Left Out (12 page)

Genevieve jumped up off the bed, and it looked like she yelped too.

Everything was silent to Landon. He had an idea of what Genevieve was saying, though. He didn't have to read lips to know she was raving mad. Landon told himself to stay calm. He knew he just had to weather the storm. It would pass. And, a storm was always a lot less frightening when you couldn't hear the thunder.

Genevieve started pacing and flashing her phone in his face. He didn't read the text messages or the Instagram posts. He didn't have to. He knew from the pain and anger on her face that they were about him. He didn't have to read about people calling him a powder puff. He knew what they thought.

“I can't even hear you, Genevieve.” Landon stood in the
same spot, folded his arms, and pointed to the ears in their drier.

“Look at me.” She mouthed the words slowly. The look in her eyes was so white-hot that he couldn't look away.

She shook her head violently. “You cannot quit!”

Landon just looked down at her and shook his head. “Leave me alone, Genevieve. You don't know what you're talking about. Everything's easy for you.”

“For me?” Her face twisted in disbelief. “Do you know what I've done for you?”

Landon looked away until she grabbed his arm and gave it a yank.

He could tell she'd lowered her voice as she leaned close and said, “Don't you look away. You look at me! I know you understand. I've made nice with one of the meanest girls I've ever met in my life because of you. Do you know why? So she won't
torture
you.”

Landon was confused. “Not Megan.”

“No, not Megan. Katy! She looks at you like a spider looks at a fly. She'd love to wrap you up and suck out every ounce of blood and leave you shriveled up like a mummy, but she won't because she wants to be my friend.” Genevieve jabbed her own chest with a thumb. “Do you know how much I hate that? You think that isn't hard?

“No, you don't.” Genevieve shook her head violently again, and then she grabbed him by both arms and looked up into his eyes, slowly mouthing the words, “Pain is temporary, Landon, but quitting? Quitting is
forever
.”

She turned and left him alone, wrapped in his towel, still dripping.

Landon felt like she'd stabbed him in the stomach and twisted the knife. It hurt and it made him furious. He wanted to strike back, and when he saw the medal she'd given him, he snatched it off the bedpost and marched after her. She'd already disappeared into her bedroom.

He knew he should knock, but he was too mad for manners. With the medal in his hand, he cocked his arm back, ready to throw it onto her floor. He didn't need her medals and he didn't need any of his own.

He grabbed the door handle with his other hand and flung it open.

Landon couldn't hear the screams, but he knew there was screaming.

In a flash of skin and underwear and towels, he realized he'd barged in on Genevieve and her friends changing to take a night swim.

The medal slipped from Landon's hand and fell silently to the floor.

Landon squeezed his eyes shut and bolted back to his room.

He lay facedown on his bed with a pillow over the back of his head. His breath got hot and short, and he wondered if a person could suffocate himself. He threw the pillow off and rolled over, gasping for air, and lay there huffing for a long while. Finally, he swung his legs off the bed and sat there with the towel still wrapped tightly around his flabby waist.

He got up and dressed himself.

His hands trembled, and he dropped his ears twice before he had them on and in place. He cracked open the door and listened hard for any sounds, but the house was still. He tiptoed out and peered down Genevieve's hall. Her bedroom door stood ajar, but no light spilled from it. Quietly, he made his way down the stairs. His father's computer was on, but the chair stood crooked and empty. He rounded the corner and saw his
parents sitting with Genevieve at the kitchen table. They talked in a low murmur that he hadn't a prayer of understanding. His mother held Genevieve's hand across the corner of the table. Genevieve's head hung low and her back was to him.

Landon touched her shoulder. “I didn't see anything.”

Genevieve looked up in horror. “You just had to shove that medal in my face, didn't you?”

Landon's mouth fell open. He'd never seen Genevieve this mad at him. He wanted to tell her about Xander's birthday party. He wanted her to feel bad for him and comfort him, but nothing came out.

“And don't even say you didn't see anything!” Genevieve threw her hands in the air, her eyes as wild as her hair. “They totally freaked and Katy said they had to leave and she's already blabbed about it. It's
out
there.”

Genevieve held up her phone as proof and then turned the phone her way, looked at it, and groaned before putting her head down onto her arm to cry.

Landon's father looked ill. His face was pasty and he twiddled his fingers with his eyes rolled toward Landon's mom, awaiting her response.

Landon's mom stared at the tabletop, searching the rich wood grain for some kind of inspiration or truth. Finally, she sighed and looked up at Landon's dad. “Well, Landon is a normal boy, and normal boys are curious about these things.”

Landon's father seemed to have swallowed his tongue. He shook his head uncertainly and gurgled.

Landon's mom looked at Landon now.

Landon shook his head. “No. I'm not curious.”

“Landon? It's all right,” his mom said. “It's perfectly natural for boys your age; your father will tell you that. Forrest?”

“Uh . . . of course,” his father said.

“Mom! I did not see them on
purpose!
” Landon clenched his fists. “I was giving her back her stupid medal.”

“Now my medal's stupid?” Genevieve raised her head. Her eyes were red, and she was livid.

Landon kept going. “That's the only reason I went to her room, and I didn't have my ears on and I didn't hear anything or anyone and I had no idea they were even
there.
”

His mom removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes before looking up. “Oh . . . well . . . a misunderstanding. All of it. I'll call the girls' mothers and get it worked out.”

“Good luck with that.” Genevieve looked bitter, but Landon's mom was undaunted.

“I don't need luck,” she said. “Just persistence.”

“It's already
out
there, Mom.” Genevieve groaned and lifted her phone off the table. “Katy called Landon a ‘Peeping Tom,' and people are going wild with it. It's a hashtag. #PeepingPowderPuff.”

“Well, every sensible person knows the internet is no place for reliable facts,” their mom said.

“Like saying President Obama wasn't born in America.” Landon's dad raised a finger.

Landon's mom scowled at her husband. “Well, fools are fools, and I can't help that. What I can help with, though, is this Katy Buford. We'll see how long she keeps this up after I call her mother. I'll give
her
a hashtag.”

Landon stood there, lost and crushed and wanting to go back to Cleveland. Kip Meyers and his friends calling him a big, fat dummy was a piece of birthday cake compared to this.

Suddenly, the phone rang. They all just stared at it.

Landon's mom sighed. “Maybe she's saving me the trouble of looking up her number.”

She got up slowly from her chair to answer. “Hello? Yes, this is Landon's mother.”

His mom paused, and then her face turned angry.
“What?”

Landon wondered how he could continue to sink when he'd already hit the bottom. He grabbed his cochlears and stood there, ready to pull the plug.

Landon's mom looked at him, fuming, but it wasn't him she was mad at. He could tell.

“I hate to say it,” his mom said into the phone, “but I've seen things like this before. This isn't the first time Landon's been excluded from a birthday party . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . yes.”

Landon's dad bit into his lower lip and began twiddling his fingers again.

“Wait, I'm sorry.” Landon's mom's face softened. “What did you say your name was?”

She listened, nodding her head. “Courtney Wagner. Got it. Thank you, Courtney. But your son is Brett? Brett Bell? Yes, I thought about keeping my name too, but my husband is a bit old-fashioned. Ha-ha.”

Confusion racked Landon.

His mom held his attention with commanding eyes. “Yes, I think Landon would be happy to talk to Brett, but it would be much easier on Skype, or we can FaceTime. Do you have an account? You do? Super. I've got it on my cell phone and I'll bring it right up. . . .”

Landon's mom tapped away on her phone. “Got it. Calling now.”

His mom switched from the house phone to her cell. The Skype blurted and bleeped, and his mom came back toward the table. “Hi, Courtney. It worked! This is so nice. Let me put Landon on, and
thank you.
Thank you so much.”

His mom handed Landon the phone and there was Brett, not scowling, not mean-faced, but wearing an easy smile as if he wasn't the one-man wrecking machine he had been earlier on the field.

“Hi, Brett,” Landon said.

“Hey, Landon. Can you understand me okay like this? Can you see me good?” Brett asked, pointing to his own face.

“Yes.” Landon felt wildly shy, aware that everyone was watching him, and having no idea what was going on. He remembered Brett's anger in the drill. Landon searched for a trick, some kind of falseness, but Brett appeared to be genuine.

“So, Saturday . . . ,” Brett began.

Landon just stared.

Brett smiled crookedly, maybe from nerves. “Saturday, we're going down to New Jersey to visit my uncle. He plays for the Giants and they have the day off. He's gonna have a bunch
of players over at his house—he's got a pretty big house—for a cookout at the pool. I think Rashad Jennings will be there. Eli Manning, too. Anyway, I thought maybe you'd want to come with us.”

A surge of excitement and joy rocketed through Landon's entire body. “I . . . sure. But . . .”

“What's the matter?” Brett asked.

Landon couldn't help being suspicious. This sounded too good to be true. “Don't you have that birthday party, with Xander and the whole team?”

Brett gave him a funny look. “Well, if you're not going, then it can't really be a team party, right? Besides, nothing would stop me from being with my uncle and his friends.”

Landon couldn't even speak. He glanced at his mom, who was beaming and nodding and mouthing for him to say yes.

“Uh,” Landon said, “yes. Sure. A cookout would be awesome. Rashad Jennings is amazing. He ran for over a hundred yards last year when they played the Browns. I'm a Browns fan, but I won't say that to them.”

Off-screen, his mom waved her hands frantically and mouthed for him to say thank you.

“Thanks, Brett. Thanks very much.”

“Hey, no problem, Landon. And don't worry about the Browns. Everyone gets it. You're from Cleveland, right? You're supposed to be a Browns fan.”

“But I can be a Giants fan too,” Landon said. “You know, unless they face off in the Super Bowl.”

Brett laughed and then looked at someone off of his screen
and then back. “My mom says we'll pick you up about eleven, if that's okay.”

“That's . . . sure. Eleven would be great. Thank you again.”

“Here, I'll give you my mom's cell number.” Brett told him the number. “Text your address, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. See you at practice tomorrow, then.”

“See you,” Landon said. The phone bleeped and Brett disappeared. Landon looked up to see if the whole thing had really happened.

Genevieve still looked destroyed, but his father beamed and nodded like he'd won the lottery, and his mom reached out and touched his cheek. “See, Landon? See how quickly things can turn around?”

Landon handed her back her phone. “Thanks, Mom.”

He didn't want to say anything more. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be angry about Xander's party, or sad or afraid. He practically tiptoed back to his room, removed his ears, got into his pajamas, climbed into bed, and lay there with his eyes open and the lights off. His parents came in and kissed him good night, looking at him fondly but sensing that he needed to be left alone.

He felt like he was on the top floor of a house of cards. Any misstep could bring the whole thing down, but for now, for this night, he had a friend—and not just any friend. He had Brett. And if Brett was friends with him, Megan might also be forgiving and understand when she heard his side of the story about barging in on them. She might even help him by telling
people he'd done nothing wrong and that it was only a mistake and that Katy Buford was a mean, obnoxious twit.

Landon sighed.

Maybe not. But then again, maybe she would.

Friday afternoon it rained. Landon watched football technique drills and blocking highlights on YouTube while his father pecked away at the computer. Genevieve ignored him, leaving the house with nothing more than a wave. When Landon asked his father where she'd gone, his father said that she was going to the mall with Megan to shop and then see a movie.

“So that's a good sign, right?” Landon said, wishing beyond hope that the Peeping Powder Puff thing had died a quick death and everyone had gotten over it.

His father only shrugged. “Maybe. We'll see. Sometimes people surprise you, and I know your mother is on the case, so . . .”

His mom “working on it” made Landon worry more, but he chose to push it from his mind and instead dwell on the weekend invitation. He wanted to call Brett to make sure it was real, feel him out for signs that it was something his mother had
put him up to, but decided that might damage what was a good thing. He needed to be patient and let it all unfold.

He closed his iPad and picked up his book.

It was nearly time for practice and still raining when Landon, sitting in his favorite chair, looked up from reading and, out of the blue, spoke across the room to his father. “Genevieve didn't seem too mad when she left?”

His father looked up from his typing and over at Landon. “The thing about your sister is that she's a lot like your mom. You never have to worry whose side she's on.”

Landon waited for his father to go on, but he'd stopped talking. Landon filled the silence, saying, “My side, right?”

His father dipped his chin. “Your side times ten. She might be mad, but she'll fight for you, Landon.”

Landon thought for a moment. “But who wants to have a little sister fighting for him? I mean, that looks kind of bad.”

His father scratched his chin and pointed. “You seem to really like that book.”

“Huh?” Landon wasn't sure if he'd heard his father correctly so he held up the book, and his father nodded. “Yeah, it's awesome.”

“But look at it,” his father said. “A worn-out green cover with the title and the author's name, both faded. No fireballs or dashing heroes or swords or brilliant, eye-catching colors. But inside? Wow. What could pack a bigger punch than
The Three Musketeers
? It's unforgettable.”

“So, don't judge a book by its cover,” Landon said.

“I never do.” His father smiled and turned back to the screen and his story.

Later, at football practice, Landon watched the other kids warily. The rain hadn't stopped. Maybe that was keeping the fires of rumors under control. The temperature had dipped into the low seventies, so there wasn't as much need for water bottles. Landon found himself shifting from foot to foot, drenched from head to toe, watching the other boys battle in the muddy grass. There was a lot of hooting and hollering. Landon couldn't figure out why. Large drops swelled on his face mask, growing fat until they broke free and splattered his jersey.

No one said anything to him. The one time Landon found himself face-to-face with Skip—before practice on the sideline where Skip was retrieving a football from the ball bag—the quarterback simply walked around Landon like he was a lamppost. He took that as a good sign, but he had a sinking feeling that something might have changed with Brett. It was like their Skype the night before had never happened. He wasn't able to bring himself to tap Brett on the shoulder until after wind sprints.

Brett looked exhausted, which was no surprise. The big lineman had hustled and hit his way through practice like it was a fifty-round boxing match, if there even was such a thing. Even in the cool rain, Brett's face was beaded with sweat and his eyes sagged wearily. “Hey, Landon.”

“Everything good?” It was the only question Landon could ask.

“Oh, you mean guys calling you 3P?” Brett shot a glare around at the other players slogging up toward the parking lot. “Don't worry about that junk. People are stupid.”

“Wait, what?” Landon had no idea what he was talking about.

Brett waved a padded hand toward the heavy gray sky. “Forget it. Just jerks. You're good for tomorrow, right? My uncle's place?”

“Yeah.” Landon nodded. “I'm great for tomorrow, but what's 3P?”

Brett studied him. “Landon, it's okay. Junk happens. People blow things out of proportion. The girls you walked in on? I already told Skip to keep his hands off you.”

“You did?” Landon felt a surge of gratitude. “Thanks, but why would Skip . . .”

“Well, you know he and Megan are, like, this thing.” Brett wrinkled his face. “Stupid, really. I think they hold hands at the movies or something. Everyone was pushing him to bust you in the mouth, but I got that covered.”

“But, 3P?”

Brett tilted his head. “You really don't know? It's not nice. I don't want to even say. It's stupid.”

“Wait . . .” Landon lowered his voice. “Peeping Powder Puff?”

Brett looked disgusted. “Don't worry about it. It'll die down, and no one's laying a hand on you.” Brett made a fist and tapped his own chest. “They know better.”

Pressure built up inside Landon because he felt like he should let Brett go. The two of them were just standing there alone now. Brett's dad was huddled up with the other coaches as they sometimes did after practice, but Landon had to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being my friend. What's in it for you?”

Brett shrugged. “Nothing. You're my teammate. My dad says a real leader treats everyone on the team the same. The best player or the . . . the not-best player.”

“You mean the worst player.” Landon wondered if, despite the drills, he even qualified as a player. “The guy who plays left out.”

“It doesn't matter, Landon.” Brett set his jaw. “Some people just don't get it, but in my house, that's how we do things. You help people who really need it.”

Landon swallowed. “And . . . because of all this stuff, I really need it?”

Brett had that hard look on his face again. “Yeah. You do.”