calculates the price and I feverishly dig into my pockets for the money. The change slips through my shaking fingers and clatters on the counter.
“Oh, sorry!” I blurt.
She cocks her head curiously and stares as she picks up the coins she needs. “New around here?”
“Uh …” I slide the rest of the change into my shaking hand, trying to think of an answer. “No. I mean, yes!”
She frowns. Terrified that I’ve blown it, I shove the change into my pocket and turn to go. I’m just pushing through the door when she calls, “Hey, stop!”
Katherine might have been right about one thing: maybe three years is a long time to date someone. I was almost always happy with Slade, but that doesn’t mean it was always easy. Sometimes he grew glum, withdrawn, and depressed; a few times it was so deep that it scared me. A couple of times I suggested he speak to Dr. Ploumis, the school psychologist, or find a psychologist outside school to speak to, but he always said he’d think about it, which was his way of saying no.
Once when I pressed him about why he wouldn’t seek help, he said his father wouldn’t understand. I said that was silly. This was the twenty-first century. Everyone understood that sometimes you needed help and that was what psychologists were for. Look at how many kids we knew who were on some kind of medication. But Slade would insist that his father was too old-school for that. You manned up and toughed it out. Shrinks were for wimps and the only medication a man needed came in an amber bottle with a black-and-white label.
One night last spring, just before Slade went away for National Guard training, he got really, really low. A bunch of us were at Dog Beach, a small strip of rock and sand squeezed between two fancy beach clubs. It was a place where people could look for sea glass or bring their dogs for a swim. At one end of the beach, a long, tall metal pier stretched into the Sound. The pier was high enough that sometimes guys would climb through the metal crosshatched supports until they were over the water, and smoke or drink out there just for a change of view.
On this night I’d been talking to some girls when I realized I hadn’t seen Slade for a while. It wasn’t like him to vanish without telling me, and I began to feel anxious. I looked around and noticed the silhouette of a figure perched in the crosshatching under the pier. I knew at once that it had to be Slade, but I couldn’t imagine what he was doing out there. I thought of walking to the water’s edge and calling to him, but something told me he didn’t want everyone’s attention.
Instead, I climbed up into the supports and started to make my way under the pier. It wasn’t easy. The way the supports were staggered, you needed pretty long arms to get from one to the next, and being under five feet tall, I had to take a few leaps of faith. But I didn’t think twice. Going all the way out there by himself was unlike Slade. I knew something was wrong.
He heard me when I was about a dozen feet away. I saw his head turn and knew he was looking, even though in the dark under the pier, I couldn’t see his face. I paused, planting my feet in the V of the supports, and waited for him to say something.
It was a while before he said, “What are you doing here, Shrimp?”
“What are you doing here?” I replied.
He looked away, at the water. It was a cloudy, dark night with only a pale outline of a quarter moon appearing from and disappearing behind the clouds. I climbed closer, but the way the supports were set up, there wasn’t room for me to sit beside him. I had to stop about three feet away. Just out of reach.
“Slade?” I said softly. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to go,” he said without looking at me, his voice breathy, almost breaking. He was talking about the National Guard.
“Let’s go back to the beach,” I said.
He didn’t react.
“Slade?”
“Why do I have to do all these things just
“Oh, sorry!” I blurt.
She cocks her head curiously and stares as she picks up the coins she needs. “New around here?”
“Uh …” I slide the rest of the change into my shaking hand, trying to think of an answer. “No. I mean, yes!”
She frowns. Terrified that I’ve blown it, I shove the change into my pocket and turn to go. I’m just pushing through the door when she calls, “Hey, stop!”
Katherine might have been right about one thing: maybe three years is a long time to date someone. I was almost always happy with Slade, but that doesn’t mean it was always easy. Sometimes he grew glum, withdrawn, and depressed; a few times it was so deep that it scared me. A couple of times I suggested he speak to Dr. Ploumis, the school psychologist, or find a psychologist outside school to speak to, but he always said he’d think about it, which was his way of saying no.
Once when I pressed him about why he wouldn’t seek help, he said his father wouldn’t understand. I said that was silly. This was the twenty-first century. Everyone understood that sometimes you needed help and that was what psychologists were for. Look at how many kids we knew who were on some kind of medication. But Slade would insist that his father was too old-school for that. You manned up and toughed it out. Shrinks were for wimps and the only medication a man needed came in an amber bottle with a black-and-white label.
One night last spring, just before Slade went away for National Guard training, he got really, really low. A bunch of us were at Dog Beach, a small strip of rock and sand squeezed between two fancy beach clubs. It was a place where people could look for sea glass or bring their dogs for a swim. At one end of the beach, a long, tall metal pier stretched into the Sound. The pier was high enough that sometimes guys would climb through the metal crosshatched supports until they were over the water, and smoke or drink out there just for a change of view.
On this night I’d been talking to some girls when I realized I hadn’t seen Slade for a while. It wasn’t like him to vanish without telling me, and I began to feel anxious. I looked around and noticed the silhouette of a figure perched in the crosshatching under the pier. I knew at once that it had to be Slade, but I couldn’t imagine what he was doing out there. I thought of walking to the water’s edge and calling to him, but something told me he didn’t want everyone’s attention.
Instead, I climbed up into the supports and started to make my way under the pier. It wasn’t easy. The way the supports were staggered, you needed pretty long arms to get from one to the next, and being under five feet tall, I had to take a few leaps of faith. But I didn’t think twice. Going all the way out there by himself was unlike Slade. I knew something was wrong.
He heard me when I was about a dozen feet away. I saw his head turn and knew he was looking, even though in the dark under the pier, I couldn’t see his face. I paused, planting my feet in the V of the supports, and waited for him to say something.
It was a while before he said, “What are you doing here, Shrimp?”
“What are you doing here?” I replied.
He looked away, at the water. It was a cloudy, dark night with only a pale outline of a quarter moon appearing from and disappearing behind the clouds. I climbed closer, but the way the supports were set up, there wasn’t room for me to sit beside him. I had to stop about three feet away. Just out of reach.
“Slade?” I said softly. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to go,” he said without looking at me, his voice breathy, almost breaking. He was talking about the National Guard.
“Let’s go back to the beach,” I said.
He didn’t react.
“Slade?”
“Why do I have to do all these things just
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