Free Away We Go by Emil Ostrovski Page A

thought he’d die for sure. Didn’t know the first thing. So I started petting him, right? Crazy, right? Talking to him. He was in the corner of the box. He let me pet him. He had no fight instinct, Noah. He could’ve bit me or clawed at me—he had no fight instinct . ” He threw me a sheepish glance. “Maybe that’s what I like about you, kiddo.”
    My mouth worked, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. “What you like,” I repeated. A snowflake landed on his brow and melted. The squirrel’s guts hung out of its body. Zach frowned at the branches crisscrossing above our heads, as if they were responsible.
    He walked this way and that, aimlessly.
    I wanted to offer something, but what? A eulogy? What did Zach expect from me? What did he want?
    You were a good squirrel, until you got caught up in one of our traps and got disemboweled by a badger. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, requiescat in pace.
    Birds flitted above us in the trees and I wanted to saysomething to make things better between us, something romantic and stupid, about how some birds mate for life, but which ones?—my lack of ornithological knowledge was holding me back. You had to know everything about everything, didn’t you, in order to say the right thing at the right time, in order to draw the right metaphor out at the right moment and turn that moment into poetry. Maybe that was why the world had poets and playwrights. To give us back all the words we’d squandered.
    â€œI like that I couldn’t imagine you hurting someone,” Zach said quietly. “Anyone,” he amended. “I guess I like that you’re not into competition. That you’re different. My mom was always drilling into me about sports and grades and being popular, how I was born with every opportunity, so there’s absolutely no excuse for being second best. Ra ra no gold medals for second place, Zachary, ra.”
    I heard, in the distance, the sound of students, teachers, their approaching steps, fragments of conversation punctuated by laughter. Why was he telling me this? We cuddled, he pushed me away, invited me to tea, told me about a girl he liked, and now what? Parental-story-sharing time? Did he not think I could be the best? Did he not think I could protect him?
    â€œI could’ve beat you in that race,” I said. “If we raced now I would beat you.”
    His mouth worked, but formed no words. The students and teachers had passed. It was quiet again.
    â€œI don’t know about that,” he said. “I feel terrible and now I’m making you feel terrible. Aren’t I?” He massaged his temples, took a couple steps away from me, meandered back. He squinted through the patchwork of trees at something only he could see.
    â€œIs it—are you afraid? I’m afraid, too, Zach.”
    He shook his head, pressed a hand gently to my shoulder. “That’s—that’s not it, Noah. Please try to understand. I’ve missed you, that’s all. And I thought you’d understand. I thought I’d bring you here and—I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know about Addie. We—I spent the night, and then she asked for some space. She said she needed space.”
    â€œThat sounds familiar, Zach.”
    He looked pained, but went on. “We just don’t have a lot of time. And I don’t think I feel that way about you. And maybe she doesn’t feel that way about me. That’s what’s been running through my head. And then I found the squirrel and, God, I don’t know. I just wanted to save her. I thought if we find out where the sick kids go—”
    Ever since I’d started avoiding Zach, I’d made up for it by hanging out with Alice, who was always trying to save me, worrying about my level of alcohol consumption, what I did on Friday nights.
    â€œMaybe she doesn’t want to be saved,” I said.