knows that he didn’t plan to place any phone call.

That’s the kind of confidence he keeps wanting me to observe and imitate. Give them a lifeline and see if they take it. Get inside their heads and find out what’s working, what’s missing. Take a scalpel to the interesting parts.

We’re motoring away from the dock when Lenora says, “Not to worry anyone, but I’m only a so-so swimmer. I mean, I can doggy paddle, but my father always makes me wear a PFD.”

I ignore her. If she and “Troy” want to be buddies, that’s fine with me.

“Um, Dennen?” she tries again.

“Nowyou’re talking to me,” I snap.

Dr. C rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and sighs loudly. The big faker. “Dennen. That’s rude.”

But I am mad. I’m fucking mad. I didn’t want him to bring her along but I didn’t expect her to ignore me either.

“Temper,” Dr. C says, and this time he isn’t using his fake voice.

This is what I am supposed to be working on. This is one of the thousand things we talked about in his office. Self-control. Self-regulation. In addition to confidence and understanding how to be a success in a world that tells boys and men they have to be great, saddles them with responsibilities, and then shits on them for being what they were always supposed to be, the hunters, leaders, and risk-takers. Some of us can’t sit still. Some of us feel less. Some of us need to vent more. Some of us need to . . . need to . . .

The genes you and I have helped our species survive. Don’t ever apologize for who you are. Hone it. Master it. Use it.

I close my eyes. Chill out.

Dr. C is saying to Lenora, “When it comes to adolescents, a lot of bad behavior boils down to sugar levels. Once we’re out of the harbor and are under sail, we’ll get a snack.”

“And the life jacket?”

“Certainly,” he says. “Just two ticks, please.”

I know shit-all about sailing. It always looks good in movies but now that we’re out here on the lake, with choppy blackish water beneath us and Dr. C shouting out orders I don’t understand, it’s not so great. He can’t trust me with the tiller. I keep getting in his way as he manages the sails, which he doesn’t even call “sails” half the time. Anything he tells me to get—from the cockpit cushions to the lockers where they’re supposedly kept—I can’t find.

“For godsake,” he snaps louder than I’ve ever heard him snap, “go down below if you can’t help with anything. And show her the head!”

“Fine!”

Lenora comes up behind me in the crowded cabin, whispering. “Sorry. You warned me that he wasn’t your favorite uncle.”

She isn’t talking about Ewan, the only uncle I have. That’s the problem with lies. You have to keep them straight.

“My dad sometimes keeps the cushions in the V-berth,” she says, pointing. I awkwardly turn to face her, still in a half squat. “That’s where people sleep. In the front.”

The ceiling is so low I can’t stand up straight. There’s only one space with a bench to the right and a table to the left and a flat V-shaped area with bedding straight ahead and I’ve never felt so claustrophobic in my life.

“And the head,” she says, leaning so close I can feel her breath on my cheek, and it’s warm and it’s sweet, “is what we landlubbers would call the bathroom.”

She smells like strawberries, and her skin looks so soft I want to touch it but I also need to get far away from it. I’m starting to freak out. I can’t believe she actually said “landlubbers.”

“Okay, you’re laughing at least,” she says. “For a second, I thought you were going to puke. Have youneverbeen on your uncle’s sailboat before?”

I shake my head, swallowing back acid. I can’t believe rich people spend money to do this.

“Or on any sailboat?”