Page 22 of Shots on Net

“Yeah. If you want me to.” When he puts the car in reverse and uses a hand on the back of my seat to turn around, I get a good look at his face. The peaceful expression is gone, replaced once more by the scowl.

“I want you to,” I say, firmly, and he nods. I don’t like the thought of him rattling around that big house all alone, while I have a cozy dinner with my grandma.

We lapse into silence, then, but for my murmured instructions on where to turn. I can tell he’s nervous, the tension in the car settling over us like a blanket. By the time we pull into the trailer park, his hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel and his jaw is clenched. Really, he looks like I’ve asked him to dinner with Hitler and not my grandmother.

“You ready to go in?” I ask, lightly, when he makes no move to get out of the car.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and pushes open his door.

I let us inside after using my special knock, calling out for Grandma and hearing her in the kitchen. Carter follows so closely behind me, I’m surprised I can’t feel his breath on my neck. For some reason my own heart is racing, like his nerves are a tangible thing that he’s infected me with. When I get to the kitchen and stop walking, he bumps into my back.

“Sorry,” he says, when I turn around to look at him. I feel like I should grab his hand and reassure him that Grandma doesn’t bite, but I’m not certain he wouldn’t smack me away. Turning back around, I hold my arms wide and meet my grandma halfway.

“Hi, Grandma. Smells amazing in here.” I squeeze her as tightly as I dare, inhaling her baby shampoo smell.

“Hello, dear. And you’ve brought Carter with you!” She lets me go in favor of welcoming the guest. The guest who looks like he’s going to puke when she hugs him, too.

“Oh,” he says, returning the hug belatedly, “hi. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Well, you can come anytime, of course. Sit, both of you, sit.” She waves us to the table, which looks laughably small when Carter takes up an entire end of the table.

“You look like a giant,” I tell him, sitting in the seat closest to him and nudging his knee with my own below the table.

“The table is small,” he whispers back, scowling and hitting my knee with more force than I’d used. He’s not wrong; it’s a table meant for two people who live in a small mobile home, not a table meant for big hockey players. Grinning, I turn to look at my grandma.

“We went to the zoo today, Grandma.”

“Did you, now? You love the zoo,” she tells me, fondly, and brings over two glasses of green Kool-Aid before turning back to the oven. I almost laugh at the look of surprise on Carter’s face. Leaning over, I press my knee back against his and bring his gaze to mine.

“We always have green Kool-Aid with dinner—ever since I was a kid. You can have something else though, if you’d prefer.”

“No.” He says it fast, the word cracking through the small space like a shout. “No, this is fine. I don’t need anything special.”

To prove his point, he takes a pointed sip of his drink. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at the effort it takes him not to wince at the sweetness. Beneath the table, our legs are still pressed together; I make no effort to move away, though, and neither does he. Something tells me he needs the silent support.

Over at the counter, Grandma has her back to us and is rambling on about people neither of us have met. From what I can gather, the story is about the school friend of the daughter of one of her neighbor’s brothers. Carter’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to hold on to the salient points. It’s no use—the best you can do when she starts telling these stories is to nod along and smile like you know exactly who she’s talking about.

“Can you believe that?” She finishes, turning around and looking at us.

“That’s crazy,” I say, and Carter nods in solidarity.

“You know, if I’d tried that in school, I would have been smacked!” She says, and chuckles. “Okay, boys, here we are.”

She sets down a casserole dish on the table and dishes some onto Carter’s plate. It’s probably a third of the portion size he usually eats. Once we’ve all been served, she sits down. I watch her carefully, noting with dismay the careful way she lowers into the chair; I know her knees have been bothering her and that she’s supposed to see her primary care doctor about it. I make a mental note to remind her before we leave.

“So, tell me about the zoo!” She says, and looks at Carter. He swallows a half-chewed mouthful of casserole and coughs into his hand.

“It was fun.” He looks at me and I nod: yes, it was fun. “Did you know that polar bears are considered an aquatic mammal?”

I nearly choke. Lifting my shirt, I cover my mouth while I hack until I’m able to swallow down a gulp of Kool-Aid. Grandma reaches over and pats my arm.

“Chew your food, honey,” she reminds me, before turning back to Carter. “That’s quite interesting! I had no idea. My boy here was always watching those nature programs and reading books, but I can’t seem to hold onto information like that.”

She waves a hand to indicate how the information might fly out of her ear. I don’t bother reminding her that she knows and remembers every bit of information about every single person she’s ever met.

We chat pointlessly through dinner, covering any topic that pops into our heads. I watch as Carter’s muscles slowly unclench through dinner, whatever tension he was holding onto slowly seeping away as he becomes more comfortable. One day, I’ll ask him why a simple family dinner is so fraught with anxiety for him.

The pair of us handle the clean-up, as Grandma sits at the table and regales us with more tales from the neighborhood. She even gets Carter to laugh, when she goes on a vitriolic rant about people who walk through the park but don’t pick up after their dogs. She’s wearied of cleaning her shoes when she comes back from her daily walk, she tells us, and Carter nods solemnly while biting his cheek. When we are sent on our way—we need to be home before it gets too dark, or it won’t be safe to drive—the pair of us are clutching Tupperware containers of homemade cookies and given a firm hug. She watches until we’re out of sight of her house, waving at the retreating form of Carter’s car.

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