Edward Adrift

the way. I love it.”
    “Whatever. Maybe you don’t have much of an imagination.”
    Kyle is a very perceptive young man.
    “I don’t.”
    “So maybe it will happen again.”
    This conversation has become circular, but I am loath (I love the word “loath”) to end it because Kyle is actually talking to me. The problem is that I don’t know what to say to him that willkeep the conversation alive without going over the same things we have already addressed. That will exhaust me and make me cranky.
    Donna, however, does know what to say.
    “How about we talk about something other than who is going to be beat up by whom and when?”
    I love that Donna uses her pronouns properly.
    Kyle does not seem interested in another topic. He goes back to eating his cereal, and we sit in silence.
    And as we do, I keep thinking back to the question Kyle asked me. What
would
I do if someone wanted to beat me up and I couldn’t walk away?
    I think about it and think about it. Kyle isn’t talking and Donna is reading the newspaper, so I have time to give the question the proper attention. The problem is that I just don’t know what I would do. It’s too much hypothesis and not enough fact for my brain to process it. I’ll just have to hope it never happens.

    Donna tells me that she has cleared her entire day for the three of us to do things together. First, she says, we’re going for a nice, long walk so I can get my exercise regimen going. Donna Middleton (I keep forgetting that her new last name is Hays) is a very logical woman.
    “I’m not going,” Kyle says.
    “Oh, yes, you are,” Donna says. “Young men who are polite and respectful get to spend time alone if they want, because they’ve earned that right. Young men who get expelled from school are made to spend endless, agonizing hours with people who love them.”
    She picks up his bowl and mine and carries them into the kitchen. Once her back is turned, Kyle makes a very rude gesture toward her that is known as flipping someone off. I am horrified, and I guess the look on my face tells Kyle that, so he flips me off, too.

    We go north on Donna’s street, North Twenty-Fifth, and pass cross streets with names like Lemp and Heron and Hazel, all of which are interesting names to me. This subdivision doesn’t seem like the ones in Billings. In the neighborhood I live in, the street names are on a theme: Lewis, Clark, Custer, Miles. They’re names of important people in Montana’s history. But here, I don’t know. I will concede that I don’t know my Boise or Idaho history, but I don’t see any order to these names. I don’t know what a “lemp” is. A heron is a kind of bird. Hazel is an old woman’s name, or a color. Farther up, we cross Bella Street and then Irene Street—those are definitely women’s names. Bella is a very popular name right now because of those vampire books and movies. So is Edward, unfortunately. When I worked at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
, people kept telling me that I was on Team Edward, which I guess has something to do with those movies. I didn’t like that.
    On the other side of Irene, we turn right and walk down to a pretty park on the corner. Donna has hooked her arm in mine, and we’re talking—well, she is, mostly—the whole way and smiling at each other. Kyle hasn’t said a word on the whole walk, and most of the way he’s been a few feet behind us, his head down.
    “Do you like it here?” Donna asks me.
    “It’s a very nice town. Do you like it?”
    She doesn’t answer immediately. I look across the street as I wait.
    “I miss Billings,” she says. “I was there a long time, and I had a lot of friends. But there are possibilities here, and Victor has such a good job. I can see a future.”
    Kyle, from behind us, says: “Ha.”
    “You don’t see a future?” I ask Kyle.
    To be honest, I too am a little flummoxed by what Donna said. I’m not sure I trust the idea of seeing a future. I don’t like predictions, and I don’t think they are reliable. I prefer facts.
    “No, all I see are a couple of douches.”
    Donna turns around to face her son. She is twitching. I have seen her this angry before, and I remember hoping that I would never see it again. This is what hope gets you.
    “Who are you?” she says.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Not so many days ago, I had a son. He was a good kid. He was sweet and he was kind. But he’s not here anymore. Do you know what happened to him?”
    “Maybe you