Page 7 of What Boys Learn

How to help.

Asking for a friend.

Sidney was aware of the therapeutic cliché—that someone will ask,pretendingit’s for a friend. But in Sidney’s case, she really was asking for other people. She had to be. Or I’d misunderstood her completely.

Despite that disturbing thought, I was starting to feel a little calmer. Maybe it was the deep breaths I kept taking, waiting for Jack to finish his call. Maybe it was the clonidine tablet kicking in. Maybe it was Robert’s composure, reminding me. I was safe. Benjamin was safe.

I reached into my purse for a mental health hotline card.

“You could give Jack Mayfield this.”

Robert took one look and snorted without taking his hands off the wheel. “You kidding me? That guy isn’t going to be interested in counseling. Not after what happened to his daughter.”

My hand floated above the windowsill, card still clasped between finger and thumb.

“You’re right.”

“Owe me a drink at Ray’s.”

“No, I don’t,” I said, no patience for that long-expired game. “I can’t owe you anything, Robert. We’ve talked about that.”

And then I left them at it—one enraged father, one laconic ex-boyfriend, one school that couldn’t wait to get rid of me, because what was the point of counseling when it couldn’t prevent a teenager from ending her life?

3

BEFORE

She’d never felt this happy—happy and warm, both inside and out, sitting in the back seat alone, while the guys joked and argued about music, sports teams, whether girls (women) minded having sex during their periods, which should have made her embarrassed but didn’t, because they talked and joked as if they trusted her not to be disgusted. They didn’t ask, “Have you . . . ?” or “Would you . . . ?”

The only question she got from up front was, “Too breezy back there?”

“No. It’s great.”

“Let me know if you want the window up a bit, or we can close them all.”

“No, it’s good!”

Nothing to worry about, hair whipping in front of her face, loving the humidity, the darkness, the view of cornfields lit up by a half-moon once they got past the suburbs, the smell of cigarette smoke, which she liked, sometimes more than cigarettes themselves.

“You don’t smoke?” he asked when they stopped at a liquor store to pick up another case of beer.

“Occasionally.”

“Smoking is bad for you. And it’s worse for a girl. You’ll have wrinkles before you’re thirty.”

“You hear that?” came the familiar voice from the front passenger seat. Less kind, but not enough to ruin her mood.

“Yeah, I heard it.”

“WhenItell you not to do something, you talk back.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, wishing he’d stop, wishing he wasn’t here at all. But that was part of the package. Sometimes he’d let her come along with him and his friends. Sometimes he wanted to show her off. Sometimes he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist. Whatever. She planned to have her own fucking great time.

The car was noisy and the back seat vibrated as they drove farther west, toward a forest preserve along a shallow river that smelled like mud on hot nights. The state cops rarely bothered people for hanging out there, as long as parties stayed small and quiet.

When her eyelids grew heavy from the beer and the heat, she forced them open. She pulled the can from between her legs and took another sip, even though it was the drink itself that was making her tired. She must have pulled a face, not a fan of beer but only of beer’s effect, because he started laughing. It was a good-natured laugh.

She looked up in time to see his eyes in the rearview mirror, staring. She wiped the grimace from her face and sipped again, trying to hide her distaste. He was still staring. She looked down again, bashful and tipsy, the tips of her ears blazing hot, but he wouldn’t be able to see that while driving. The back seat was her place. The better place.