“We could bike to McFarland Mall,” Sam said when we were back outside.
McFarland was the second-rate mall that was two or three miles down a busy road, but they had a decent video game store there. “That’s too far.”
“Not on our bikes.”
“It’s too hot. Besides, I’m not allowed to anyway.”
“I’m not either. But so what? Do you always do what Mommy says?”
“Not always.”
“Yeah you do,” he said. “Goody Two-shoes.”
“I am not,” I said. I once stole a pack of Life Savers from a Publix. Sometimes I peed in the shower.
He smirked again, like he was going to challenge me. “Then let’s go,” he said. “Screw the rules.”
I sighed. “Well, if we go, I need to get my money.”
“Then get it. I’ll go get mine. Meet you back out here in five minutes.”
I went up to my room and grabbed my money from the small top drawer in my dresser, enjoying the coolness of the house. Part of me didn’t want to go back outside. I didn’t want to ride to the mall. It’s like I somehow knew it would be a disaster.
When I passed Mom on the way out, she was still totally wrapped up in her studying. I doubt she even heard me leave the house.
Back outside, I waited. There’s still time to back out, I thought. Just then Sam rushed out of his house, hopped on his bike, and rode over. “Let’s go.”
===
In the car on the way to this news conference, I can’t even remember the last time Mom and I talked about Sam. We’d moved away from Pine Forest a year after Sam went missing, and once we were gone it was like we forgot about anything that had happened there.
“Are they sure it’s Sam?” I ask, still thinking it’s all so unreal.
“What?” she says, like I’ve asked something dumb. “Of course they are.”
“Where was he?” I ask.
Mom hears me, but she doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “He was in Anniston.”
“You said that. But why?” I wait for more, but she doesn’t offer anything. “Did he run away?” I know this isn’t true, even when I ask it.
“No,” she says. “He was living . . . he was with some man. We don’t know much more than that. But he’s okay.” I see her furrow her brow, like she has doubts.
I start to feel a little queasy.
“We don’t know what he’s gone through,” she says. “But none of that matters right now.” Mom has one hand on the steering wheel, but with her free hand she reaches over and grabs mine. I let her, but I don’t squeeze back. She stops at a red light.
Suddenly, I don’t want to go to this news conference. I don’t want to see Sam. I want to go back to when Nick and I were hitting tennis balls across the court, when the day and evening before me was plotted out, when there were no surprises. I turn and look at Mom. “I’m missing my student council meeting. Everyone will wonder where I’m at.”
“It’s okay. You can miss just this once.”
The light is still red. Any minute it will turn green, and it will be a straight shot to the elementary school. That school I always hated. I unlock the door and unbuckle my seat belt. I step out of the car. Just before I slam the door, I hear Mom say, “Josh!”
I don’t run. I just walk. I know this road. It’s close to our old neighborhood, so I head back away from there. I walk and walk and then I hear gravel crunching, the sound of someone running behind me. I look back and see Mom.
“Josh!” Mom catches up and gets in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders. “What are you doing?” She looks at me like she’s pissed, but I see her eyes soften with alarm. She touches my cheek and wipes something away. “Oh, Joshie.” I hate when she calls me that, and she knows it. But she pulls me tight against her, and my cheeks are wet against her shirt. I hadn’t realized that I’d started crying.
“It’s going to be okay,” Mom says.
I pull back. I sniffle and wipe my nose with my sleeve. She’s looking at me like I’m breaking her heart. Cars speed by and suddenly I’m embarrassed, exposed. “We’re going to be late,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“Yes,” I say. I’d rather go home, or back to school. But a picture of Sam has been piecing together in my brain. Sam on that hot summer day, in his Superman T-shirt, cargo shorts, his brown hair wilted in the sun. And I know I have to see him to really believe he’s back. That he’s grown up, just like I have. That he’s okay.
===
That day, Sam and I biked up the slight hill on the shaded side of the street, the side by the woods. Once we reached the top, the woods ended, and we burst into the sun, which was high in the sky, beating down on us.
We took a left onto Skyland Boulevard, a busy thruway from the west side of town to the east, broken in the middle by a grassy median. We rode our bikes on the left side shoulder, facing the oncoming traffic, as we’d always been told to do. We biked past the Toyota dealership, the entrance to a neighborhood called Eastlake, and then past Buddy’s, a convenience store. Cars whizzed by. Sam sped ahead, and I shouted for him to wait up. I was getting tired already, and overheated. My shirt was sticking to my back. My forehead was dripping sweat. I had forgotten my hat. Up ahead, on the left, was the Department of Motor Vehicles, set well back from the road and fronted by a wide lawn. We still had a long way to go—more strip malls to pass, churches, even a cemetery. I knew all the landmarks well; we’d driven past them hundreds of times. But it all looked weird now, outside and up close. I kept pedaling, trying to catch up to Sam. Finally, I saw him slow down and circle back, probably annoyed at me for being a slowpoke.
Just then a bright red truck with a loud muffler sped toward us. I could see that there were a few guys wearing sunglasses and baseball caps sitting in the back of the truck. They drove by, and it was like time slowed, because I could see the two boys in the back—maybe college age, maybe older high school—sipping big plastic cups of soda. One flashed a grin and yelled “Faggot!” as they zoomed past. And then a cold explosion of liquid landed on my back. I was so surprised that I slammed on my brakes and then stuck my foot out to catch myself. But it wasn’t enough. I fell to my side, the bike crashing on top of me.
There I was, in the dirt and gravel on the side of the road, covered in something wet. I tried to stand, but I had a burning scrape on my elbow and my leg. I saw an empty Chick-fil-A cup that had rolled to the side of the road.
I finally stood up, my heart racing. Up the road I saw the truck getting smaller and smaller, and then it was gone. I tried to brush the dirt from my legs and arms, but some was mixed in with the blood from my scrapes. I peeled my shirt back, briefly, before it stuck back again. I was a mess. I fought the urge to cry. Sam pedaled up, laughing.
I don’t know why I expected sympathy.
“Wow, that was amazing!” he said. “They hit you like a bull’s-eye!”
“It’s not funny,” I said.
“Are you okay?” he said, but he was still smiling.