The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

happy with the Sam pickup – I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

      I settle for: Just checking in.

      Nan: That’s out of character.

      She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

      Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

      Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

      Me: Ha.

      Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

      Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

      As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my time before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Tim? The apocalypse, much?”

      Her tone is light, but the look she shoots me isn’t.

      “The apocalypse? Come on. I ask for stuff.”

      “Tim, I’ve known you since we were five. Cash, yes. Excuses, totally. But not this.”

      “Well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

      I haul her bag off her shoulder onto my own, hunting around for Nan, but she’s blended somewhere into the girl herd.

      We walk. “It’s left up here.” Sam points to the road up the hill, the summit of Stony Bay, fanciest, richest part of town. “So, this is an actual date you’re going on.”

      “Just – just something I’d rather not screw up. So – hit me with your best. Like, for starters, what the hell do I even wear?”

      Samantha grins.

      “Don’t,” I say. “I know exactly how lame I sound.”

      “Start by passing the sniff test,” she says, smelling the air exaggeratedly, like some crazy bloodhound or whatever. “Which that shirt doesn’t, by the way. And” – she smacks me on the shoulder – “if she’s older than you, like you said, no shirts with school insignias. No point in rubbing it in that she’s a cougar.”

      “She’s not a cougar. Jesus God.”

      We’re a little over one year apart, me and Alice. It’s nothing.

      Samantha studies me for a sec, then continues lightly. “Shower. Take her someplace low-key. Listen when she talks. Ask questions but only if you actually care about the answers. Don’t keep trying to interrupt with stories about the last time you got drunk.”

      “Believe me, I’m not gonna touch that.”

      Besides, Alice has been there. I puked all over her and she took off her shirt, calm as moon-low tide, owning this black lace bra with this tiny red ribbon and . . . it’s the one thing I remember perfectly about that night.

      “You’d be surprised at how many guys do.”

      Samantha’s shoulders stoop a little as we hit a bend in the road, cut off by huge black iron gates, tacked all over with signs: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO TRESPASSING, you are not welcome here. “Here we go, home sweet home as of last week. The code is 1776.”

      “Sorry, kid. Should have given you a housewarming present. A casserole, at least.”

      “Believe me, nothing could warm this place up. The condo makes our old house look festive. We’re right up by the clubhouse.” She gestures to this low building with a Swiss-chalet-looking roof, surrounded by a golf course spattered with dudes in pastel, knocking away at tiny white balls. It all looks like a retirement village.

      “Wow,” I say. I got nothin’ else.

      “I know.” Samantha shakes her head. “I haven’t even let Jase see it yet. I mean, did you notice the streets? General Dwight D. Eisenhower Drive, Lady of the Lake Lane, Pettipaug Peak? The names aren’t even consistent! And check out the houses. You could walk into the wrong one and suddenly find yourself living someone else’s life.” She waves her hand at row after row of identical houses.

      “What time do all the handsome husbands pop out of their doors with their matching briefcases?”

      “Leaving their blond wives to take their Valium, at the same second, elbows bent just so? Not sure. We’ve only been here a week. Give me time. It’s over here, Wolverine Wood Road.”

      I squint. “Are there any actual woods? Or wolverines?” The landscape is green and grassy and flat, except for an unnatural-looking lake.

      “Right? No, they took down all the trees to build this. I’ll keep you posted on the wolverines. We’re here.” She points past a narrow row of hedges. “By the statue of the non-specified Revolutionary War soldier.”

      “Do I need to lay a wreath?” I ask as we head past the scarily smiling iron statue. “Or salute?”

      “Why couldn’t we have stayed put?” She sighs.

      Samantha knows the obvious answer to that, so all I say is, “Cheer up, kid. College next year. ’

      Gracie, Sam’s mom, is out on the porch of Clairemont Cottage, planting some brassy orange flowers in big stone urns. She jolts to her knees when we turn the corner, trowel in hand, then, seeing it’s me with Sam, beams, waves, settles back down on her heels again. For reasons known only to her and God, Grace persists in thinking Jase is the delinquent and I’m the upstanding citizen.

      Samantha studies me for a sec, then says, “One more thing. The most important. On this date? Just be, you know, smart and funny and sweet. Like you are.”

      “Pretty sure that’s not actually me.”

      “It is.” She flips her hair out of its braid, sliding her fingers through to shake it out. “If she’s going on a date with you, she probably thinks so too. Do I know her?”

      “Not really.”

      “Tim, c’mon.”

      “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a” – I have no idea what it is – “thing.”

      Not buying it. All over her face.

      But Samantha smiles, tugs her bag off my shoulder, puts her hand in its place. “Two more things, actually – but they’re crucial. Don’t wear that stupid Axe stuff clueless guys think is sexy. It reeks of desperation.”

      I fake scribble on an imaginary pad. “Noted.”

      “And don’t let her break your heart, okay?”

      “Sammy-Sam, I think that’s already a given.”

      “I get to ride on the feet!” George squeals.

      “Bro. You can’t ride on the wheelchair feet. I’d lose my job,” Brad says, maneuvering Dad out of the hospital room, skillful and grounded in his transporter role. We’re a parade to help move Dad to the rehab part of Maplewood. Joel’s got the duffel full of the clothes we brought so Dad would feel semi-normal. Mom’s arms are bundled full of his books. Andy’s carrying a stack of artwork the little guys made, carefully detached from the Scotch tape on the wall. Duff has the Xbox and the videogames. Harry, the old deck of cards, the pick-up sticks, the dominoes, the old-fashioned games we rediscovered to make time pass.

      I have all the paperwork, most of which my parents don’t know about.

      It would be Brad they sent to do the transfer, of all the ’porters in all of Maplewood Memorial. He’s ignoring me. I’m ignoring him. This is fun. At least he’s been decent to the kids, even though George keeps giving him sidelong glances, no doubt worried the tears will start again.

      I