The Journey Prize Stories 24 by Various Page A

But they walked home hand-in-hand to his empty house. His mother had been gone for some weeks, with a widower from the church who had introduced himself to Lewin as “Uncle Don.” He said Lewin was the man of the house now and he could probably have all sorts of fun on his own for a little while. He said Lewin’s mother needed cheering up. The house was big and new and the walk home from the park was pleasant.
    While they walked, they pointed out the cars they would buy when they were older and married. Sometimes Lewin would put his hands over Micah’s eyes and quiz her on the models of the cars. They memorized the makes and years the way they memorized verses and chapters. There never seemed to be anyone else walking around in Lewin’s neighbourhood, just the polished cars sliding silently in and out, like sharks in the cool glow of the street lamps.
    At the house, Lewin and Micah went out back to the trampoline, the way they always did whenever it was warm enough. There was a hot tub too, under a fleshy leather cover.
    When they were tired of bouncing, they lay down and Lewin realigned Micah’s spine by grabbing onto her head and pulling it until something in her neck popped.
    “I learned that from a real chiropractor,” he said. “But they’re not doctors, technically. Neither are therapists. Psychiatrists are. They can prescribe drugs.”
    “Why would anyone be a therapist then?” said Micah, lacing her fingers together behind her neck, which now felt loose and boneless.
    Lewin went to see a psychiatrist two days a week. They had both decided they would be psychiatrists in the future. Lewin’s psychiatrist drove a Mercedes S500.
    They lay there sipping diluted whisky from an unbreakable Nalgene bottle, feeling warm. The bottle was scuffed and scraped from their repeated attempts to break it.
    Another day after school, while the sun was still up, Lewin’s mother and Uncle Don came through the sliding door into the backyard.
    Uncle Don said, “Hello, Micah,” because he recognized her from church and because someone needed to say something.
    Micah and Lewin were sitting in the hot tub, and her legs were wavy shapes stretched over his lap. Their skin was slippery under the water and rubbery above. Micah had her hand on Lewin’s arm, which was ringed with dried blood and scars. The fresh ones felt like tree bark.
    Lewin said, “So you’re back,” and his mother said, very quiet, “Sorry I was gone so long.”
    They all had dinner at a restaurant that night, Lewin and Micah and Lewin’s mother and Uncle Don, and Uncle Don’s daughter, who slipped off her tennis shoe and slid her sock foot up Lewin’s pant leg during garlic bread. A week later, before the summer tournament, Lewin dropped out of Bible Challenge. Micah stayed on at first. She even had the brief sharp thought that it would be easier to win without him there, not just because he was competition, but because he distracted her, his bright outfits flashing at the edge of her line of vision, the dark roots of his hair clanging against the white tips. She lasted a week without him. After she dropped out, the minister’s son from Wiarton won the whole regional competition, and then the provincial one too.
    Micah and Lewin went to football games, where the boy Micah had a crush on played corner. They brought the Nalgene bottle. Lewin told Micah that when they grew up and got married they would have a rose garden the size of a football field. They talked that way all the time, even though they both knew, in some unspoken animal way, that they would never be married to each other, for reasons no one at John Huss spoke about. Still, they sat together, watching the boys in their slithery polyester uniforms, Lewin leaning forward now and then as if in pain. He’d let his hair grow out after he quit Bible Challenge. The natural colour was too dark, and his raw skin seemed thinner than skin ought to be. When the game was over, Micah’s crush would