What They Always Tell Us Read Online Free Page A

the other guys, too. Alex watches as they walk in, their eyes looking up at the glowing menu. They haven’t noticed him yet. Alex looks away, anywhere but where his old friends are. The cashier scoops his onion rings. The drive-through alert beeps, and one of the cooks shouts something to someone farther back in the kitchen.
    Alex can sense their eyes on him now, like the shine of a flashlight in a dark room. Alex turns and Kirk lets out a tiny wave, almost just a hand raise, nothing more.
    “Oh, hey,” Alex says.
    Tyler just jerks his chin up, ever so slightly. Tyler has dirty blond hair that is long on the top, parted to the left, but short on the sides. Kirk is shorter than Tyler, but his dark hair—almost black—is styled in exactly the same way. They both wear T-shirts over long-sleeved shirts, and ratty ankle boots. Alex, luckily, took off his robe at home, but he’s sure he looks absurd to them anyway, in his jogging shoes and loose jeans, his thin and corny eighth-grade T-shirt, especially when it’s cold outside.
    “How’s it going?” Kirk asks.
    “Fine.” Alex looks down at Henry. “Just grabbing some food.”
    “Cool.”
    The woman hands Alex his bag, smiles at him, and moves to take Tyler’s and Kirk’s orders. Alex pauses before moving, thinking that Kirk is about to say something more, ask him to stay, sit down, join them, call him later, something. But Kirk just looks at Tyler and says, “You ready to order?”
    Alex motions for Henry, whom Kirk and Tyler seem not to have noticed. “Bye,” Alex says.
    “Bye,” Kirk says, giving him one last quick glance as Tyler scrutinizes the menu like he hasn’t eaten there a million times before.
    At the door Alex pauses and hears Kirk snicker and say something under his breath, and Tyler joins in and snorts out a laugh. Right then Alex pushes open the door and enters the coldness and the twilight.
    In the car Henry munches on a French fry and asks, “Who were those boys?”
    “Nobody.”
    “Okay.”
    After a few minutes, Alex says, “They were my friends.”

    Back home, after eating his food straight from the bag, Alex stretches out on the couch in the parlor, still wearing his jogging shoes. Henry stands by the window. It’s dark outside now, and lights are popping on in the neighboring homes.
    “Your mom home yet?” Alex asks.
    Henry just shakes his head side to side and sniffles.
    Alex sits up and looks at Henry. He listens as Henry begins to sob, his body shaking, his hands held over his ears as if he is trying to block out the sound of a loud siren. The vodka—which Alex resumed drinking once he got home—has made Alex feel tired, but he stands up and walks over to the window. “Don’t,” he pleads. “Henry,” Alex says, touching him on the shoulder. He takes a deep breath. “Stop.” But Henry keeps going, a near-silent cry. “Henry? I think it would be kind of okay if you stayed here tonight. If you want. Until your mom gets back.”
    Henry, like a windup toy slowing down, stops shaking and looks up at Alex. Although it’s dark in the house, Alex can see his wet, blank face, the tears streaking it like little inlets of salt water. Henry rubs his eyes with his fingers, sniffles, and, struggling to catch his breath, says, “Okay.”
    “Okay,” Alex says. “I’ll be right back.”
    Alex leaves Henry in the living room and walks into the kitchen. He carries the bottle of Mr. Clean back upstairs to his parents’ bathroom. He opens the cap and sniffs around the edges of the bottle and the ammonia smell tickles his nostrils.
    He thinks back to a few weeks earlier, in late October. James had come home from some party drunk, very drunk, drunker than Alex had ever seen him. He burst into Alex’s room, where he was lying in bed but not asleep.
    “Alex, are you awake?” he said, his words slightly slurred. James sat down on his bed and grabbed Alex’s wrist, like he was half pinning him down.
    “I’m awake.”
    “Good.” In