Page 14 of Wham Line
I didn’t even have to open the email.The preview said,Thank you, but—
I tapped the email anyway, but I couldn’t read it; my thoughts were too loud.Well, that wasn’t a surprise, was it?After all the other rejections, it only made sense.By this point, I’d been expecting it.
My face felt hot.I put my phone down.
Bobby turned around.He was hugging himself.
I was already saying something about the email—something casual, something about how that was the end of that—and then I stopped.“What’s wrong?What happened?”
He cocked his head like he was surprised.“My mom died.”
Chapter 4
“Oh my God, Bobby,” I said as I scrambled out of bed.“I’m so sorry.”
He stood still as I hugged him.
“What happened?”I asked.
He touched my arm.After a moment, he said, “They think it was a heart attack.My dad found her.”
“Oh my God,” I said again.“Bobby.”
His hand was still on my arm.And now, carefully, he moved it, opening a path for him to slip free of my embrace.He moved to the dresser and began pulling out clothes: underwear, joggers, a hoodie.He dressed with his usual economy.He balanced on one foot as he pulled on his socks, and in my mind’s eye, I saw how only a few minutes before, he’d curled his toes into the carpet.Tears welled up, and I blinked them away.
“What’s going on?”I said.“What’s happening?”
“I need to—to go.”
“Right.Yeah, of course.Okay, let me—do you want your duffel?”
But he was already passing through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom into the other bedroom where he kept most of his stuff.
I followed.From the doorway, I watched as he dumped clothes into the bag.
“What can I do?”I asked.
“I’ve got it.”
I stared at him.He switched drawers, gathered more clothes, and dropped them in the duffel.
“I’ll pack your toiletries,” I said.
“I’ll do it.”And then, as though talking to himself, he said, “I need to call Cari.”
Cari.Not Sheriff Acosta.
“Okay, I can do that for you.”
He shook his head.In some way, he must have decided the duffel bag was complete because he gave it a final, considering look and slid the bag toward the bathroom.Then he turned toward his sneakers—not the ones he kept on display in the special boxes I’d given him, but the ones he actually wore.These were neatly organized in cubbies (because of course they were), and he bent, hands on knees, and considered them.He took out a pair of Jordans.He put them back.He moved a pair of Adidas to a different shelf and made an annoyed sound, like they should have been there the whole time.His hair was still damp from the shower, boyishly feathered across his forehead instead of his usual part, and he made that little sound again and pushed it out of his eyes.
Something broke open inside me, and I started to cry.Not a lot, but I had to wipe my eyes as I crossed to him.
“Bobby.”
He made a questioning sound in his throat.
I caught his wrist.“Bobby.”
