I put my finger to my mouth to shush him and ventured downstairs, creeping as quietly as I could. When I made it outside, I stared up at Brandon from the ground.
“Morelli,” he said, this time not whispering but sort of burping in the middle of uttering my last name. He was drunk. Obviously.
“Fitzsimmons,” I answered. “Knackered again, I see.”
“If knackered is smart boy talk for lit to the tits, then yeah, I am. Morelli, what I love about you is you always shoot straight with me. You don’t beat around the bush. You see I’m drunk and you tell me I’m drunk. You see the lights of the moon shining down upon you, and you say hi to the moon.”
“I haven’t said hi to the moon. You’re simply incredibly intoxicated.”
“Come up man, just come up.”
I shrugged my shoulders and headed toward the back of Brandon’s house to get the ladder the Fitzsimmons keep next to the garage. Starting in the eighth or ninth grade, Brandon had had me up on the roof a few times in the late night hours, so I knew where it was. I laughed to myself as I imagined the rest of the Healy High population catching a glimpse of the highest- and lowest-ranked men in the Healy High hierarchy sitting next to one another on a roof, talking. At school, Brandon didn’t acknowledge me unless it was to make fun of my size or my grades. Truthfully, he did it so good-naturedly I couldn’t really mind. I mean, he called me a poindexter and he grinned when he did it. It was almost quaint.
“Wanna beer?” He slipped his hand inside his bedroom window and handed me one. I opened it.
“Wow, Morelli, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“It’s beer, not cyanide.”
“What’s cyanide?”
“A poison. Members of the Jonestown cult consumed it in mass quantities on the order of their leader, Jim Jones. They all died immediately after.”
“Jesus, Morelli, where do you get this crap?” Brandon said, taking a sip and grinning.
I smiled to myself with satisfaction. Ever since we’d been young children, Brandon had enjoyed exploring my collection of unusual facts and figures. He would always remind me of that time when we were quite young and I convinced his mother that the roof was structurally sound enough to play on by explaining to her the concept of compressive strength. I could tell he was impressed with my intelligence even if he never admitted it out loud.
Now, despite our occasional nighttime conversations and Brandon’s interest in the inner-workings of my brain, Brandon wasn’t my secret friend or any such nonsense. I knew this, even at the time. He was my neighbor, a person who had been in my life since kindergarten. He was Brandon Fitzsimmons, and I was Kurt Morelli, and for reasons I’m not certain of but could speculate on, he enjoyed talking to me. Perhaps because there was no one else he felt he could tell his secrets and stories to. Perhaps because I humored him. Perhaps because I lived next door.
And I suppose, on some level, I enjoyed speaking to him. Or at least listening to what he had to tell me.
So we talked.
Why did I enjoy listening to him? Brandon was so incredibly different from me in almost every possible way—except for the fact that we were both males living in Healy—that it was almost like anthropological research sitting on the roof next to him, listening to him tell me about his exploits and his adventures and his problems. It provided me insight into a radically different kind of life. I believe I may be the only person in the town of Healy who knows that once during a big game he wet his pants out of anxiety. And that the Geometry teacher passed him even though he turned in every single test and quiz completely blank because his status as Healy High quarterback was simply that important. Or that he often forgot the difference between his right and his left. (One night I showed him a trick to help him remember—that his left hand made the shape of a letter L—and for this he was quite grateful.)
And so I admit to having enjoyed these evenings. Evenings like that fall night with Brandon drunk and me just drinking. And I was enjoying that particular evening so much that I even started a second beer.
“So where were you this fine Saturday night?” I asked after listening to Brandon complain about how tired he was from that afternoon’s game and how much of a blowhard Coach Hendricks could be at times.
“Hanging out at the Healy High parking lot. It was incredible. Just amazing.” He was being sarcastic, I realized.
“Being fawned on by your adoring public?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Morelli. Talk slower.” He shoved me with his shoulder.
“I mean, were you getting lots of attention from people in the parking lot? Since you are, after all, Brandon Fitzsimmons.”
Brandon laughed and sucked down the rest of his beer.
“I suppose this is when I should tell you that it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be, being the most popular junior in the school, right? That I just want to be understood and shit.”
“So, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” I asked, honestly curious.
Brandon slowly nodded his head in the affirmative, and a sad expression spread on his face. Then he suddenly broke up laughing. “No, man,” he told me. “It’s pretty awesome, I have to say. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but it is. People love me. I can do no wrong. Chicks love me. Dudes want to be me. Except maybe for you.”
I thought about the latest rumor just out around the school involving him and the gorgeous Alice Franklin, and I thought otherwise. So, perhaps emboldened by the beer, I said, “Well, what about Alice Franklin? I heard about the two of you and Elaine’s party. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her, in the Biblical sense.”
Brandon didn’t say anything for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled just a bit to himself.
“You mean, you’d like to bang Alice?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d use the phrase bang, perhaps, but she’s quite a foxy young lady.”
“Morelli, I think you’re buzzed,” Brandon said.
“I think I am, too,” I said.
It was quiet for a little while on the roof, and then, out of nowhere, Brandon burped loudly. Then he said, “I didn’t do her, you know.”
I’d almost forgotten for a moment what we’d been talking about. Then I remembered. Alice Franklin.
“You mean,” I said, “You … did … I mean, people are saying—”
“People are saying that I screwed her and then Tommy Cray screwed her. Yeah, man, I know what people are saying because I told them in the first place! Come on, Morelli. Catch up here.”