Because You're Different ✔

9. Lena

"Fine. I won't use that word again. Happy now?"

"Yes. Now tell me about the plans Lena used to make."

For a second, he was quiet. "I don't know. She just liked to do these really crazy things— alright, reckless things," he added when I gave him a look. "Like this time when I was eleven, and she and Nathan smuggled me out of school to go camping in some National Forest. I missed four days of school! And it wasn't Nathan's idea, I can tell you that." He frowned, then said, with an exasperated sigh: "I just don't understand why he liked her so much."

He didn't have to understand. I was sure lots of people didn't understand why Sam liked me either; that didn't mean our friendship was worthless. Sometimes, it wasn't even a question of liking someone, sometimes, you might not like a person, but you loved them, like abuela did her second son, uncle Antonio. "It doesn't make a difference if you liked her or not. He liked her. And she took her own life. That's bad enough, isn't it?"

Sam didn't say anything. He was kicking the leg of one of the kitchen chairs, not with force, merely in a rhythm. It annoyed me kicking was his way of blowing off steam, whether Nathan was the target or furniture. "I just want my brother back," he said then, kind of sulkily, like a toddler about to cry. "I don't like it when he does this. It's what she did. What if he becomes like her? — No, June, don't — hug — me — I — don't — want—"

He didn't have a choice. Sometimes, hugging was the only solution, my dad had taught me. It didn't always work, and Sam hated it when I applied the technique, but for me, it could make the worst situation seem a little less inescapable. Sam probably hadn't been hugged for years before I stepped into his life. Judging by the picture in his room, his grandma had died well before he lost most of his baby teeth. And well, the awkward squashings of his mom couldn't be called a hug at all.

Finally, he stopped struggling. Only then did I let him go. He was red in the face, though I didn't know if it was from embarrassment or trying not to cry. "You said you weren't going to do that again," he said, and I giggled.

"Just like I said Nathan's Christmas present was a love letter. And that my uncle Miguel was in a gang and killed people. And that I liked your new shirt."

"You don't like my new shirt?!"

I laughed — he seemed genuinely offended. "No, I don't. It's boring."

"I don't like your sweater."

"Which one?"

"The grey one."

"I've got three grey ones."

"Yeah, well, one of those."

"Oh, alright. Now I'm really sad because my best friend doesn't like one of my sweaters!"

"Stop that! You lie about everything, don't you?" Oh, it was so easy to mess with him. "Tell me the truth, what was on that card?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." I beckoned him to come closer, then said: "A secret." I burst out in a fit of giggles, but he didn't find it as funny.

"You suck."

"I know."

After my giggles had subsided, I remembered what we'd been talking about. "Sam," I said seriously, and he looked up, almost hopefully, as if I was going to take all of his worries away. "My abuela, on the day her husband died, she always goes to the graveyard and stays there alone, crying from sunrise to sundown. It's what she needs, it's good for her." At least, that's what my dad had told me many times, asking me if I ever had a cry and not felt better afterward. He was right: sometimes, the sadness needed to be let out, and sometimes, the only way to achieve that was to cry until you were too tired to think anymore. "And when she returns home, we are there to remind her of the good things. So, that's what we need to do for Nathan. Just be there for him when he's ready, like he's always there for us."

Sam didn't respond. He scratched his head, thinking, then said: "Wait, I don't understand. There's nothing good about crying, right? And who says Nathan's crying?" His eyes widened, as if the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. "You think he's crying?"

Sigh. Boys. "Never mind. You know what, I know what to do. You have money to pay for a cab, right?"

That evening, it was Sam who burned his hand while he drained the water for me. It wasn't my intention to lure Nathan out of his room; I didn't even think it was possible. I just wanted to create a plate for him and set it in front of his door, so he could eat if he wanted to — so he knew there were people who cared, even though he might feel like the loneliest person on earth right now. Because Sam might not fully understand, but he did care.

So, when I heard footsteps later while I was setting the table, I thought it was Sam returning from the bathroom. I was examining the mat under one of the pans; it was one of those artsy ones, and they gave off a distinctive stench whenever you put something hot on it. Incredibly useless things. Was everything in this kitchen for show? "I really think we need to buy different table mats. It smells like they're melting."

Silence. The lack of an answer wasn't alarming to me. This was Sam, after all, and Sam did not care about items like table mats. At all. "We can go get some next week," he said then, but it wasn't Sam's voice. It was deeper and much more unexpected.

Nathan.

He was in an oversized hoodie, hands hidden in his sleeves. Although his hair was a mess, there were no signs of crying.

For a second, I didn't know what to do. What did he want? Why did he come down? Was he eating with us? Despite not knowing his intentions, I offered him a small smile. "Sounds good."

To my relief, he took a seat at the table, sinking back into the chair. I wasn't sure if he was aware of what was going on; he was staring off in the distance, eyes empty, head resting on his fists. When Sam came in, he wanted to shout — I quickly shot him a warning look, and he shut his mouth immediately. "Can you get another spoon, Sam?"

I almost went to sit down when I changed my mind. Resolutely, I walked around the table, gingerly wrapping my arms around Nathan, just for a moment. "I'm really glad you're here," I said softly, before letting go. He responded with a sort of grunt, then proceeded to fill his plate with vegetables.

And for once, Sam did not comment on my habit to hug people.