We'll Fly Away Read online

  Luke stood up and pushed Toby, stopping the gyrations, but hard enough that Toby hit the ground. For a moment there was a flash—like a knife coming out—across Toby’s face. Luke had seen it before, of course, when they were kids and still threw fists to settle arguments. And once in middle school, when Toby’s dad came home from the Deuce smelling like cheap whiskey. They’d broken a window or something. But hell, there never had to be a reason for an ass kicking in Toby’s house. Still, they stood in the kitchen staring at the cracked linoleum, trying not to give the bastard a reason or the satisfaction. Luke got sent home before the real whipping started. And that wasn’t really the right word to describe what happened to Toby when Luke wasn’t around.

  Not even close.

  2

  TOBY didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking up when Luke opened the front door and the early morning light slipped into the dark apartment. A few moments later, Luke was gone. His runs were a morning ritual, heavy or not.

  They’d spent the night watching professional wrestling, which Luke hated. But Luke still put a respectable pile driver on Petey as the television switched to a police drama, followed almost immediately by suplexing Jack-Jack onto the couch. When Luke stood up, a theatrical wildness in his eyes, Toby slapped his chest, pointed to an invisible crowd, and posed. It was enough to get Luke laughing, which was no easy feat lately.

  Toby turned on the television, absently watching an infomercial for a contraption that peeled oranges. The hosts threw their heads back in laughter every few seconds, excited, as the camera panned across the crowd, all of whom seemed equally ecstatic about what looked like a giant knitting needle. Toby’s stomach howled for an orange.

  They’d scrounged up enough change last night for two small frozen pizzas, but even without Luke eating it wasn’t enough. And now, the cabinets were just as empty, except for the same lonely can of hominy that had been there for months. When Toby finally found some cereal, it took the dust from two different bags to make even half a bowl, which he carried out to the balcony of the apartment.

  He set the bowl on the railing and blew warmth into his hands, watching the cars pass on the two-lane in the distance. When Luke came running into the parking lot in a full sprint, the garbage bags he was wearing shushing loudly with every stride, Toby lifted the bowl to his lips and downed the milk, the dust, all of it.

  Luke impressed everybody. Coaches, high school and college alike, teachers—even though he was barely a C student—and of course girls, who might as well be invisible for all the game Luke had. The last time a girl had talked to him, Luke had gone stupid. Mouth shut like he couldn’t remember a single word.

  Still, game or not, when it came to the mat, Luke was a single-minded killer put on the earth by whatever gods were in charge of taking dudes down, and hard. Watching him destroy his opponents had the same effect as a horror movie. You were simultaneously anxious for them, and unable to look away.

  It would be easy to explain his dominance as simply biological. He was strong, fast, and scary. But that was only part of the story. Luke worked harder than anybody Toby had ever met. At the end of every run, he sprinted. When there was a French test (and he was shit at speaking en Français), he was the last guy to turn in his test. Something burned inside him, something most people didn’t have. Toby had never been good at anything, not like Luke.

  Luke pulled the garbage bags off his legs as he climbed the stairs, dropping them in a sweaty pile in front of the apartment’s door. He leaned against the railing next to Toby, breathing hard.

  “How much did you get?” Toby asked.

  “Not enough. We stayed up too late. I’m tired as hell.”

  A car pulled into the parking lot, and both of them stared down as a twenty-something man got out holding a gallon of milk. He wore the same generic blue work shirt that everyone in this building, this town, owned. Luke stretched his back and then touched his toes. When he stood up, he shook his head.

  “My entire body is off.”

  “I say you pack on twenty, thirty more pounds and just go heavyweight,” Toby said. “Surprise everybody.”

  Luke ignored him, stretching again.

  Toby had tried out for football their freshman year, and even though he had made it through the whole season without getting hurt or, honestly, getting into a game, he wasn’t made for sports. They’d lose a game, and it would take everything he had to keep himself from cracking a joke. If it hadn’t been for Luke, he’d face an ass kicking daily, and he knew it. But it rarely stopped him.

  “You already have a scholarship,” Toby said. “Who cares about Connor Herrera?”

  Luke stood up and kicked the wet garbage bags off the ledge. They landed on the ground with a splat. It was more emotion than Toby had seen from Luke in weeks. But then he must’ve caught himself, because he looked down for a second, and when he spoke, his voice was even.

  “I care.”

  Petey appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.

  “You guys are being loud as shit,” he said, and Luke immediately cuffed him on the side of the head. Not hard, but Petey’s chin trembled.

  “I don’t want to hear you talking like that,” Luke said. When Petey didn’t answer, Luke went down on one knee so he could look him in the eye. “You hear me?”

  Luke always said the twins were wild, but Toby knew wild. Petey and Jack-Jack were just kids. The kind of kids who wouldn’t think twice about ramming a shopping cart into your shins just for the hell of it, but kids nonetheless. Though who knew what would happen when Luke left for school next year.

  Come fall, Toby would follow Luke to college. He had no idea how they’d pay the rent or buy food. Whether there were rules about first-year students living in apartments. He didn’t know if the boys would come with, or if they’d see them on breaks. But he’d been building this abstract new life for them since Luke took state their freshman year. And once Luke signed the letter of intent, the faint light of hope that had gotten them through countless nights of pain and anger and desperation transformed into one word, a state he could barely even imagine—Iowa. But in a few months, what he could or couldn’t imagine didn’t matter, not anymore. They were finally leaving.

  “Go wake up Jack-Jack,” Luke said, and Petey paused, just a second. Like he was running the odds of his next move. Luke nudged him gently toward the door. “I’m going to get us some breakfast.”

  Petey went yelling into the living room as Luke sighed and started down the walkway.

  Ms. Hildebran had lived five doors down since long before Luke and the boys. She spent her days watching game shows, her stories, and whatever else came on. Smoking and talking to the television. Every so often she’d call Luke and Toby in, giving them a slice of cake or a piece of cantaloupe.

  Toby could barely hear what Luke was saying when Ms. Hildebran came to the door, but he knew the script well enough. She disappeared, coming back and pressing a plastic grocery bag of food into Luke’s hands. Luke looked at his feet as she talked. At the end she reached out and pulled him into an awkward, one-sided hug.

  They were already eating, the smell of microwaved sausage and fried eggs coating the apartment, when Doreen walked in, carrying three bags of groceries.

  “Hello!” she sang, but nobody answered. The ash from her cigarette looked ready to drop until she switched all the bags to one hand and flicked the butt behind her, into the parking lot. She stood there for a second, staring at the food on their plates, her mouth open.

  “What the hell?”

  “There wasn’t anything to eat in the house,” Luke said plainly. He was eating egg whites, nothing else. And even though he was trying to play it cool, Toby could see he wasn’t.

  “You know I don’t like you going over there,” she said.

  Luke went back to his eggs.

  Doreen sighed and dropped the bags on the chair. “Anyway, can you get them ready for school? I had a long night. You don’t even have to pack lunch. I got Lunchable
s.”

  At the mention of Lunchables, Petey and Jack-Jack abandoned their plates and ran for the bags, rifling around until they saw the bright yellow boxes. Before they could run off, Luke grabbed the boxes and tossed them to Toby.

  “If you eat them now, you won’t have anything for lunch,” Luke said.

  Toby held the Lunchables high above his head, trying to block their punches while still keeping the boxes high enough. Doreen lit a new cigarette, blowing a long string of smoke from her mouth.

  “All right, quit. Go get dressed. Jesus.” She swatted at the boys and they went rumbling to her room. When they were gone, Doreen took another long hit on the cigarette before she turned to Luke and said, “I’m having a friend over for dinner tonight. So I’ll need you here to help.”

  Luke collected the dirty plates, his face still blank. When he looked away from Doreen, Toby jumped in.

  “I’ll come by and help too.”

  Nobody acknowledged him. Doreen stepped back and flicked ash out the open door.

  “I’m making meat loaf,” she said to Luke. “Mashed potatoes.”

  “I can’t eat potatoes,” Luke said. “I’m cutting weight. You know that.”

  “What’s one night going to matter? I don’t want Ricky thinking you’re some kind of weirdo.”

  Toby knew the look Luke gave his mother right then. He’d laid the same one on his old man countless times, despite knowing it would mean the belt or the replacement power cord for the dryer that hung purposefully in their trailer’s kitchen. The meaning couldn’t be clearer.

  Fuck. You.

  Toby flinched when Doreen picked up the bags of groceries in a huff and started slamming cabinet doors until everything was put away. She didn’t say another word as she breezed back through the living room to get her cigarettes. The last sound either of them heard was her yelling at the boys to hurry up so she could go to sleep.

  “Well, this guy Ricky sounds like a real winner,” Toby said, forcing a laugh. “What are the odds the dude is rocking a mullet?”

  Luke stood there grim faced, holding the plates.

  “And what grown-ass man still goes by Ricky?” Toby continued. “Not Rick. Or Richard. Might as well call him Sparky. Or . . . fucking . . . Tiger.”

  Luke cracked a smile.

  “I bet he’ll show up in the back of his mom’s station wagon or something.”

  Finally it worked. They both died, laughing until it hurt. Until the twins came tumbling into the living room, demanding to know what was so funny.

  November 12

  T—

  Man, when Sister came by today I had myself all puffed up—just looking for a fight. As soon as she saw me she was like, “Luke, I brought you something.” Held out a brand-new journal and pen, which must’ve been hell to get approved, considering they don’t want us to have anything. That’s how it is too. This place is designed to remind us again and again that we’re not really human. Not anymore.

  I don’t know, man. As soon as I saw that pen and journal, everything fell apart. I started wiping my eyes real hard, like that time you got pepper in your eye when we were kids. Dude, you screamed so loud I thought for sure somebody had set your ass on fire.

  I’m cracking up right now. For real.

  Anyway, Sister isn’t dumb. She saw right away what was happening and she took me to one of the visitation rooms, away from everybody. Told me I could be honest with her. That I didn’t have to keep everything inside.

  But you don’t survive in a place like this being honest. Hell, I could be honest all day long and what does that get me? A beating. A reputation. And then suddenly every guy in here is giving me the eye, just waiting to jump.

  The only way you survive is by wearing a mask. All the time, no matter what. You go out in the yard and watch dudes play basketball—better put on that mask. That’s how you laugh, how you can bring yourself to joke with them. Talking about how they wouldn’t know what to do if I ever decided to take a step on that court.

  That’s the carefree mask, the one that every person in this place wears. It screams: “Is that all you got?” It promises that no matter what you do or say, it isn’t going to affect me.

  I know you know all about that one, T.

  Sister doesn’t want to hear that, though. She wants me to be open, to be honest. But I can’t interact with people the same way I could before. I can’t open up or tell anybody how I’m feeling or what scares me. Because that shit will get you killed. Yeah, maybe your heart won’t stop beating. Maybe you won’t see any blood on the floor. But you’re dead all the same. The only way to live in here is to be completely walled off, to live solely on the inside. That way nobody can take anything away from you ever again.

  Of course as soon as I got in that room with Sister, I dried my shit up quick. Started joking around. She sat there staring at me, like she knew every single thing I was going through.

  She was all, “You don’t have to hide from me.”

  And I said, “Who’s hiding? I’m sitting right here.”

  But honestly? It was like a bomb went off inside me.

  Sister’s always saying how nobody can live alone. How people still care about me. Still love me. Whenever she gets going on that, I always laugh and say something like, “Oh yeah? Who?” But I already knew she was talking about herself, which is fine. I like the Sister. She’s one of the only people who doesn’t treat me like some kind of animal. She touches me—and ha-ha, don’t even get thinking about that, because I’m talking about on my arm. And it’s not just me. Sister hugs every dude in here, even though the COs are always giving her hell for it.

  Do you know what it’s like to go through day after day never touching another person? Being touched? I never thought about that before, not even once.

  Anyway, when Sister reached for my arm, I pulled back. The last thing I needed was to walk back into the pod all boo-hoo again, so I sat there staring at the table until I could look her in the eye. When I did, she said, “You don’t have to show me the letters. But I think you should keep writing to Toby.”

  That’s the first time anybody’s said your name to me in almost a year, man. And goddamn. All I wanted to do was punch the wall until my hand disappeared. Until I couldn’t feel it anymore.

  Luke

  3

  LUKE was holding a worksheet up against his locker, trying to finish a line of math problems, when Toby shot down the hallway like he was being chased. He was always wearing on someone’s last nerve. But most people knew at this point it wasn’t worth the effort. Luke was always there to save him.

  “She’s from Chicago,” was all Toby said, trying to breathe.

  Luke barely looked up from his worksheet. “What?”

  “Annie,” Toby said. “She’s new. Wears this jean jacket, which, like, I never thought denim could look that good just hanging from somebody’s shoulders, you know?”

  Luke gave an affirmative grunt, but he had already stopped listening—especially when Toby began dissecting the girl’s jacket further, her hair, which Toby described as “messy but in a hot way.” Luke had nine problems and four minutes to do them, already an impossible task even without Toby yammering. He stared at the worksheet, supposedly remedial, and tried to wrap his mind around the shapes and angles.

  “And then she kind of told me to go fuck myself,” Toby said.

  “I already like her,” Luke said.

  Toby pushed him against the locker, which only made Luke laugh.

  “We definitely had a connection,” Toby said. “I think the whole ‘fuck off’ thing is more a general posture, rather than an actual, you know, feeling toward me specifically.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Luke said. “It could totally be both.”

  Toby leaned against the bank of lockers, as if in midswoon, and wiped his forehead. Luke sighed and started to put the worksheet in his backpack unfinished when Toby snatched it from his hands.

  “Just let me do them for you,”
he said.

  Luke shook his head. There had to be some grace in honesty, some benefit to coming to class defeated and looking for help. But Toby had already written in the answers to four of the problems, even showing his work. Despite himself, Toby was smart. He had breezed through calculus his junior year. Could recite the date and year of not only Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, but the name of the farm where they found John Wilkes Booth twenty-four hours later. All of it like it was the day of the week too. Of course, none of that made him any more socially appropriate. In fact, it made people hate him all the more.

  “You should play hard to get,” Luke said. “For once.”

  Toby shook his head. “You’re good at a lot of things,” he said, handing the worksheet back to Luke. “Like rolling around with other dudes in tight outfits. But when it comes to, like, matters of the heart . . .”

  Toby started dancing, a kind of dirty two-step that drew comments and stares from everybody passing in the hallway. Toby ignored them, nearly floating as he singsonged his love and intentions for everybody to hear.

  Three hours later—Luke and Toby hadn’t had a class together since sixth grade—Toby walked into the lunchroom, cool as anything. A girl in a jean jacket, built tall and solid, like she could hurt you, followed right behind him, looking pissed.

  “What’s up, man?”

  Toby said it casual. Like this girl wasn’t following close enough to know what kind of shampoo he used. Toby dropped his bag, barely sitting down before she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back up.

  “What the hell is your problem?” she yelled.

  It got everybody’s attention. Like, everybody. Luke didn’t know whether to stand up, hide, or laugh with the rest of the cafeteria. The only thing he did know: this girl was serious. Even the normally unflappable Toby seemed momentarily panicked.

  “You told that guy I was your girlfriend?” The volume, in Luke’s opinion, was impressive. Her voice seemed to come from her knees, from the dingy floor of their cafeteria, gaining more and more power until finally exploding from her mouth. Toby, recovering his cool, only shrugged.