“Tim,” she whispers, cool hand wrapping around my forearm.
Nan emerges as soon as Jase, who’s been waiting for me in the foyer, opens the creaky front door to head out. I pop the list off the wall, fold it carefully, jam it into my back pocket. Most likely to star in her own reality show. We came up with our antidote to those stupid yearbook lists: Most likely to be a millionaire by twenty-five. One of the few days last fall I remember clearly-hanging with a bunch of my (loser) friends at Ellery out by the boathouse, where they stowed the kayaks (and the stoners). Tacked to the corkboard over my desk is a sheet of paper with the words THE BOY MOST LIKELY TO scrawled in red marker at the top.
He obediently raises an elbow and she rams two pillows into his armpit. “You can tuck those right under the other arm, can’t you, a big strapping boy like you?” Jase bows his head, smiling, then shoulders the cardboard box. “Don’t forget to take the stenciled paper Aunt Nancy sent in case you need to write thank-you notes.” leave you two boys to-carry on.” She pauses, runs her hand through her hair, showing half an inch of gray roots beneath the red. “It was my brother’s, and Joel likes his comforts.” “It’s pretty reliable,” Jase says, not even wincing. “Is there even any heat in that ratty place?” “Didn’t work out.” As in: That nice boy, my AA buddy Connell, relapsed on both booze and crack, called me all slurry and screwed up, full of blurry suck-ass excuses, so he’s obviously out. Should I pack you blankets? What happened to that nice boy you were going to move in with, anyway?” An umbrella and a huge yellow slicker are draped over one arm, an iron in one hand. Mom barges back in so fast, the door knocks against the wall. “Bike? Skateboard? Swim gear?” Jase glances over at me, smile flashing in the flare of my lighter. “My lacrosse stick from Ellery Prep? Don’t think I’ll need it.” I tap out another cigarette. All I can think to take is my clamshell ashtray. I guess.” I look around too, frickin’ blank.
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