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Alex’s.
    Mrs. Snyder answers the bell. She’s smoking a cigarette. As usual.
    You’re scared. As usual. Even though it’s SILLY to be scared of her — you’re bigger than she is now and she’s always perfectly nice to you — it’s just a feeling left over from when you were a kid, when you hated the way she yelled all the time and you wondered how a nice guy like Alex could have such a MEAN mother.
    But she’s not mean, you KNOW that — she’s a good mom and she works hard. She’s just not a JOLLY person, and you wouldn’t be either if you went through a bad divorce and had to work two jobs to support a family.
    So you smile and politely ask about Alex, but she looks confused. She says she’s out. She thought he was with YOU.
    You say you haven’t seen him (you’re about to add the words “since chemistry class” but you swallow them).
    “Well, your guess is as good as mine, Ducky,” she says. “If you see him, tell him to leave me a note once in awhile [sic].”
    She takes a deep drag from her cigarette. Her eyes are red and she’s pulling a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
    And you wonder, Does she know what’s going on? She must. SOMEONE has been paying for
    the therapy and the antidepression [sic] medication. Alex’s dad sure isn’t.
    “Mrs. Snyder…” You want to say something but you don’t know what. You can’t talk about Alex behind his back, but you want to reassure her somehow — she looks like she needs
    reassurance. But all you can say is, “I’m sure he’s at the park,” and you go.
    You’re right. Alex is in the park. Exactly where you expect him to be. You cross the bridge and find him at the other side, sitting on the creek bank among the reeds.
    You call out to him.
    He grunts hello. He doesn’t look up.
    You park your bike and sit net to him. “What’s up?”
    No answer. He’s ripping up grass, one blade at a time.
    You pull out a long blade, make a reed between your thumbs, and blow. It makes a good, solid SCREEEEK, and a duck flaps its wings in surprise.
    The Old Alex would have tried to outdo you.
    The new one is not interested. His face is a total blank. As if the muscles have been cut loose, leaving the skin to slacken.
    So you shut up. Listen to the breeze. Skim stones on the water. And you think about the long summer afternoons you two used to spend here, doing nothing, absolutely nothing, exactly as you’re doing now.
    Except back then, time passed so quickly. You talked about the same things over and over, or you spent hours playing the ESP game, and it was never boring.
    “Tell me — right this minute,” you blurt out. “What song are you hearing in your head?”
    You hope for a match. Just like old times.
    But Alex yawns. “No music.”
    You fling a perfect, flat stone and it skitters across the creek — all the way to the other bank.
    “Yesss!” you cry out.
    No reaction.
    “Alex,” you finally say, “are you OK?”
    He nods. “Uh-huh.”
    “You seem … I don’t know, upset?”
    Shrug.
    “Is something going on? Something you want to talk about?”
    The words sound so weak, so wimpy. But you’re trying, you’re NOT GIVING UP.
    Alex keeps his eyes straight ahead. He looks as if he’s thinking about what to say, shaping an answer.
    But he just yawns. “You wouldn’t understand.”
    Slap.
    What now, Ducky?
    You’re thinking: FINE, he wants to be that way? He wants to abuse his best friend? He can stay here alone.
    See if the reeds understand. See if the birds understand.
    You get up, ready to leave, but you catch yourself.
    You look closely at his face.
    He’s not dissing you. He’s telling you the truth. HIS truth.
    He honestly believes you wouldn’t understand.
    And maybe he’s right. You’ve never had the URGE to do the things he does — drink or cut school or mope around and do nothing. It’s not in your chemistry. Step 1 to helping somebody with a problem is sympathy, and how can you sympathize with someone so different,