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  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue therein are drawn solely from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Boys Don’t Cry

  Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Melzer

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, compiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced to any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the expresses permission on Jennifer Melzer.

  For Kevin, who taught me life’s to short to say things we don’t mean

  ONE

  My dad is one of those people who sees the potential for beauty in everything that crosses his vision. If it’s broken, he can fix it. Rundown? He’ll lift it up again. Mom says he should have been a motivational speaker, that he could have made us rich by helping people find their potential happiness, but he chose to flip historical houses instead.

  I guess in some ways, I’m sort of like him in that aspect, only I tend to do it with pixels, imaginary kingdoms, and people. I build them from the ground up.

  We have weird dreams, I guess. And sometimes listening to him ramble on about things like wood grain and antique wainscoting makes me gawk at him like he’s from another planet, but then he gets this look in his eye, the strangest smile lights up his entire face, and I realize that’s sort of how I feel about video games. The blank canvas, something that’s mine and mine alone, I will build you a kingdom and fill it with wonderful, memorable imaginary friends.

  Dad says I’ll probably be responsible for the next Dragon Age one day. More of that silly motivational nonsense he picked up from the self-betterment audiobooks he likes to listen to when we’re traveling. Even Mom believes there are things to be learned from those audiobooks, but mostly I block out their wisdom with heavy-duty headphones and a mix of techno and soundtracks.

  Dad’s rules for making the world a better place don’t stop with inanimate objects. He’s like a ray of sunshine beaming across every single thing that comes within reach, and while it’s certainly a beautiful thing having a father who doesn’t seem to have a care in the world, there’s nothing more annoying than Chipper Chipmunk at nine a.m.

  “Tali.” I’ve never quite been sure how he gets his voice so high pitched, the squeak of it burrowing past the thick foam padding and nipping at my eardrums. “Pancakes, pancakes, bacon too! Let’s have pancakes, me and you!”

  My arm swipes out, swatting him away like a vicious gnat that won’t stop buzzing around me, and when my hand comes in contact with the scruffy warmth of his face I actually grin a little before burrowing my chin deeper into my shoulder.

  “Daaaaaad, stop! It’s too early for the pancake jingle.”

  “How about waffles then?”

  It occurs to me that the song of the highway is no longer carrying me swiftly through the night. The inertial tug on my belly is absent, and the light painted against my eyelids is much brighter than the dome hovering between the back seats of the van. I peel one sleep-encrusted eye open to peer out at the world around me, but the sun pours through the windows, edging over his shoulder to touch my face.

  Art crouches in the seat to his left, his round face beaming brighter than the sun, and every instinct inside me wants to poke the smile right from his smarmy little face.

  “Waffle House,” my brother announces, and then he scurries backward through the open door, dropping down to join our mother while she stretches yoga-style in the parking lot, lifting my sister Gwen up above her to add some weight to her stretch.

  “Where are we?” I lower the headphones around my neck and tilt my head right until my joints crack, alleviating some of the cramping from sleeping like a vagabond in the back of a moving train. I don’t need to swipe my hand across my face to know I was drooling, and I can only imagine what my hair looks like stuffed into my hoodie, wild rainbow tangles jutting every which way but straight, but even that subtle movement is enough to draw attention to how hungry I am.

  “Historic Chambersburg,” Dad says, dropping back onto his heels and, thankfully, blocking out the sun. “It’s 8:30, and we have about three hours or so until we get to Sonesville, but Mom’s hungry and Art has to pee, and I figured you could use some pancakes.”

  “Waffles.”

  “Chocolate chip waffles,” he winks and begins backing out of the van. “I’ll save you a seat.”

  I draw my stretched out legs up, wrap my arms around my knees and pull myself halfway up. My back is killing me, and while I am feeling hungry, I think I’d give my left arm right now if I could just tie into my running shoes and make dust. My muscles need more than just stretched; they need worked, pounded until my body aches from exertion, not inactivity. We’ve been driving for an eternity, since Texas, Mom, Dad and me taking turns at the wheel and only stopping for food, fuel and bathroom breaks. I honestly don’t know how we did it, but here we are.

  Pennsylvania.

  I stretch my neck to look around. For the most part Chambersburg doesn’t look so bad, and I imagine Sonesville will be more or less the same, though probably not as densely populated. All the research I did online suggests it’s very much middle-of-nowheresville. Farms stretching as far as the eye can see, and a population barely peaking at two thousand people, it’s going to be a huge adjustment… for everyone.

  From what I see beyond the window, it’s greener than Austin, with a lush thickness to the grass carpeting the curb against the sidewalk. I feel the humidity rolling in through the open door and I already know we’ve traded one hellish summer for another. I’ll be halfway through the parking lot before my clothes start sticking to my body like duct tape and by the time the air conditioning of the Waffle House sweeps out to welcome me into faux winter my hair is going to look like I was locked up in a tower doing science experiments for weeks.

  Dropping onto the concrete, I tug my hood down around my face, blocking out the sun and keeping my unruly locks in check, then I march toward the restaurant to rejoin my family. I hear them before I see them, which truth be told, isn’t exactly hard in a Waffle House. I swear these places are made like Wild West saloons, so everyone in the building can turn to gawk at whoever walks through the bell-chimed doors, narrowing their eyes in suspicion.

  Dad, Gwen and Art are already wearing their black and yellow paper hats, and Mom is wrestling Gwen into the booster seat, but she doesn’t want to sit. She wants to stand in the booth and wave her chubby little fingers at the old couple sitting two tables away from ours. They glimpse me as I approach the table, the colorful strands of hair snaking out of my hood and bouncing around my face with every step, and all the smiles they have for my little sister fade as they sink down into their seats and ignore the crazy family from out of town.

  “They’re all out of waffles.” Art smirks up at me, the slight overbite of his front teeth and mussed golden brown curls making him look even more cartoonish and ridiculous than he usually does. He crowds in beside our mom, squishing her between himself and the booster seat Gwen still refuses to sit in.

  “Are they all out of high chairs for baby Art, too?” I slide in next to Dad and he elbows me a warning not to start. I don’t even have to look over at him to see the unspoken reminder on his face that I’m eighteen years old and well above that kind of childish behavior. I know the grimace well, but Art’s almost twelve, and he really brings out the worst in me, especially before I’ve had my morning coffee.

  Three minutes ago, all I could think about was how muc
h I was going to respect the refreshment of that air conditioning, but I’m already cold and anxious to steal Dad’s body heat as I tuck into myself and snuggle closer. I tilt my head to rest on the shoulder of a faded black Depeche Mode t-shirt that’s almost a decade older than I am.

  “They heard you were coming and dumped all the chocolate chips into the trash,” Art adds, pushing across the table so his paper dining mat shoves into mine and sends it fluttering into my lap.

  “That’s enough, Arthur. Sit down before the waitress comes.” Mom sighs and sweeps her hand across her brow like she’s got a headache. Sitting next to Art, I wouldn’t be surprised. He does that to me, too.

  I can only imagine how long my siblings have been up, whining from the middle seat about starving, dying of dehydration, having to go potty, needing a new DVD in the player to entertain them. Gwen’s only three, so she can hardly be blamed when she starts throwing a tantrum, but Art really should know better. He’s been traveling like this his entire life, bouncing from home to home, school to school, starting over every time he thinks he’s settled in. It doesn’t bother me much, I sort of like seeing the country this way, but the last two times Dad’s finished a house, packed our belongings and moved us onto the next one, it’s really taken its toll on my little brother. He got used to Austin. He made friends there and started to believe we’d never leave, but then Dad found a historic Victorian in Sonesville, Pennsylvania, and it wasn’t long before we were on the road again and speeding toward another new life.

  It sort of sucks. He’s trying really hard to hide his frustration with it all from Dad because our father’s excitement is contagious. Seeing him happy is a beautiful thing, but I know my brother. It’s an act, and when Art’s not happy, I’m not happy. He works really hard to make sure of that.

  God, I don’t know if I can do this all again, even if it’s just for the summer.

  Our waitress comes, lowering plastic cups with straws in front of Mom so she can pass them out, then she pours the three of us coffee before asking if we’re ready to order. It’s strange, the absence of the southern twang I’ve grown accustomed to over the last three years. There’s no y’all, and while she’s pleasant enough there’s nothing welcoming or hospitable about the smile she plasters on for us before promising to put our orders in straight away.

  I could have stayed in Austin. I got accepted into the Interactive Games Studies program at St. Edward’s University back in December. Merry Christmas to me! Then Dad put the house he spent the last three years restoring on the market, tamping down any plans I might or might not have been considering about living at home while matriculating. Now when I go back, if I go back, I’ll have to stay on campus.

  “I miss Austin.” The words are spoken before I’ve even had time to think them through, and for a moment everyone but Gwen grows quiet. She’s patting her hands on the table, splashing little fingers into the ring of condensation left behind by the cup Mom’s already moved out of her reach.

  I can always go back. Dad promised, and I know he wants to see me pursue this budding dream of mine, but we’ve spent so much of our lives living this way, traveling together like some kind of circus, and I just don’t know if I can let go of that. Not yet.

  Art won’t ever admit it, but he’ll struggle without me there to back him up.

  I keep telling myself maybe Pennsylvania will suck. Maybe it’ll be so awful here, I’ll find the courage to let go and set out on my own, but then I look at my stupid little brother with the tip of his straw poking into his nose and I wonder if Art would make it without me.

  Reaching across the table, I slap the straw, catching him off guard and making him sniff chocolate milk into his nose. He starts coughing, and Mom’s whacking him on the back, her stern brown eyes glaring at the beads of cow juice soaking into the pictures of pancakes and waffles coloring Art’s place mat.

  “You’re—such—a—jerk!” he chokes out.

  And then Gwen’s shouting the word ‘jerk’ with glee, slapping her hands together in celebration and giggling at the mess our brother’s made because Gwen likes messes. They’re her favorite thing.

  “Thank God we’re almost there,” Mom groans, swiping napkins from the dispenser to sop up the mess. “I don’t know how much more of you two I can take.”

  “Kids.”

  Only when Dad says it, there’s no warning, nothing aggressive in his tone. He almost sounds amused, and when Mom shoots her glare over at him I know he’s grinning at her because it’s only a matter of time before she’s smiling too.

  TWO

  People flock when a moving van rolls in, like gawkers at an accident. Fortunately the movers showed up two days before we did, and we narrowly avoided the parade of lookie-loo’s, as Mom likes to call them, gathering on the sidewalks lining Lincoln Drive.

  Narrowly.

  After all, nothing gets past a town as small as Sonesville. I’m pretty sure we would have missed the whole place entirely if Dad sneezed while driving. The moment an out of state vehicle turned onto Main Street, a procession of phone calls and texts must have started, maybe a front page ad in the Sonesville Standard because there’s a small gathering of onlookers collecting at the end of several driveways.

  By the time we pull onto Lincoln Drive people are navigating away from their homes and toward ours like some kind of welcome wagon. I half-expect to look out the tinted windows and see foil-wrapped baking dishes and Tupperware containers in their arms, but Art moved into the back seat with me when we left the Waffle House to watch me play Pokémon on my DS, and the moment Mom announces that we are in our new neighborhood my lap becomes his leaning grounds. Elbows digging into my thighs, the curls of his hair tickling beneath my nose, I can barely see out my window through his big head so I lean back in the seat and figure I’ll get a good look tomorrow morning when I go for my first official Pennsylvania run, see everything worth seeing in this one horse town.

  Funny how life has a way of going against pretty much everything you think you’re planning. I roll my head a little, eyes drifting out the window. I’m not intentionally taking it all in, so much as I’m stretching my neck, but their faces seem almost desperate. Much happier to see us than the lady at the Waffle House, it’s like they’re so excited at the prospect of new faces they can barely contain themselves.

  There are a bunch of kids still holding balls and jump ropes, pink plastic baby carriages stopped as they gather in front of their parents, and all I can think is how weird it is that they’re all standing around just before noon on a Saturday as if the most interesting thing in the world is happening.

  “Did we drive into the Twilight Zone?”

  Art digs in deeper, as if pressing his face against the glass is going to make us arrive faster, and in his reflection I see a mixture of emotion he won’t allow to show once he’s back in his seat. He’s terrified, excited, but filled with a level of social anxiety no eleven year old boy should ever have to endure, and though most of the time I’m perfectly content to let him think I still resent the very day he was born, my hand comes down on the top of his head and soothingly strokes through his hair.

  “Look at all those kids you’ll have to play with.”

  “I had kids to play with in Austin,” he grunts quietly, a just between him and me thing I know all too well.

  “You’re good at making friends,” I lie.

  “No, I’m not.”

  He’s right, he’s not, but I’m trying to be encouraging here.

  “You’re good at making friends,” he huffs and jerks his head back a little, dislodging my hand. I lower it into the middle of his back, half-expecting him to shrug me off entirely, but he doesn’t.

  “You’ll be friends with everyone on this stupid block by the end of the day.”

  “Not if they find out I have a mutant for a sister.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about Gwen like that. She’s just a baby.”

  He jams his elbow into my boob and I want to slap him�
�hard—but I refrain. All those faces out there terrify him, especially the ones close to his age, and none of the empowering, self-help mumbo jumbo Dad’s tormented us with for several hundred miles on this trip has done much to make my brother feel better about any of it.

  Me? I make friends with everybody.

  That’s usually the way of things. Though in a town this small I can’t imagine there will be a whole lot of them. Despite the rolling farmlands and hills comprising Sonesville’s size, the bulk of the town seems to be out there on their sidewalks watching the new folks make their way home.

  My eyes flit across faces, and for a moment I can’t help matching them to people I already know. I once told my dad I think there are only so many faces in the world, and nature just recycles them all as she sees fit. As if to confirm my theory I see a girl who reminds me of Heather Marlowe from Austin, and automatically I don’t like that girl because she has a bitch face, and I’m pretty sure she has the attitude to go with it. Standing next to her is a guy with a motorcycle helmet dropped against his knee, and he reminds me of a kid I knew when we were living in Maine four years ago—Steve Henry—without the awkward and the pimples. I’m sure Not-Steve Henry is an okay guy, but hanging out with a girl like Not-Heather Marlowe has probably turned him into a total asshole.

  There are tons of others, all of them faces I swear I’ve seen somewhere before, and the catalog of past experiences in my head starts to suggest maybe Arthur’s wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. What if I’m not good at making friends this time? I don’t exactly adhere to the mainstream. I am who I am. I’ve always been that way, and I don’t change for anyone. The fact that I’m coming into this place with hair like the My Little Pony my baby sister’s been chewing the hoof off of for the last six miles and a penchant for the safety found in video game friendships doesn’t bode well and, not for the first time since I said goodbye to Stacy and Lenah in Austin, I feel nervous.

  I’ll be lucky if I make any friends here at all.