25

Sunday, 2 p.m. | Touhy Trailer Park | Addison

Barely a sliver of sunlight invaded Brady and Peter’s tiny bedroom through the cheap, bent blinds, but it was enough to make Brady roll over and bury his throbbing head under his pillow. He let out a long groan. Why did he do this to himself?

Brady had never really liked beer, and when his friends had told him it was an acquired taste, he wondered why they bothered to acquire it. He drank only to look cool and get a buzz, certainly not for the taste. And hangovers like this—his worst ever—were the price. Every beat of his heart sent shock waves through his skull that reached his cheekbones. Why? Why?

To celebrate. Both shows Saturday had been as good as—some said better than—opening night. The local paper had shown up and interviewed everybody—cast, crew, relatives, fans—and taken pictures galore. Brady opened his eyes in the darkness afforded by the pillow and squinted against the raging pain. Before heading to Stevie Ray’s to drink himself into oblivion, he’d had the presence of mind to leave Petey a note and a dollar so he could buy a Sunday paper. If he ever felt able to get out of bed, he’d see if it was there.

Oh no. He had wet himself in the night. And his breath tasted and smelled of vomit. How come they never showed that on the commercials?

How had he even gotten home? He didn’t remember. Stevie Ray’s wife had stomped out from their bedroom periodically to quietly but fiercely insist that they call it a night. And she kept saying that Stevie should get Brady home, as if he couldn’t get there himself. But he could, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he?

Brady sat up and let the sheet and blanket slide off. He planted his feet on the floor and held his head in his hands. Never again. Never, never, never. He licked his lips, which made him gag.

“I got your paper,” Peter said, and Brady looked up. Or tried to. He forced one eye open just a slit to see Peter in the corner, watching him.

“You read it?”

“Yeah. Cool. Lots of pictures and stuff about you.”

“No kiddin’? Get it.”

“You stink, you know.”

“I know. You like the play?”

“Sure, ’course. But I didn’t know where you were last night.”

“I wrote you a note.”

“But you didn’t say where you were gonna be, so I didn’t know till Stevie Ray brought you home.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. Really late. You were laughing and singing.”

“Seriously?”

“Some song from the play, but not as good.”

“I can imagine.”

“Stevie Ray must really like you.”

“Friends help each other.”

“Help them throw up? He was in the bathroom with you while you were puking your guts out.”

“Ugh.”

“I think you wet your bed too.”

“That’s what booze will do to you, Petey. Don’t ever—”

“Don’t worry! But why do you?”

Brady shrugged. “’Cause I’m an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I don’t get it, Brady. You were so good in that show and everybody loved you. Why’d you go and get drunk after that?”

Brady shook his head. “Thought I was celebrating. Stupid. Just stupid.”

“I don’t want a brother who’s stupid. I was telling everybody who I was at the play. They said I must be really proud. I’ve never been so proud.”

“But not right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

“All right. I’m sorry, man. I really am. Funny thing is, I don’t even like beer. Stevie Ray does. Loves it. He’s learned to drink only on weekends after his gigs so it doesn’t affect his playing.”

“Whatever.”

“I said I was sorry. Now bring me the paper.”

“Take a shower first.”

“Just bring it!”

But when Peter went to get it, Brady staggered into the shower. At least they had water pressure. Not much heat, but the tepid liquid on his head offered some relief.

Adamsville

“I feel almost guilty, Grace,” Thomas said, resting on the couch with his Sunday paper, an NFL game on TV. He had changed out of his church clothes after lunch.

“This is like heaven,” she said. “You used to be so tired by now you’d doze off during dinner and nap the whole afternoon away.”

“I may yet,” he said. “What is it about doing nothing that is so exhausting?”

“It isn’t as if you’ve taken the whole weekend off,” she said. “You helped those boys move your desk in.”

“Supervised is more like it. I don’t remember ever being that strong.”

She muted the television. “You haven’t said a word about the church. How’d you like it?”

“It’s close by. I like the service time. Nice building. Friendly people. About the right size.”

“But?”

“The music was okay. I could have used another hymn or two and one or two fewer choruses.”

Grace shook her head and smiled. “I think we’re in the minority there, sweetheart. The hymns are going to die with our generation.”

“Perish the thought.”

“And the pastor?”

“Seems like a wonderful young man. Humble. I like that.”

“Me too. But that sermon could have been more biblical and less anecdotal.”

“It was a good bit of both.”

“And that’s the problem, right? Are you going to be content to sit under someone who tells stories more than he exposits Scripture?”

“He wasn’t bad.”

“I know. What I’m asking is, are we still looking?”

“Still looking, Grace. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

He studied her. Wan. Eyes milky. She was the one who needed a nap. But she was right. This was heavenly. To be able to just sit on a lazy Sunday afternoon evaluating a pastor rather than knowing that’s what everyone else was doing to you?

Thomas Carey could get used to this.

Monday Morning | Forest View High School

Brady drank in the looks from the other kids waiting for the bus, then reveled in the attention as the preppies all seemed to make room and want him to sit next to them.

At school it seemed everyone recognized him, called him by name, waved, smiled, high-fived him. Teachers he barely knew, custodial staff, office people—everybody seemed thrilled for him.

But Brady had no illusions. He knew the other shoe would drop, and soon. Because for all those who acted happy for him, some studiously avoided his gaze. They had to know what was coming. Brady finally had to admit to himself that he had not been celebrating Saturday night. He had been steeling himself against reality.

He had been telling himself that if he became the star of the play and the hero of the school, he would somehow be allowed to do the same the next weekend. But he knew better, even though he had excelled beyond even his wildest dreams.

He entered his first class to the cheers and whistles of his classmates, and just for fun he strutted like Conrad with a twinkle and tongue in cheek. But as soon as he sat down, his teacher entered and handed him a note. Dr. Hose and Mr. Nabertowitz were waiting for him in the dean’s office.

Brady considered leaving his stuff at his desk, as if he would be back soon. But that wasn’t going to happen. “Got to take a call from my agent,” he said, rising as he studied the note. And everyone laughed but the teacher.

Even knowing what was coming, Brady had no idea how he would react. With anger? remorse? Would he beg? Nah. This was his own fault. They’d warned him. He couldn’t be angry with anyone but himself.

The receptionist even looked sad when she ushered him in, and both Hose and Nabertowitz rose. Mr. N. would not meet his eye, but Hose stared directly at him. “Have a seat, Mr. Darby. You know why you’re here.”

When they were all seated, Dean Hose spread the Sunday paper before him and turned it around so Brady could see it. “I suppose you’ve read this.”

“’Course. Nobody I know ever got a write-up like that before.”

“And the pictures,” Nabertowitz said, his voice weepy. “You had the world at your feet, Brady.”

“Had?”

“If you think you still do, Darby,” Hose said, “you’re dumber than I thought.”

“Now you think I’m dumb? I thought you said I was smart.”

“Smart but stupid, son. It’s long past time to be sugarcoating things for you. With the grade point average from your first two years, you had no leeway this fall. Everybody who cared about you made it clear what you had to do, and you didn’t even try. Yes, you’re smart. You proved that onstage. You can do whatever you decide you want to do. You decided not to try on the academic side, but that’s a prerequisite for all the rest. Now you’re done. You’re out. No more musical.”

“Oh, Brady!” Nabertowitz said. “You’ve let everyone down, but primarily yourself. We’ll make do, but you know as well as I do that the show this weekend will be nothing like last. With just a little effort, you could have made this work. You could have switched to a work-release program, stayed in drama, made something of yourself. Now you’ve thrown it all away.”

“No probation? No second chance? Can’t I sign some sort of a contract, use a tutor, get help?”

“Too late,” Dr. Hose said. “How can I ask any of these teachers to bend the rules for you when you ignored every piece of advice up to now?”

Brady searched his mind for a smart comeback, but what could he say? He shrugged.

“I informed your mother.”

“She doesn’t care.”

“I got that impression. She did say she had hoped you’d be the first in the family to graduate high school.”

“Her big dream, eh? Well, if you think I’m staying here without being in the play . . . My little brother will be first to graduate.”