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One of those people who makes your grandparents think the younger generation isn’t completely lost yet.
Here’s the thing—some people are just better at life. Right from the start.
They’re pushed out of the womb, and at only a few seconds old, they already have things going for them. They have decently shaped skulls. They have hair, so they won’t spend the first year of their life looking like a cross between a Play-Doh egg that’s been dropped on the floor a few times too many and a miniature cranky old man.
Those same people grow into charming preschoolers who’ll make witty remarks to adults and don’t hold on to their mothers’ legs for dear life and scream bloody murder every time somebody even dares to look in their direction.
At school, these people excel. They ace their classes and coaches volunteer to donate a liver to any member of their family in need, just to get them to play on their team. They win trophies and awards whenever they throw their hat in the ring. Spelling bee. Science fair. Prince Charming in your middle school production of Cinderella. They collect every scout badge, are elected class president by an overwhelming majority, and charm every teacher. If they’re real overachievers, they also play an instrument.
And then, when you happen to be one of those kids whose mother drops them on their father’s doorstep unannounced every now and then in a misguided effort to restore the father-son bond, so you’re forced to sit on the stairs outside with your hastily packed overnight bag in front of your feet and your dog pressed against your legs and listen to the man you once knew as your father pace around inside and speak in a clipped tone to your mom on the phone, saying to come the fuck back and take her kid with her? The Rykers of the world will slip through the front door and sit next to you on the steps and pretend not to notice that you’re barely holding it together. They’ll talk nonstop and drown out all the other voices. They’ll nudge you with their shoulder and ask if you want to go play soccer or hit pucks against the garage door or just go throw rocks into a pond in the woods, and they’ll drag you away from the open windows of the house and the ugly words floating out of them.
That’s Ryker James in a nutshell.
In comparison, I started my life as an uncommonly unfortunate-looking infant. The kind who makes people Google ‘how to compliment an ugly baby.’ I was bald until the age of three, when the hair finally kicked in and my mom could stop researching whether hair transplants were a thing they did for toddlers.
I have no musical or artistic or athletic talents, and I’ve never won a prize in my life. In our middle school production of Cinderella, I played the pumpkin. I’m inclined to think it was a pity role, because there were two pumpkins and only one of us got turned into a carriage, so basically my grandparents drove all the way to Burlington from Hartford to watch me silently crouch in the corner of the stage, partially hidden by the curtain, not uttering a single word for an hour and a half.
And then, if you happen to be one of those kids who’s a product of a prolonged, messy divorce? And your new stepbrother is the kind of person who sits next to you on the steps and pets your dog, and talks your ear off and tries to distract you by yammering about ocean tides, listing the best sour candies, and discussing the physics involved in hockey, even if you don’t know how to play yourself and have no interest in it? You’ll also end up being the kind of person who, as a thank you, does his level best to not be grateful for any of it and is instead sullen and bitter about it all and learns to avoid friendly, nice-to-their-bones golden boys.
“How are things?” Ryker asks me, cutting into my thoughts with a lazy smile and too much curiosity.
I stare straight ahead. “Could be worse,” I say, because I’m an optimist. And the truth would make him ask questions I’m not willing to answer and offer help I’m not willing to accept.
I feel his eyes on the side of my face, but I refuse to meet his gaze.
“I saw you at the funeral,” he says.
“You weren’t meant to.”
God knows I did my best to stay as far away from the actual grave site as possible. I’m talking needs-binoculars-to-see-the-casket type of far away. Figures Ryker spotted me anyway.
He always does.
Stupid as that sounds, he might be the only person who’s taken an interest in seeing me for the past ten plus years or so.
And I hate that he does. See me.
Ryker rubs his hand over the back of his head, eyes all serious, ready to step in as my emotional support golden boy. All well-adjusted and emotionally stable and mature. Ugh.
“Do you want to tal—” he starts to say just as a woman appears from around the corner and calls out my name.
Saved by the cranky financial aid office lady.
I get up and grab my backpack from the floor.
“See you around,” I say over my shoulder, striding toward the woman waiting for me, who very demonstratively glances at her watch as I approach.
I suppress a sigh.
This bodes well.
RYKER
I look after Lake until he disappears around the corner. That chip on his shoulder has gotten even bigger since the last time I ran into him, and it wasn’t that small to begin with.
I’ve known the guy for a long time.
We both grew up in Vermont. Went to the same school. Same class. And then there’s, of course, the fact that John Bates, Lake’s father, was married to my mother, so there’s a lot of fucked-up history the?—
