THE HIDING PLACE. John Burley

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      “Finally, I decided to make amends. And so I rode my bike over to Alex’s house the next Saturday afternoon. I’d been there a few times before, and her mother recognized me when I knocked on the door. ‘Hi, Jason,’ she said. ‘Alexandra’s playing out back with Michael.’ I almost left then, feeling more like an outsider than ever, but then I decided no, I was coming to apologize, and so I walked around to the backyard expecting to find them. When I got there, the yard was empty, although Michael’s bike was leaning against the house. I looked around for a moment and, figuring they must have headed up the block, was about to leave when I noticed the opening to a narrow trail at the edge of the woods that bordered the far end of the yard. I trotted across the grass and entered the woods, following the path for about fifty yards until it started sloping downward toward the chuckling sound of a stream below. The earth was a little loose here, and I had to hold on to the trunks of trees as I descended. I was mostly looking down at my footing instead of focusing on the bank of the stream below me, so I was near the bottom before I saw them. I remember how the trees seemed to shift, to open up slightly so that I suddenly had a clearer view—and that was when I noticed them, standing on the opposite side of the stream with their arms locked around each other, kissing softly, almost gingerly, as if they were each afraid of hurting the other. I stood motionless on the hillside, watching from above, realizing that I was already too late, that the nature of their relationship had changed when I wasn’t looking, and that what they had now excluded me almost entirely. A barrage of emotions struck me then—anger, resentment, betrayal, isolation, jealousy—but I remember that what I felt most of all was a sense of shame. I was ashamed to be surreptitiously encroaching on this moment between them, ashamed to be thinking that I longed for it to be me wrapped in that embrace. I stood there, wrestling with my anguish, for a few more seconds before quietly turning to go. But the root my right foot was resting on gave way unexpectedly as I shifted my weight. There was a snap and I cried out in surprise, grasping at a tree limb that broke off in my hand. My left knee struck the ground and the earth there crumbled away, sending me sliding down the remainder of the embankment with an accompaniment of pebbles and debris.

      “‘Jason,’ Michael said, letting go of her, but I was seeing him only in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t look at them directly, couldn’t bear the humiliation, and so I leaped to my feet and scampered back up the hill as fast as I could. By the time I got to the top, I realized there was something wrong with my ankle. It had begun to throb with every step. I didn’t run—couldn’t really—but I made my way as quickly as possible along the path, limping across Alex’s backyard when I got to it and, retrieving my bike from the front of her house, pedaling home as furiously as my wounded body would allow.

      “I awoke the next morning to find my right ankle swollen to twice its normal size, and I couldn’t bear weight on it. It was Sunday and my mother, realizing that our doctor’s office was closed, took me to the ER for X-rays. I was fortunate that I hadn’t broken it, the doctor told us, but I’d suffered a bad sprain and was reliant on crutches for the next two weeks.

      “When we got home from the hospital, I expected to see Michael sitting on our front steps waiting for me. But he didn’t stop by that day or the next. In fact, a week went by and I saw very little of either of them. At school we would catch each other’s eye for a moment in the hallway before pretending we hadn’t noticed. In class, we’d sit in our assigned seats, keeping our eyes focused on the teacher or on the pages of our respective books. In my mind, I was convinced they were either angry with me or embarrassed for me, and that either way I was the cause of all that had gone wrong between us.

      “I don’t know how much time would have elapsed before we spoke to each other if it hadn’t been for an art project I decided to take home from school one day. It was a framed painting I’d made the week before. I’d gotten it back that day with a note from the teacher that read, ‘Great use of contrast. This shows real promise.’ At a time in my life when I wasn’t feeling very happy with myself, I grasped that small piece of praise like a life preserver and held on to it. I wrapped it up in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain and hobbled on my crutches to the waiting school bus. It was awkward to carry, too big to fit into my backpack and tricky to hold on to with my hands occupied with the crutches. I laid it along the outside of my right crutch and held it there with my forearm. It was slow going, and I almost missed the bus, but the driver saw me coming and held the painting for me while I lurched up the steps and into a seat. So I’d made it halfway, I thought, which was good. But the distance between the bus stop and my house was three blocks off the main road, perpendicular to the route the driver normally took. I disembarked ten minutes later, and I guess I must’ve looked pretty pathetic working my way down the street because I heard Michael call out to me, ‘Yo, Jason. Wait up,’ and a few seconds later I could hear his shoes slapping along the wet sidewalk as he came up behind me.

      “‘Here, give me that, you moron,’ he said, and I handed him the plastic-bundled painting so I could use my crutches more effectively. He didn’t say anything else, just walked beside me in the rain, the two of us looking down at the asphalt, our shoulders hunched slightly against the weather. When we got to my house I opened the door and we stepped inside. I rested my crutches against the wall and unslung my backpack, dropping it beside me. My parents were both at work and the house was silent except for the sound of our jackets dripping onto the tile floor. We stood there facing each other, neither of us speaking. His eyes met mine only briefly, and then he sort of shrugged and moved toward the door. ‘I’ll see ya,’ he said, and I panicked, knowing that this was the moment for me to say something, to do what I could to make things right between us.

      “‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted out, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

      “‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ he replied. He took a breath, his left hand raking back the wet brown hair from his forehead. He smiled a little, his hazel eyes regarding me in a way that told me we were still friends, that we’d both been acting like idiots but now all was forgiven. I thought about the years we’d spent together growing up, about the secrets we held on to for each other, about the loyalty that had been built brick by brick like a fortress around us. I wanted to tell him that it was still there, that fortress, and that all we had to do was step inside once again.

      “‘I’m sorry I didn’t recognize it,’ he said, ‘what was developing between us.’ I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that I had recognized it for both of us. ‘Sometimes two people just … connect, you know?’ he tried to explain, and I nodded. ‘I mean, it’s like it’s not there one day and the next day it is.’ He shifted his stance so that his body was turned more fully in my direction, and I took a half step forward.

      “‘The thing is … I think I love her,’ he said, and I froze, my mouth going dry. ‘Yeah,’ he said, more confidently now. ‘I love her, dude. I just didn’t know you felt the same.’

      “I looked away from him, focusing on the stairs leading up to our living room. I could feel myself tearing up, could feel my throat getting tight. ‘I don’t,’ I told him, but he scoffed a little.

      “‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at us.’

      “I shook my head, remained silent, knowing my voice would betray me.

      “‘Just because I’m spending time with her doesn’t mean I can’t also hang out with you,’ he reminded me. ‘We’ve been friends a long—’

      “Without thinking, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his shoulder. I could feel his chest rise and fall against me, could feel the warmth of his body beneath the damp bulk of his jacket. He did nothing for the span of a few seconds, just stood there and let me hold on to him. And then his voice—alarmed, and too loud within the confines of the foyer—was in my ear.

      “‘What СКАЧАТЬ