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  This book is dedicated to all the Jonnys in our world, and to the people who love them.

  1

  [gravel]

  Plink, tick, tick. It was raining in Mary O’Malley’s dream. Soft water splashing rhythmically somewhere. Or summer rain tapping against glass.

  No, not rain. Handfuls of gravel tossed against her second-story bedroom window. Dragged from her dreams, Mary reached for her phone on the floor beside her bed. The time read 3:27.

  She rolled over, rubbed her eyes in the darkness.

  Down below, Jonny tossed another handful of small stones scooped from the driveway. They tapped like buckshot against the aluminum siding. For a star athlete—correction: a former star—his aim wasn’t what it used to be. High as a kite in the dark of night. Locked out again.

  Mary went to the window, looked out, and there he was down below, back arched, hands on his hips, looking up. And it was raining, as a matter of fact, a soft August drizzle. From Mary’s vantage point, her older brother, her only brother, looked like a lost boy. Small and soaked and, in this case, shirtless and razor-thin. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt? All ribs and pointy elbows, he smiled goofily, performed a daffy, loose-limbed shuffle, and acted out a nearly incomprehensible pantomime. Mary knew what he wanted. She could lip-read as he mouthed his request: Let me in. Didn’t apologize, didn’t ask. Maybe he thought he was cute. He probably wasn’t thinking much at all. The old charmer had attempted to enlist Mary as his co-conspirator. Well, that ship has sailed, dear brother. Now you’re just annoying.

  Fed up, her mother had taken to bolting the front door, a desperate move that didn’t quite make sense to Mary. Her mother’s boyfriend, mild Ernesto, didn’t get involved in Jonny’s antics, kept a place two towns away. He might have been here that night or maybe not. But Mary couldn’t leave Jonny out there, and never would. It was the same old dance. The small, fractured family all playing a game of pretend.

  Careful not to wake their mother, Mary tiptoed downstairs, slipped back the lock, and opened the door. Jonny swayed a moment, then reached out to steady himself against the doorjamb. His head lolled gently, his eyes unfocused, his skin pale gray in the lambent light, and he offered Mary a two-fingered salute. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said before he stepped dreamily into the house. “A cherry, berry, raspberry, snazzleberry…” He dropped the thought as he reached the stairway landing, caught himself with a grip on the railing, and began the great ascent. The effort required more focus than he was able to muster. Mary walked behind her brother, her outstretched hand shadowing his movements, ready should he fall. Jonny clomped and lurched and climbed bent forward at the waist, murmuring almost inaudibly, leaning heavily on the railing, giggling softly, sometimes pausing for long moments before taking the next step. Mary followed her brother down the hall and stopped at the threshold of his room. Jonny had already forgotten her, stumbled through, pushed the door half closed, left her behind.

  They would not speak of this, ever.

  On her way back to her room, Mary noticed the light leaking from beneath the door of her mother’s bedroom. She was up, had undoubtedly heard it all. Probably had been sitting up on the edge of her bed, brain blazing with worry. Mary climbed into bed, reached for her phone, sent her mother a text: He’s home.

  Her mother had replied instantly: k.

  Minutes passed. Mary rolled, flipped her pillow, strained to hear sounds in the silence of the house. What she wanted to hear was beyond her capacity, the sound of air pushed past lips, the liquid thrum and swoosh of a heart pumping in a room down the hall of this house of secrets. So Mary rose and went to her brother’s room. She pushed open the bedroom door. It was too dark to see, so she flicked on a closet light, opened that door a few inches, the weak light spilling across the carpet. Jonny was sprawled on top of his bed, designer sneakers still on his feet. He hadn’t bothered to crawl under the covers. Dead to the world. Zonked, stoned, high, toasted, wasted, whatever. She approached him, bent down, and listened: ah, he’s alive. Mary felt an urge to kiss him on the cheek. She brushed damp hair from his face. One arm, his right, was extended out and hung off the bed. She untied his shoes, rolled the socks off his feet. She found an afghan in a sailor’s trunk at the foot of the bed and pulled it over her brother’s bruised and ravaged body. His jeans were slung low, beltless, half falling off his narrow hips.

  When did all this happen? When did she become the caregiver and her nineteen-year-old brother the hapless, helpless, damaged child? Mary yawned. A sad story, years in the making. It had been happening long before Mary realized it. Jonny in trouble at school, injury, pills, depression, rehab, relapse, promises and broken promises, tears and accusations and more drugs. Always more drugs. Where was it going to end?

  Oh, how she hated and loved him so.

  Mary drifted back to bed, and soon merciful sleep shut her eyes. Good thing it was summer. She could sleep in as late as she liked, dead to the world.

  2

  [triangle]

  The searing August sun streaked through Mary’s bedroom window, bringing the room to a low simmer. Mary felt muzzy, the sharp edge of a headache pressing behind her eyes. The air-conditioning had never worked right in the upstairs part of the house, and she’d forgotten to pull the shade. So hot and stuffy and gross. These were the days Mary was grateful for her budding friendship with Alexis Brown and Chrissie Saraynan. It had been the summer of lounging by Chrissie’s pool, wearing cute bikinis, eating carrot sticks and chips, relaxing in the sun. And if just sitting around ever got boring for Mary, if the conversation ever felt tedious, she’d simply lower herself into the water by the side of the pool. What else were you going to do in the hazy days of global warming? If the planet’s going to cook, if we’re all gonna burn anyway—might as well get a killer tan.

  Chrissie had one of the nicest houses in town, three stories with two white columns. The backyard was deep, with a grassy area fenced off for the dogs—they owned two huge Irish wolfhounds, Ani and Aram—backed by a large area for the pool, bluestone patio, and curtained pool house, complete with bathroom, outdoor shower, and full-size refrigerator. Once the girls settled back there, they never needed to enter the main house, which Mary guessed was probably the idea. So in sequence: sidewalk, house, dogs, pool. Beyond the pool there was a six-foot stockade fence that separated private property from the playing fields of the local elementary school. Yeah, Chrissie’s family had money.

  Chrissie and Alexis came conjoined as a perfect pair, so it had been a surprise for Mary to find herself invited into their inner circle. Thanks to Mary, the third point on the plane, the girls now formed a triangle. Mary knew from math that there were different types of triangles: isosceles, equilateral, scalene, obtuse, others. It had to do with distances and angles, where the points sat on the plane in relation to one another. In a perfect triangle, there would be three congruent sides with three angles of sixty degrees each. Human triangles were never, ever perfe
ct. Mary’s relationship with Alexis and Chrissie, she decided, formed an acute triangle. Their points were close together, tightly connected by a short line, whereas Mary’s point floated off into space like a flickering star. This didn’t bother Mary in the slightest. The reality simply matched the way she felt inside. Alone and shining in the distance.

  Throughout elementary school, Chrissie had been unremarkable. Generally unnoticed. Well-dressed and wealthy with nice stuff but never, at least to Mary’s mind, particularly interesting. She’d been gangly and awkward, arms and elbows jutting out at pointy angles. Nobody ever looked twice. Until, suddenly, in the autumn of sixth grade, they did. Boys and girls both. And it was widely agreed that Chrissie Saraynan had blossomed into a rare flower. Her eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, only ever half-open, giving off a sleepy expression, as if she’d just woken up or was about to doze off. If anyone asked, Chrissie would say with startling certainty that she planned on becoming an actress after getting a nose job and dropping out of college. No one doubted it would come true.

  Alexis had come from a different elementary school, so her history was less known to Mary. Where Chrissie could be aloof, almost regal, Alexis was the girl everyone wanted to be. Athletic, smart, confident, and pretty in a non-boring way. Alexis had, it must be said, the most amazing mouth. It was a little too big for her face, too wide, too full, giving her an almost alien quality. But also, undeniably, it was a mouth made for kissing. Sensuous, soft. Judging herself against Alexis, Mary hated her own thin upper lip and felt like the dullest dishwater in the world.

  On this particular afternoon, a fourth girl, Chantel Williams, was also present, altering the group’s geometric shape. Mary wondered whether it turned this afternoon’s group into a trapezoid. A rhombus? Certainly not a parallelogram, with equal parts. Or maybe that was it: Chantel and Mary were the equal, short, slanted lines. Supporting players. In any event, that might be how the trouble between them started. Bad math. The numbers weren’t right. Chantel was dark-skinned and solidly built, though people often stressed the point, when Chantel was not in earshot, of saying how pretty she could be if only.

  If only she’d figured out what do with her hair.

  Or lost ten pounds. Okay, fifteen.

  And got some new clothes. Something less last year.

  Or just tried harder.

  Because, again, she had such a pretty face!

  Great eyebrows! Amazing eyebrows!

  If only.

  3

  [interlopers]

  Chantel had the idea that they should play something, not just sit around, so she brought along a game of Whoonu. Despite Chantel’s enthusiasm, and the fact that Whoonu was actually a decent game in Mary’s (unspoken) opinion, Alexis wasn’t much interested. She had veto power, able to alter a day’s plans with a stifled yawn. After some desultory discussion, they decided on Monopoly. As far as Mary could tell, Monopoly was the default game after everyone had run out of actual good ideas. The compromise that nobody wanted. So they got out the board and started the game. Everyone understood that they’d never finish and nobody cared who won anyway. It was just something to do until something better came along.

  “This feels so BC—Before Computers,” Alexis groaned, giving the die a half-hearted roll.

  “Park Place! Want to buy it?” Chantel, the banker, offered.

  “I suppose I should,” Alexis said, counting out the hundreds. She picked up her phone, tapped a few times, smiled, and showed it to Chrissie.

  “Oh God, what a dork!” Chrissie laughed.

  Mary observed it all with mild irritation, still tired from her interrupted sleep the night before. “Let’s take a break from the game,” she suggested. “Anybody want some chips? They’re onion ranch.”

  At that moment Mary noticed three heads peering over the fence. Three boys, wide-eyed and grinning like hyenas. “Hey!” she shouted sharply, pointing in the direction of their peeping admirers.

  Heads turned and the boys ducked out of sight.

  “That was Griffin Connelly!” squealed Chrissie, jumping to her feet.

  A moment later Griffin’s head popped back up. “It’s like a million degrees out here,” he said. “And that pool looks so nice.”

  “Tough to be you,” teased Alexis. She turned and whispered something to Chrissie. “Who else are you with, Griff?”

  “Hakeem and Cody,” Griffin answered. “Hey, is that lemonade? We are literally dying of sweat out here. It’s gotta be a hundred degrees.”

  “Dying of sweat?” Chantel said to Mary. “What does that even mean?”

  Hakeem and Cody hoisted themselves up, stepping on a couple of cinder blocks they’d dragged to the fence. “It is super hot,” Hakeem said, wiping the back of his hand against his forehead.

  “Yep, yep, yep,” Cody chirped in agreement. “Roasty toasty.”

  “Are you staring at the pool—or spying on us?” Alexis teased.

  Griffin grinned, tilted his head from side to side. “What can I say? It beats looking at these guys.”

  Chrissie laughed. Chantel crossed her arms.

  “Should we invite them over?” Alexis asked in a whisper. “What do you think, Mary?”

  “I don’t know—” Mary began.

  “Please!” Griffin pleaded in a faux hysterical voice. He was cute, no doubt about it. Mary didn’t know-know him, but she was aware of Griffin Connelly. Everybody was. Griff was one of those boys with a brash, boisterous, full-volume personality, always seeking attention, usually surrounded by a group of friends. It was impossible not to notice him. As far as she was concerned, Griffin Connelly didn’t know that Mary existed.

  Mary would soon find out she was wrong about that.

  4

  [connection]

  The boys played like sugar-amped children at a birthday party, just goofy kids not pretending to be anything other than what they were. Their splashy playfulness, to Mary, was as refreshing as the water itself. She hooted in appreciation as the boys made ridiculous dives, cannonballs, belly whoops. Hakeem dug out a rubber football from the pool house, and that led to elaborate games on the diving board, full of fabulous catches, screaming, and lots of showing off.

  They were loud, and lively, and Mary considered them a happy distraction on an otherwise dull day. Griff, of course, was the natural leader. And by far the most charismatic, though not, to Mary’s surprise, a particularly gifted athlete. He was slightly awkward, unpracticed. Cody was a live wire, skinny and sinewy with an unpleasant face. The teeth, the nose, the eyes—the proportions weren’t quite right; it was all off-kilter. Hakeem was the one. When he leaped off the diving board, he performed effortless flips and twists. After sitting as spectators with Chrissie and Alexis, Mary and Chantel finally answered Griff’s tireless requests—“Come on, we need you!”—and joined in. Chrissie and Alexis lounged contently, unmoved by the din, sipping cold lemonade through plastic straws.

  Mary prided herself on her ability to throw and catch a football. Skills developed after many games of touch with Jonny. Her brother and his pals—the old gang that never came around anymore. Mary laughed to herself, remembering it, how they used to call her brother Jonny Football. He was really good. When was that? She counted back the years. He was nineteen now, last played as a sophomore, so he was sixteen when he mangled his knee, had surgery, and lost interest. She had to have been around nine years old when last horsing around with a sports-obsessed brother she adored. Yeah, Griff, that’s where those tight spirals came from. Catch!

  For this game, the quarterback stood at the shallow end in waist-high water. The receiver waited on the diving board one meter above the water, bounced, bounced again, and jumped off as high as possible. The quarterback tried to time the throw just right, hit the leaper in the belly with a perfect pass. Catch and splash. They kept score—boys always needed to keep score—and they shouted and laughed and called each other hilarious, insulting names. Usually at Cody’s expense, though he didn’t seem to mind. Jus
t grinned and said, “Yep, yep, yep.” Weird kid.

  Miraculously, pizzas arrived and were devoured.

  Hakeem and Cody settled in to a game of cards with Chantel. Griffin plopped down between Alexis and Chrissie. The trio—a new triangle?—did a lot of scrolling, laughing, making and posting seven-second videos, looking over shoulders to see one another’s screens. Griffin tended to press close. Flirtatious, touchy, predatory. Mary wondered if Griff liked one of them, or if it even mattered to him which one. Mary grew restless. She wanted to draw something—she’d been carrying around a sketch pad lately, and a new set of colored pencils—but wasn’t about to do it with the guys around. “I’m getting changed out of this wet suit,” she said to nobody and drifted toward the pool house.

  When she emerged, Griffin was there. Like he was waiting for her. He made a point of acting like he was watching the card game, standing off to the side and commenting, but Mary knew better.

  “Hey,” he said. “You know, we have a connection, you and me.”

  “Yeah?” Mary raised an eyebrow.

  “Your brother sometimes hangs out with my sister, Vivvy—or used to. I’m not sure anymore, since she got an apartment in town with a couple of friends,” Griff said. “I don’t see her much.”

  “Jonny?” Mary said, as if there was any other brother.

  “Yeah, I met him a couple of times. Funny guy. He used to come over to our house. My dad works the second shift, so…”

  Griff let the sentence fade out.

  “Vivian Connelly,” Mary said. Maybe she had heard that name before. She wasn’t sure. Her brain was glitching out, a malfunction in the software.

  Griff leaned close, whispered, “I heard he spent a few months at Western Winds. Did it work?” Western Winds was the name of a private hospital that specialized in what was officially described as “teen mental health” issues. A place to go if teenagers or young adults were showing signs of depression, got caught doing too many drugs, screwed up with the law, attempted suicide or even considered it. Basically, if you were a kid and your life went off the rails, your parents sent you there for a tune-up. To get things back on track. Sometimes it worked. High school graduation, college, maybe a summer in Europe, a good-paying job: success.