He straightens and lifts a finger, like he’s about to recite in front of an audience. “Four outfits: three everyday, one special occasion. Four pairs of underwear. Four pairs of socks, matching of course.” He glances down the hall and puts a hand to his mouth. “Because you know how Mom gets.” He rams his shoulders back again. “A pair of sneakers, a pair of occasion shoes”—Merrit’s eyebrows jump at that—“a pair of boots for the winter. Oh, and one hat.”
He’s speaking like himself. Which is good. It’s really good.
“Only clothes then?” I ask. “What about your computer?”
He closes his eyes as if my question requires great patience. “I consider that an extension of my personal body. It doesn’t need to be packed. It goes where I go. Along with my phone, of course. My watch. And . . . yes, that’s it.”
I almost ask him about the aviator sunglasses we bought together after Thanksgiving. But I don’t want him to think about Samantha. “How about toiletries?” I glance at his hair. “Shampoo?” His teeth aren’t looking that great either. “Toothbrush?”
He reaches out with one arm and pulls me into a hug. The other still grips the door. “That’s what I have you for. I can borrow yours.”
I breathe through my mouth. He doesn’t smell like magnolia and poppy detergent right now. “God, Merrit.” I try to pull away. “When was the last time you showered?”
He holds me tighter. He tries to push my face into his armpit. He’s joking, or at least I think he is, but I can’t stop the panicked thud of my heart.
I shriek and pull free.
He retreats into his room. The door is now only wide enough to fit his face. It’s squishing his cheeks together. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Come back on the day we’re moving. Maybe I’ll shower then.” He goes to slam the door.
“Wait!” I shout.
The door is an inch from closing. It widens half an inch. I’m both surprised and grateful he listened to me.
“What about your school books?” I ask. “Don’t you still have final papers to write?”
He gives me six more inches. His nose and mouth pop out and he regards me with open irritation. “I’m not going back. Not after the way they treated me. And by they, I don’t only mean the president, and the dean of the School of Engineering. I mean my so-called friends and colleagues, Larry the Louse and Derek the Dick, who sold me out and took my only umbrella when the proverbial shit hit the fan. I mean, they were right, I was the mastermind behind reMAKE, and I did accomplish virtually all the programming on my own. But they were the marketers. They introduced the app to the lacrosse team and the basketball team and the swim team. They were the ones who highlighted that you could secretly record anybody, then change what that person said to whatever you wanted. And even though I know which jocks posted that video of Dean Winters making those inappropriate sexual remarks about her students, because I traced it back to their phones, the school didn’t want to hear it. They didn’t want to have to suspend their star players. But someone like me? I’m expendable.”
Merrit’s cheeks are flushed. There’s spittle on his lips.
I’m afraid to say anything. I’m afraid to move. Mom told me Merrit needed a break. I figured it was the stress of finals. Mom didn’t say anything about getting kicked out or about an app where you can control what people say and do.
Merrit blinks when I blink. The fevered glaze clears from his eyes.
“Um—so it’s like an app to make fake video? Like that Obama clip Jordan Peele posted online?” I ask very quietly.
My brother draws an exaggerated breath. “It was intended for self-help, to allow you to create the best, most highly polished version of yourself. For when your social media interactions really matter. Like say, you’re trying to get back together with someone. Or maybe you want to put a video of yourself and all your attributes on LinkedIn. But yes, reMAKE has that same capability.”
Music is still on in his room. But it’s background noise. Like the rattle and hum of the subway when you’re inside it.
Merrit watches me, his brow still gathered in anger. I nod and drop my gaze, trying to process all that he’s told me.
He says more softly, “I’m not saying I won’t go back to college. Just not that one. In light of our current familial fiscal crisis, this might not be the worst thing.” His door shuts with a click.
I catch tears on my fingertips before they hit my cheeks. The pound of Merrit’s music ratchets up. I stumble toward Mom and Dad’s room, my hand leaving a damp trail across the bamboo frond wallpaper.
Dad’s coming out just as I reach the door. I smile really big, pretending nothing is wrong. Dad and I, we’re the ones who have to stay positive. No matter what.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s sleeping.”
He sees my smile wobble. We both know what that can mean.
“She’s taking her pills. I counted them,” he says. “She’s doing what she’s supposed to.”
“And Merrit?” I look up and beat my lashes like the wings of butterflies. No tears will get through.
Dad sighs. “He’s got an appointment this week.”
“Good.” I press my lips together so Dad doesn’t see them tremble.
Dad touches my head. He goes into the kitchen.
I sink onto my heels, curling into a ball. Bamboo ribbing digs into my shoulders. The familiar sensation gives me the strength to make it to my room. I collapse on my bed. I hang over the side. I pull out the pointe shoe box and one of Alex’s poems.
FRIDAY, MAY 5
ALEX
I lean against the kitchen counter. Empty bottles of Corona Light fill a recycling bag at my feet. Romeo Santos blasts from speakers in Julissa’s room. Julissa’s older sister, Ramona, is in there with her boyfriend. Bryan and Julissa are in the living room, acting like they’re the ones alone. No matter that fifteen City College friends of Ramona’s are standing around talking about World Cup contenders and Kwame Anthony Appiah’s latest book. I don’t care for soccer, but a philosopher who writes about race and identity sounds chévere. I couldn’t be around Julissa and Bryan anymore though. Isa is all I see.
I take out my phone. I’m about to open Instagram when who comes into the kitchen? Danny.
“¡Dimelo, chan! Missed you at yesterday’s game.” I pull Danny into a hug and pat his back. He hasn’t been to practice in two weeks.
Danny ducks his head. He goes to the sink. He grabs a slice of lime. Instead of a beer, he fishes a Coke out of the ice. “Coronas, eh?” He takes a long drink of soda.
“Cinco de Mayo,” I respond. A tonic and lime cools my hand. Beer and me, we don’t get along. I don’t get along with anything that interferes with my game. Papi said girls could interfere too but being with Isa only ever made my pitches faster, my swings stronger. But now? Thinking about her and not talking to her? Not even writing poems for her? That’s what’s messing with me.
“So where you been?” I ask him. It’s good Danny’s not drinking beer. I’ve got worries enough.
Danny takes another slug of cola. “Around.” He lets out a burp that lasts a good three seconds. Bryan would be hooting and slapping his back. Me? I stab Danny’s ribs with my elbow.