Upstander by James Preller (free ereaders .TXT) 📕

brother would make me come into his room and tell me what I had to listen to—like, right that second, he’d cue up a song, wrap the headphones around my head. I was this little girl, third grade maybe, and he’d be, like, ‘You must listen to this tune by the Ramones!’”

“Sounds like you love him,” Eric observed.

“Does it?” Mary asked, as surprised as if a wombat had suddenly waddled into the classroom. She hadn’t expected to be talking about her brother, recalling good times. Mary thought it over. “Yeah, I pretty much used to flat-out worship him.”

“Used to.”

“What?”

“Past tense,” Eric said.

“Things changed,” Mary admitted, glancing at the wall clock. Some shift in the room alerted her that time was almost up. People packing up, tucking papers in folders. Fourth period next. “He’s just … different now. My brother loves only one thing.”

Eric grinned. “Yeah? Like what? Bavarian polka music?”

“Getting wasted,” Mary replied.

“Oh.”

That lowered the temperature fast.

“He has a problem with addiction,” Mary said, immediately regretting the language. “I guess I should say, he has a substance use disorder. It’s like he has a broken leg in his brain. He gets mixed-up signals. Something about dopamine, chemicals in the brain, frontal lobes—I don’t understand it completely.” It was the first time she’d confessed those things to anyone other than her mother. Something about Eric made it feel safe, that she could trust this blond-haired boy with her secrets. She could be her true self.

Eric looked pensive. It was one of his endearing features, the way he’d ruminate deeply before speaking, arranging his thoughts in perfect order, like the Thanksgiving dinner table before company arrived. Napkins, plates, candles, centerpiece, just so. Eric asked, “Is he getting help?”

“Doesn’t want it,” Mary replied. “Thinks he doesn’t need it. He’s wrong.”

“Can’t your parents make him go to one of those places?”

Mary shook her head, suddenly exhausted. It was a hard topic to discuss. “He’s too old. Once you’re eighteen, they can’t legally make you do anything. My mom says he has to be involved in the decision-making or it won’t work.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric said, and he offered it up in such a way that Mary believed the words were genuine. It wasn’t just an empty phrase. Eric truly felt sorry, as if he’d carried around some similar sadness of his own. Like he knew. What was it called? Empathy. Eric had something that people like Griff would never understand.

Everybody has stories, she figured.

“Thanks for telling me,” he said. “I hope it gets better for you guys.”

Mary pointed a finger at her heart. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She caught herself and added, “Just to be clear, it’s not because I’m ashamed or anything. It’s just … you know. I don’t need everyone in my business.”

30[denial]

Everything turned in October, the month when it all hit the fan. Leaves were beginning to change color: yellow, orange, red. Mary had learned (and somehow remembered) the reason: in autumn, there was less light and temperatures fell, signaling to the trees that big changes were in the air. So they stopped making chlorophyll, like a factory shutting down, which was responsible for the green color. In colder climates, deciduous trees turned garishly brilliant before dropping their leaves altogether. Then they shifted into survival mode, like turtles overwintering in the mud. Skeletal limbs braced for whatever came their way.

Mary knew the feeling.

At home, Mary’s mom sat in the backyard on a dark red Adirondack chair. Mary opened the sliding glass door. “Hey,” Mary said, “there you are.” She knew from the look on her mother’s face that something was wrong.

“Tell me,” Mary said.

“Oh, it’s your brother again,” Mrs. O’Malley said, glancing at her phone in irritation. “He’s in love and moving in with his girlfriend, Vivian.”

“Vivvy,” Mary said, picturing the rail-thin girl who stood in their kitchen and tried to cook pizza while it was still in the box—and the plastic wrapper. Griff’s sister. If left alone, she might have burned down the house. Great roommate.

“I don’t have a good feeling about that girl,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “I don’t know what this new apartment is all about. He says he had a falling out with Dez, and that this new arrangement with Vivvy will save money. Supposedly there’s other people living there, too.” She bit at her nails, chewing on the skin of her fingers. “I’m at my wit’s end.”

Mary thought of making a joke about her mom’s healing crystals. Maybe they weren’t working out so well. Or maybe they were helping—she just needed to buy more! Maybe order by the truckload. Mary smiled to herself, imagining a huge delivery truck pulling up to the house. Here’s your quarry, lady, where do you want it?

She decided not to share the joke. The time didn’t seem right. “He’s still going to the therapist?” Mary asked.

“Yes, so far, so good. But I don’t know. It’s so hard. You can relapse like that,” Mrs. O’Malley said, snapping her fingers on the last word. “Jonny’s so vulnerable right now. And he’s smitten with this girl.”

An hour later, mother and daughter were still in the yard, Mary reading in the hammock, when Ernesto returned home from the dealership. Yes, home. He was pretty much living there full time, along with his favorite iron skillet and kitchen knives. He surveyed the scene, the lack of movement in the kitchen, and proposed a solution. “Let’s go bowling. We can get pizza there.”

“What? Now?” Mrs. O’Malley said.

“Yes, now,” Ernesto said, checking the time. “The leagues start up at seven thirty on Fridays. If we get a move on now, there should still be lanes open. What about you, Mary? Want to come?”

Mary closed her book. “I guess—” she said without enthusiasm.

“You could bring a friend,” her mother suggested. “I never hear about Chantel anymore.”

“She’s so busy,” Mary replied.

Mrs. O’Malley stood with hands on her hips. Leaning left, leaning right. That was her notion of yoga.

“I’ll try,” Mary said to appease her mother. She sent Chantel a text: I know