“What’s on your mind?” George says.
Anger overrides my instinct to keep my mouth shut. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What the hell is with this brotherhood bullshit? You and Charlie hated each other, but he died protecting you. And Carey . . .” I stop. I swallow my words before I say too much.
“What did Carey do to you?”
It’s the first time he’s asked me what happened, point-blank. It’s the first time someone suspects Carey is behind what’s wrong with me. I keep quiet, though it kills me.
“So stubborn, Sophie. You keep holding all that anger in and it’ll eat you up.” He sighs. “Help me up, would you? My hip hurts sitting in this damn chair.”
We work together to maneuver him from the chair to the bed. I help him settle in, tucking the blanket around him and fixing his pillows. For once, he doesn’t give me a hard time for helping him. We watch TV, neither of us laughing at the funny parts of the Family Guy rerun.
A commercial comes on and I say, “What if you’d been gay?” I study the advertisement for a dishwashing soap like my life depends on it, feeling George’s gaze as a physical weight. “Do you think Charlie would’ve taken that bullet for you then?”
The silence goes on for so long I don’t think he’s going to answer. Finally he says, “I honestly don’t know. Charlie hated anyone who was different. Not a lot of folks let on back then. I do know this: Some guys would’ve taken me out to the paddies and beat me until I wished I was dead rather than sleep two feet from me.”
George never bullshits me. He doesn’t give me the answer I want—that Charlie would have taken that bullet come hell or high water. He doesn’t lie, either. Times haven’t changed all that much. Proof of that was all over Carey’s battered body the night he convinced me to lie for him.
George confirms what I’m thinking. “You know, even today I’d think twice before coming out. Aside from the honorable discharge, all you’d get for your honesty is some homophobic macho asshole wiping the latrine with you.”
The show comes back on, and we watch Stewie and Brian argue.
When you think about it, the military isn’t so different from screwed-up families everywhere. Sacrifice everything, including your life, and it still isn’t enough. At the end of the day, you have to lie about who you are if you want to survive. Be all you can be. Aim high. The few, the proud. Don’t ask, don’t tell. What crap.
“Some brotherhood,” I say.
The bed squeaks, and I hear George sigh. “Nobody’s perfect,” he says, his voice weighted with sadness. “We’re all just doing the best we can.”
I know that. I do. But lately, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.
Chapter Twenty
Blake and I don’t suddenly become friends again. Whatever happened between us at the pool, we leave it behind in DC. I can’t tell the truth and he has his own promise to keep. The day after we get home I pass Carey’s mother in the hall, and I can’t even blame Blake for choosing her over me. She’s hollow, her stare blank, as if her insides have been scraped out, leaving only seeds of sorrow and dread behind. The longer Carey’s MIA, the less likely it is that he will return. Mrs. Breen breathes this reality every single minute, and it looks like it’s killing her.
On the brighter side, when I turn in the senior trip photos, Mr. Horowitz beams and announces to the Yearbook staff, “People, Quinn has saved us! Finally, some photos we can use!”
Jamie’s face turns a shade of soured milk, and I want to pump my fist in victory. Not my finest moment, but she did humiliate me with that key thing and get me locked out of my hotel room. She’s lucky I didn’t turn in a shot of her with her lipstick smeared from kissing Jimmy Manning in the back of the bus. If I hadn’t decided to use my power of photography for good, blackmail would be on the table. The last bell rings and I barely restrain myself from smirking as I walk past her to head home.
My father’s standing on the porch when I pull into the driveway. He’s leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest as he glares at his barren garden. Guilt makes my cheeks hot, and I take my time gathering my book bag so I can steady my nerves before I reach him. I should tell the truth about what I did, switching his weed killer and plant food. I won’t, though. Since that nightmare I had about Carey, he doesn’t seem to hate me like before. I’m not willing to give that up. His garden can take the blow; I can’t.
Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I take the steps to the porch. “Hey, Dad.”
“Quinn.”
He sounds distracted, and I continue past him to the door. I’m reaching for the doorknob when he stops me. “What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I thought we could grab a bite at the diner.”
I hesitate. We haven’t been out to dinner since the picture came out, like he’s been ashamed to be seen with me in public.
“Are you sick?” It’s the only explanation I can think of.
He frowns. “Of course not. I just thought it would be nice not to cook. How about it?”
“Sounds good.” I feel like a shaken soda can. We’re turning a corner, and it’s anyone’s guess what’s waiting around the bend. Based on past experience, it’ll be a brick wall. I leave him to ponder the mystery of his dead garden.
Later, we climb into my father’s truck and spend an awkward ten minutes driving to the diner. We’ve forgotten how to speak to each other. He knows next to nothing about me—at least none of the important stuff. I don’t want to talk about his job or the military or Carey.
Anger overrides my instinct to keep my mouth shut. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What the hell is with this brotherhood bullshit? You and Charlie hated each other, but he died protecting you. And Carey . . .” I stop. I swallow my words before I say too much.
“What did Carey do to you?”
It’s the first time he’s asked me what happened, point-blank. It’s the first time someone suspects Carey is behind what’s wrong with me. I keep quiet, though it kills me.
“So stubborn, Sophie. You keep holding all that anger in and it’ll eat you up.” He sighs. “Help me up, would you? My hip hurts sitting in this damn chair.”
We work together to maneuver him from the chair to the bed. I help him settle in, tucking the blanket around him and fixing his pillows. For once, he doesn’t give me a hard time for helping him. We watch TV, neither of us laughing at the funny parts of the Family Guy rerun.
A commercial comes on and I say, “What if you’d been gay?” I study the advertisement for a dishwashing soap like my life depends on it, feeling George’s gaze as a physical weight. “Do you think Charlie would’ve taken that bullet for you then?”
The silence goes on for so long I don’t think he’s going to answer. Finally he says, “I honestly don’t know. Charlie hated anyone who was different. Not a lot of folks let on back then. I do know this: Some guys would’ve taken me out to the paddies and beat me until I wished I was dead rather than sleep two feet from me.”
George never bullshits me. He doesn’t give me the answer I want—that Charlie would have taken that bullet come hell or high water. He doesn’t lie, either. Times haven’t changed all that much. Proof of that was all over Carey’s battered body the night he convinced me to lie for him.
George confirms what I’m thinking. “You know, even today I’d think twice before coming out. Aside from the honorable discharge, all you’d get for your honesty is some homophobic macho asshole wiping the latrine with you.”
The show comes back on, and we watch Stewie and Brian argue.
When you think about it, the military isn’t so different from screwed-up families everywhere. Sacrifice everything, including your life, and it still isn’t enough. At the end of the day, you have to lie about who you are if you want to survive. Be all you can be. Aim high. The few, the proud. Don’t ask, don’t tell. What crap.
“Some brotherhood,” I say.
The bed squeaks, and I hear George sigh. “Nobody’s perfect,” he says, his voice weighted with sadness. “We’re all just doing the best we can.”
I know that. I do. But lately, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.
Chapter Twenty
Blake and I don’t suddenly become friends again. Whatever happened between us at the pool, we leave it behind in DC. I can’t tell the truth and he has his own promise to keep. The day after we get home I pass Carey’s mother in the hall, and I can’t even blame Blake for choosing her over me. She’s hollow, her stare blank, as if her insides have been scraped out, leaving only seeds of sorrow and dread behind. The longer Carey’s MIA, the less likely it is that he will return. Mrs. Breen breathes this reality every single minute, and it looks like it’s killing her.
On the brighter side, when I turn in the senior trip photos, Mr. Horowitz beams and announces to the Yearbook staff, “People, Quinn has saved us! Finally, some photos we can use!”
Jamie’s face turns a shade of soured milk, and I want to pump my fist in victory. Not my finest moment, but she did humiliate me with that key thing and get me locked out of my hotel room. She’s lucky I didn’t turn in a shot of her with her lipstick smeared from kissing Jimmy Manning in the back of the bus. If I hadn’t decided to use my power of photography for good, blackmail would be on the table. The last bell rings and I barely restrain myself from smirking as I walk past her to head home.
My father’s standing on the porch when I pull into the driveway. He’s leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest as he glares at his barren garden. Guilt makes my cheeks hot, and I take my time gathering my book bag so I can steady my nerves before I reach him. I should tell the truth about what I did, switching his weed killer and plant food. I won’t, though. Since that nightmare I had about Carey, he doesn’t seem to hate me like before. I’m not willing to give that up. His garden can take the blow; I can’t.
Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I take the steps to the porch. “Hey, Dad.”
“Quinn.”
He sounds distracted, and I continue past him to the door. I’m reaching for the doorknob when he stops me. “What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I thought we could grab a bite at the diner.”
I hesitate. We haven’t been out to dinner since the picture came out, like he’s been ashamed to be seen with me in public.
“Are you sick?” It’s the only explanation I can think of.
He frowns. “Of course not. I just thought it would be nice not to cook. How about it?”
“Sounds good.” I feel like a shaken soda can. We’re turning a corner, and it’s anyone’s guess what’s waiting around the bend. Based on past experience, it’ll be a brick wall. I leave him to ponder the mystery of his dead garden.
Later, we climb into my father’s truck and spend an awkward ten minutes driving to the diner. We’ve forgotten how to speak to each other. He knows next to nothing about me—at least none of the important stuff. I don’t want to talk about his job or the military or Carey.
