Edward Adrift

were up against something big, because he’s never had that kind of trouble.”
    “OK, but how did he get expelled?”
    I rub my foot against the stain again.
    “I’m getting to that. I just wanted you to, you know, have some background. He got expelled because…God, I can barely say it.” Donna’s voice goes into a low whisper. “Edward, he called his English teacher a cunt.”
    I giggle.
    “Edward!”
    I giggle again.
    “I’m going to hang up.”
    “No, don’t. I’m sorry.”
    I hold the phone away from my face and cough real loud to clear my throat.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I want to know where he could have heard such a word,” she says.
    I have no idea. Scott Shamwell is the only person I know who uses the word “cunt” without any shame, but he gets away with it only because there are no women on the press crew. Anyway, I don’t think he’s met Kyle.
    “He probably picked it up from another boy,” I say, trying to be helpful.
    Donna starts crying. “I don’t know what to do. I asked Kyle what in the world has happened with him, and he said he hates living here, he wants to be back in our house across the street from you, that you’re the only friend he has.”
    I silently thrill at this, although I immediately wonder if I should let Donna know that. Donna and Kyle and Victor left here in June, and I miss them.
    “What did you say?” I ask.
    “I didn’t say anything. I sent him to his room so I didn’t kill him. Not kill him, kill him. You know I’d never do that. I need to talk to Victor, but he’s out of the office this morning and he’s not picking up his cell. I know Kyle misses you. We all do. But I can’t see that just giving him whatever he says he wants is going to fix what’s wrong here. You know?”
    “Yes.”
    The crying has stopped. “Would you have room for him? If we were to let him come see you, I mean?” she asks.
    “Yes. Of course.”
    She sniffles. “OK. Let me talk to Victor. We’ll figure out what to do from here.”
    “Good.”
    Again, I slide my foot along the soiled linoleum.
    “Edward,” she says, “why did you have a bad night?”
    “Um…”
    “I feel really bad that this has been all about our problems. What’s going on there?”
    I press at the edge of the sauce stain with my toenail, trying to lift it. It’s no use.
    “Donna, I’m going to have to call you back. OK?”
    “What—”
    I hang up.

    The spilled, hardened marinara comes up without any problem once I apply a rag soaked in hot water and some scrubbing to it. It then occurs to me that this will leave me with one spot on my kitchen floor that’s cleaner than the rest, which is, of course, unacceptable. I go back to my bedroom, pull my grubby clothes from the bottom drawer of my bureau, slip into them, and then I return to the kitchen and fill the mop bucket with warm water and floor cleaner.
    It’s when I’m sweeping up, clearing the floor for washing, that I’m thinking of 8:17 a.m. on Saturday, June 4, as I stood in the driveway of Donna’s house, across the street from mine, and I waved good-bye to her and Victor and Kyle. They moved to Boise because Victor’s job with the railroad got transferred there.
    I can’t say I was surprised. I mean, I can actually say the words “I was surprised”—that’s easy—but I wouldn’t believe them if I did. Victor was talking about the possibility all the way back in October 2010. It was October 31, which I remember because we were handing out Halloween candy to the neighborhood kids when he said something about it to Donna and she nodded. I badly wanted to ask why he would even consider moving to Boise, Idaho, and leaving this great neighborhood, but I didn’t say anything. I just wished hard that it wouldn’t happen, and you can see what wishing leads to—nothing good. By March, all that remained was for Kyle to finish up school here so they could pack and move.
    I’ve noted before that it’s silly to think that time actually speeds up. It doesn’t. It’s just an illusion. But it sure seems to move quickly when something you don’t want to happen is imminent (I love the word “imminent”). June came so fast, figuratively speaking. My three best friends—my only three friends, really—left town, and I’ve been sad ever since. I talk to them on the phone, but it’s not the same. I don’t like talking on the telephone. I also exchange e-mail with Donna and Kyle, but that’s not the same, either. Donna is the