Latibule

My best friend in the entire world, Ezra Westbrook, lives on the 2500 block of 42nd Street, among the towering green hornbeams and white-washed colonials of Shetland Park. By now, I suspect I’ve spent more time at his house than my own, to the point where his parents practically consider me a third son. Brady, could you take Moogie out for a walk? (Moogie’s their massive Alaskan malamute, one-hundred pounds of lean muscle and thick, glossy fur, which is a blessing to have in Canada except it’s really annoying to remove ticks.) Oh, and by the way, the dishes in the dishwasher are clean. Can you put them away, please? They certainly give me the chores to show for it, but I’m not complaining—almost anything beats the awkward silence back home.

The Westbrooks’ driveway is by far the longest I’ve ever seen, nearly half a mile of uneven cobblestones and mortar the color of elephant skin. Even though it’s quite treacherous to ride a bike across, and Ez and I probably skinned our knees hundreds of times falling before we memorized its quirks, we would never trade it for anything else. The yellow picket fence on the right-hand side requires some attention, however. Half of it collapsed during the last storm, and the other half’s full of termites which flit past my face as I walk, prompting me to swat at them with my history homework. Ez’s parents keep meaning to have it replaced. They also keep forgetting to call the local carpenter, Mr. Sanders, who would jump at the chance to do anything besides repairing rich kids’ treehouses. It is my personal opinion that intending for something to happen, but not following through with it, is the predominant reason why most humans fail to do anything significant with their lives. I’m mulling this thought over when I hear the faint sound of leaves crunching behind me.

Boo! Two large hands reach around my shoulders and shake me violently, nearly causing me to lose my grip on my precious papers. Gee, I think, Mr. Brandon would be thrilled if I turned in a worksheet smeared with mud. I sigh. Hey Ez.

Hey, he says, and I turn around to face him. Rather, I turn upward to face him. Here’s the thing about my friend—he’s tall. Freakishly tall. Six-foot-seven to my five-ten, and not even done growing yet. His dad always laments the fact that Ezra could’ve been a basketball star if he didn’t love theater so much, as Mr. Westbrook is the head coach at Fairview High. Yeah, things get awkward between them sometimes, but usually it’s not too bad.

It takes us around ten minutes to reach the front door of their Victorian abode. It’s a very imposing piece of architecture, three stories tall, with a wraparound porch and gables pitched at a severe forty-five degree angle, yet the familiarity of the sight is somehow comforting. The color they chose for the exterior is, to say the least, quite homely, an off-putting shade of peacock turquoise. Thankfully, the entire left side of the house is obscured by verdant ivy, which turns a brilliant shade of crimson come autumn. Through the leaded transom window, standing on the tips of my toes, I spot Mrs. Westbrook preparing some sort of chicken stew for dinner. Wiping her hands on her apron as she walks, she nudges the door open.

Hi there, she says. Got some homework to do?

Yup, I reply, and Ezra and I make our way up to his bedroom on the second floor. He’s not the most organized of people—books lie strewn across the floor, clothes folded haphazardly and stuffed, unceremoniously, into drawers—yet he’s orders of magnitude more orderly than I am. Meanwhile, I’m busy pretending not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he flops down onto his bed. I’m not sure when things changed with Ez, only that they did. One day, we were ready to take the world by storm, two best friends together forever. Then, suddenly, I wanted us to be more. Only I could never tell him that.

History first? he asks, lacing his spidery fingers across his stomach.

Sure. We take out our textbooks, thick, heavy things with ugly Grecian urns on the cover, flipping to page 168. The Trojan War.

Achilles and Patroclus, Ez says, and snorts. There’s this great line Hanschen has in Spring Awakening involving the two. I think you would appreciate it. I freeze. Anyways, let’s get back to it.

We work silently for a while, stopping every so often to share a cracker from the Ziploc bag Ez snuck from the kitchen. Whenever we brush hands, I shudder a little bit. Anything wrong? Nope, I say, blushing. Nothing wrong.

And maybe it’s because I’m so sleep deprived I can’t think straight, or maybe it’s because we’ve been sharing the same bed for the past hour, I can’t help but hope that he likes me too. So I do the unthinkable. I reach out, grab his hand, and lean my head against his shoulder. He doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t react, except for the slightest intake of breath.

I’m in love with you, Ez.

What? He turns to stare at me, voice breaking, honey eyes softening like melting butter. Oh Brady. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. A pause. I—I have to go. He breaks the contact, letting his long, long legs carry him up and out of the room, away from me, without so much as a single glance back.

The Westbrooks let me sleep over that one last time. I don’t come down for dinner. I don’t speak at all. All I do is cry into his pillow, breathing in his lingering scent, feeling myself slip away into the inky black nothingness. Then, he’s gone. My best friend, Ez, gone.

Gone.