Mills - This Adventure Ends

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For the greatest papa (my papa)

The adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you.

E. L. KONIGSBURG,
From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

My immediate priority is air.

Bree has dragged me to a house party, and the place is too warm. Everything is a little too close.

I dont like being in a strangers house at the best of times. Seeing the pictures on someone elses fridge, the knickknacks on their mantel, whether or not their toilet-paper roll goes over or under that stuff is personal. To be so outside of it, and yet still privy to it, feels like some kind of a violation.

I cant say this to Bree. So I just listen in on one more conversation about whether Jen and Asher from calculus are finally official (Do they need to be notarized? I ask, and no one laughs), and then I make my way to the kitchen to escape out the back door.

Unfortunately, escape is barred.

Its not a big deal, this kid is saying, pitching his voice over the thrum of the room. Clearly it is a big deal, because a ring of onlookers has formed around him. Its that sort of Shakespearean chorus that pops up at parties like this, to observe and cast judgment and report back to the masses later.

Im only three weeks in at Grove County High School, but I recognize the speaker from my AP biology class. His name is Mason, and he sits at the lab bench in front of mine.

I also recognize him from the pages of my fathers novels. In a few short years, Mason could be the sheriffs son who backhands the preachers daughter, or the exhigh school quarterback hell-bent on avenging some romantic slight. Guys like him were a dime a dozen in Everett Finchs world, and they usually died in a fire.

She doesnt want to talk to you, the guy standing directly across from Mason says.

And how the hell do you know that? Twin magic? When shes hit on, you feel it, too?

The guy doesnt reply, but there is this look in his eyes, a quiet rage that I wouldnt have messed with had I been Mason.

Really, you should be thanking me, Mason continues. I dont think shes a lost cause. I could help her turn shit around.

Mason steps into the other guys space, eliciting a quiet but firm Dont.

Or what?

The guy doesnt respond.

Or what? Mason repeats, and steps even closer. In different circumstances, theyd look for all the world like they were about to kiss. Masons lips curve upward into a smile. Is this getting to you? Are you wired wrong, too?

Dont is all he says again.

Come on, its not like youre going to hit me. You want to know how I know? When the guy doesnt answer, Mason reaches out and puts his hands on either side of the guys head, forcing it up and down in a nod. Yes, Mason, I want to know. And then he moves one hand to the guys face, smushing his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. Cause youre a nice fucking guy, Fuller . He squeezes with each word.

The guy still doesnt move, and maybe Mason is rightmaybe he wont hit him. Maybe hes too solid to respond.

But Im not.

Sorry, I say, angling through the people in front of me. Im sorry. So sorry. Dont mean to interrupt. Its just are you for fucking serious?

Mason looks at me, his hand still grasping the guys face. Surprise cuts through his smirk. A girl is volunteering to talk to him , I think, and in that moment, I know which tack to use.

So I tamp down the outrage and manage something like a smile as I reach out and close my fingers loosely around Masons wrist. A soft touch. He lets me guide his hand away without protest.

I mean these hands arent really meant for that kind of thing, are they?

His eyes track me as I lace my fingers together with his.

These hands are for for caressing, I continue. For stroking, even.

Oh yeah? Mason says with a dumb little smile. His target just stands there, altogether forgotten.

Yeah, I say. Yourself. In front of the TV. Alone. Every night.

Mason doesnt get it right away, but theres a hoot from the crowd and a few barely suppressed guffaws.

If nothing else, you can at least use them to grasp for intelligence, or like, some semblance of human decency.

The crowd reaction amps up, like a sitcom soundtrack. Mason wrenches his hand out of mine.

Whats your problem? he says.

Your face, I reply, because thats what my sister, Laney, would say.

Fuck you, he says, but hes lost control of the room. The chorus is already buzzing. Fuck this. He smiles with too much teeth. Got yourself a guard dog, huh, Fuller? Emphasis on dog . Like this will somehow hurt my feelings. But thats assuming I have them in the first place.

When I dont react, Mason shakes his head and retreats, the chorus folding in around us. I look back to where the guy had been standing, but hes already headed out the back door.

Bree appears at my elbow, clutching a plastic cup. Her cheeks are red, and she is grinning. Geez. That waswas that a New York thing? Do they teach you that kind of stuff there?

Yes. Here is your MetroCard, and this is how you publicly dismantle insufferable dicks.

It was a person thing. That guy was an ass.

She shakes her head, still grinning. Geez.

What?

Gabe Fuller. She gestures in the direction of the guys retreat. You stepped in for freaking Gabe Fuller.

Yeah, I say, because I dont how to respond to that.

A kid I vaguely recognize from my lit class comes up then, holding his hand up for a high five.

That was hilarious, he says.

I slap his palm, but suddenly its too close in there again, too much, so I excuse myself and make my way to the door.

Its quieter outside. Theres just the low hum of crickets and the soft smack of a couple making out on the porch swing. The chains attaching the swing to the ceiling rattle as she adjusts, he adjusts. One of them sighs, a soft little sound.

I ignore them, bracing my hands against the railing. The night air hangs thick with late-summer humidity, but a few deep breaths still put me right.

Some scraggly trees populate the backyard, and theres an attempt at a gardena trellis hung with vines, a couple of thorny-looking bushes. The ground is a study in that patchy North Florida grass, which is mostly just sand and a thick coating of live oak leaves. The leaves shine in the light from the motion-sensor bulb on the garage. That same light throws two figures at the end of the yard into stark relief.

I cant hear them from where I stand. Rationally, I know its none of my business. But I step off the porch anyway and move across the yard toward them.

I told you we shouldnt have gone to a non-Frank-sanctioned party, the girl is saying as I near. Im shielded a bit by the shadow of the trellis.

Why were you even talking to him?

He talked to me first. Im not just going to ignore another human being. We cant all stare through people, Gabe.

Yeah, well, try. Look at them, and instead of seeing them, see whatevers behind them. And then ignore that, too.

Yeah, thats a super healthy approach. Super great social skills.