“Jack? It’s Libby’s turn.”
I rub the back of my neck, where the hairs are prickling.
“Yeah. Sure.” I throw the ball to her.
She stares at the ball for a moment, rolling it around in her hands, delicately, carefully, like she’s holding the entire world. Then she turns those eyes on me, and they’re hard to read. She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. It turns out she doesn’t have five things to say about me. She has only one. “You’re actually not a bad guy, Jack Masselin. But I’m not sure you know it yet.”
I walk as fast as I can out of the gym without actually breaking into a run. But Jack falls in step beside me, Afro billowing and blowing like it comes with its own wind effects.
He says, “Thanks for what you said in there.”
“It was nothing.”
“Not to me. By the way, what you did yesterday? You’re my hero.”
“You told me to put clothes on.”
“Because Moses Hunt was getting a little too close, and who knows what he might have done. I didn’t want anyone grabbing you.”
“Oh, the irony.” And then, because for some reason I can’t help myself, I tell him, “I’ve apparently gone viral.”
“I know. I saw. Listen, some girl will see that video and you’re going to give her the courage to buy her own purple bikini. You’re going to make a difference. Just watch. Girls everywhere, of all sizes, are going to want one. Clothing manufacturers across the globe will be working overtime to produce enough purple swimsuits to satisfy the demand. Girls will stop asking Do these jeans make my butt look big? They won’t care if it looks big or small. They’ll wear what they want to wear and fucking own it.”
He smiles, and there’s something in it that makes me want to smile, but I don’t because this is the boy who broke my heart.
He says, “It may not look like it, but you’re actually smiling.”
I can’t wait for Christmas, so I carry Dusty’s robot down the hall to his room and knock on the door. He yells, “Come in.”
I push open the door, but I don’t go in because he’s still not really talking to me. Instead I set the robot on the floor and send it inside. I’ve named it the Shitkicker. It’s a superhero.
The robot goes zooming into Dusty’s room, where it says, “Hello, Dusty. I’m fighting shittiness everywhere! The Shitkicker is here to kick your ass!”
Dusty goes, “My ass?” And then starts laughing.
It’s the best sound in the world. I poke my head into the room, and my little brother is rolling across his bed, and then he’s up and on his feet and examining the robot from every angle.
He sees me and frowns. I hit the remote, and the Shitkicker says, “It’s you and me against the world, Dusty.”
My brother stares at the robot and shakes his head. “It’s almost like it recognized me. How did you do that?”
The truth is the Shitkicker can’t recognize Dusty any more than I can, but I programmed it so that Dusty is the only one it calls by name. To the Shitkicker, everyone is Dusty.
“Magic,” I say. “So that he can always find you.”
I push a button on the remote, and the Shitkicker says, “Don’t be shitty!” And then I hit another button, and the robot is kicking its legs, only it’s not really kicking anything—it’s dancing. The Jackson 5 come cranking out of a speaker in old Shitkicker’s chest, and now Dusty is dancing along with it.
I hand my brother the remote and then I’m dancing too, and a couple of minutes later Dusty goes, “Is he carrying a purse?!” And of course he is, because the Shitkicker knows only the cool kids use them. And Dusty’s howling over this, and now the three of us are dancing in sync, and as good as Dusty and I are, there’s no doubt about it—the Shitkicker is definitely the man.
Top 2 Things I Miss About Libby
by Jack Masselin
The way I feel when I’m with her. Like I just swallowed the sun and it’s shooting out of every pore.
Everything.
FOUR DAYS LATER
* * *
I’m due at Kam’s house around nine. Caroline will be there. Everyone will be there. I don’t want to see everyone—or anyone, actually—but this is the way it has to be. I’m Jack Masselin, after all. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.
I take a shower, pull on my clothes, shake out my hair. I grab the car keys, and I’m almost out of there when my dad (thick eyebrows, pale skin, Masselin’s shirt) comes chasing after me.
“Hey, Jack, can we talk to you a minute?”
I think of every excuse—I’ve got a date and I’m already running late (true), I think the car’s on fire (hopefully not true), I don’t want to talk to you (true true true). “Sure thing, Daddy-o. What’s up? But make it quick. The ladies don’t like to be kept waiting.” I almost add, As you know.
“This is serious, buddy.”
Marcus, Dusty, and I sit on the couch side by side. Mom is opposite us on the ottoman that’s the size of a small boat. She leans forward, hands on her knees as if she might leap up at any minute.
Dad clears his throat. “Your mom and I love each other very much. And we love you. The three of you are our life, and we’d never do anything to hurt you.” He goes on like this for a while, all about how much he loves us and how he’s lucky to have such a great, supportive family, how we were all there for him when he was sick, and he can never tell us what that means to him.
Meanwhile, Marcus, Dusty, and I are all looking at Mom because she’s the one who tells it like it is. But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even look at us. She’s staring at some point just past our father, who is still talking.