loose and relaxed.
Dylan’s soft, he said. You see the lunches his mother packs? Organic crackers and cookies. And his binders are all organized, with labels in a woman’s handwriting. He’s never kicked anyone’s ass.
Justin said nothing. His mother helped him organize things and used to make his bed until his father called an end to it. His parents had fought for a week over her pampering — his father’s word. That was just the previous summer.
Anyway, man, it was good to meet you, Clay said when they were a block from the house. He extended his hand. They shook, and he kept on past the driveway.
For the rest of the week, Justin walked home with Clay. He asked him questions — How long have you been practicing pull-ups? Did you run track at your old school? — but didn’t mention team sports since it was clear Clay hadn’t played them much.
Over dinner, Justin’s parents speculated about whether Clay’s father would return, whether that woman — Justin’s father didn’t seem to know what to call her — would get a job.
She’ll have to put her trench coat back on, he said. And the boy doesn’t even live here. He comes at six in the morning, eats, I guess, and leaves.
Monday, a few kids gossiped that Clay had shown up at a party and that when Melody got drunk, he took her home in her car.
That afternoon, as he and Justin walked back from school, Clay said, Can I tell you something?
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