Our Playbooks

Ellie  The summer before sophomore year, I’m waiting in my driveway for my best friends to pick me up for movie night when a bloodied boy is dropped off right in front of me. My mind goes blank. The only person I can think to call is Meg, knowing she’s already out, dropping off her little brothers at a sleepover. She’s the only one who can help me get him to a hospital, so I rush over to him with my phone pressed to my ear, heart hammering against my ribs. I kneel down and turn him over, gently placing his head onto my lap. Before I can even ask if he’s okay, his piercing gray eyes snap open and lock with mine, and then he takes my phone right out of my hands and ends the call without even looking at the screen. “No cops or ambulances,” he says. “My parents would kill me.” “I wasn’t calling 911,” I say, taking my phone back and redialing Meg’s number. It rings twice. “Are you okay? I was about to answer before you hung up.” I glance down at the boy. Even with his eyes closed, I can see the pain etched across his face. I close my eyes and take a steadying breath. “I can’t go to the movies tonight,” I tell Meg. “My parents decided not to leave for their trip until tomorrow.” The lie tastes bitter, but something stronger pushes past the guilt - my mother’s voice echoing in my head: We never leave anyone in their time of need, especially when we can help. “So they’re grounding you so you can hang out with them before they abandon you for the next three months or more,” she says, her voice dripping with annoyance. I shrug before remembering she can’t see me. “I know, but tomorrow we’ll do our normal back-to-school movie night. I’m sorry.” “Hey, don’t apologize, it’s all good. Spend time with the abandoners. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you, Ellie.” She doesn’t sound even a little bit sorry about the dig at my parents, even though she knows I don’t actually mind them being away. The truth is, sometimes the quietness is precisely what I want. “I love you too, Meg. See you tomorrow.” They’re away because, after my grandfather passed, my father had to take over running his law firm in Cincinnati, and my mother followed him there to work as a trauma surgeon at the local hospital. They’ve been doing this since the beginning of freshman year, only commuting back to Hamilton when their schedules allow or when they can work from home. I’m only fifteen - sixteen in September - and they’ve been leaving me alone since I was fourteen. It used to bother me. Now it’s just my life, and I’ve learned to fill the quiet with my own routines. Besides, I’m never really alone - I have two helicopter parents in the form of my best friends’ mothers, who check in on me constantly. Meg usually drives me to school, and in September, when I can finally take my driving test, I’ll be able to drive the car my parents already bought me. I slip my phone into my back pocket and really look at him for the first time—bloodied nose. Cut forehead. Bruises are already darkening beneath the skin. Questions flood my mind - who is he, what happened, why here - but I push them all aside. Right now, the only thing that matters is helping him. I take another deep breath and stop staring. “Can you walk, or do you need help?” He looks at me like I’m speaking another language, so I explain, “My mom isn’t here, but she keeps a spare emergency kit inside. I can patch you up and check those bruises to make sure nothing’s bleeding internally, but if something is, you’re going to need a hospital. My mom’s taught me a lot, but not how to do surgery.” I pause. “So, can you walk, or do you need help?” “I’ll need help.” His voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. I ease his head off my lap and help him sit up. This boy is way taller and heavier than I am, and I’m not sure I can actually do this, but I’m going to try. I grab his arm, lift it over my head, and squat down before slowly standing. He grunts and groans - the sound makes me wince - so I go even slower, which seems to help. He doesn’t stand to his full height, one, because I’m not that tall, and two, because he’s clearly in too much pain to straighten up completely. We make our way to the front door, inch by painful inch. I grab for my keys to unlock the door, and have to mostly drag, s***h, carry him inside and up the stairs to the spare bedroom. I place him on the bed, then head straight to the closet where Mom keeps her medical bag. I set it on the little bench at the end of the bed. I unzip it and pull out some gauze. My hands are steady as I press it carefully against the cut on his head - that part doesn’t surprise me. My mom taught me everything medical, and watching my brother taught me how to stay calm when everything else is falling apart. He hisses in pain, and I wince. “Sorry, but I need to do this,” I tell him gently. “It needs to stop bleeding before I can close it with steri-strips.” “It’s okay,” he says. For a moment, I think he’s going to say more, but then he closes his mouth with a loud exhale, and the room goes completely silent. “Why did they drop you off here?” I ask, breaking the silence. “They know my mom doesn’t do this anymore.” He looks up at me, and we stare at each other for what feels like forever. Finally, he speaks, “They didn’t know where I lived, and they panicked because I stopped breathing for a few seconds. They knew your mom would help no matter what, so they dropped me here.” The weight of his words settles over me. Stopped breathing. I keep my face neutral, but something cold moves through my chest. There’s more to this story - I can feel it - but right now isn’t the time to pull on that thread. “How long was the second really?” He shrugs. “Maybe a minute, maybe three. I don’t know. I was kind of out of it till they dumped me - not so very gracefully - out of their car in front of your house.” “And why didn’t you want me calling for an ambulance or the cops, besides the lame parents’ excuse?” I ask, checking the cut, the bleeding stopped. I watch him hesitate, and, needing to go grab a few more things, I stand up. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him, setting the gauze aside. He nods, so I head downstairs for a bowl of warm water and a few washcloths. When I come back, I set the bowl on the nightstand, grab a hand towel from the bathroom, and drag my mom’s little round makeup chair in from her vanity. I position it in front of him, drape the hand towel over my right leg, and wring out the washcloth. I work carefully, cleaning the blood from his face in slow, deliberate strokes, moving around the cuts rather than over them. Once his face is clean, I dab it dry and reach for the steri-strips. I apply them to the cut above his right eye and the one on his left cheek. His nose has a minor cut, but it doesn’t need a strip - most of the blood near his nose was from a nosebleed. The steri-strips will hold the wounds closed the same way stitches would, just without the needle. “So, are you going to answer my question?” I ask, looking him in the eyes. He shakes his head, so I finish working on his face, making sure all the cuts have stopped bleeding, and clean the blood off his chin and neck. “Take off your clothes,” I say. He looks at me with this smug smirk that actually makes me laugh. “I need to check your bruises,” I say, unable to resist teasing him, “but if you want to give me a show while taking it off, a girl wouldn’t mind.” That gets him laughing - the sound warm and easy despite everything. “Wow,” I say. “Broke through the tough-guy grump face. I’m taking that as a 1-0 win for me.” He laughs even harder, but then it turns into a sputtering cough and a loud groan of pain. I watch as he tilts his head back, grimacing, eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes,” I say, mentally kicking myself. I wait for the coughing to stop before asking, “Are you going to need help with your sweatshirt?” He nods, eyes still closed, and slowly lifts his arms. When I grab the hem of his black sweatshirt, I realize he’s not wearing anything under it, and I just pull it over his head. My gaze drops to his torso, and I have to bite back a sharp breath. Bruises everywhere - some healed and yellowing at the edges, others fresh, purple, and swollen with new blood. This isn’t the first time someone has done this to him. Not even close. I gently touch the bruise forming on the right side of his rib cage, and he mumbles something under his breath, hissing before steeling his face, while remaining perfectly still. When I look up, he’s already staring at me. “Can you try to take a deep breath for me?” I ask softly. I place a hand on both sides of his rib cage as he breathes in, and I can feel his left side fill and deflate easily while his right side struggles. I lean over, grab my mom’s stethoscope, and place it above the bruising and swelling on his chest. “Again, deep breath,” I say, and then I listen. His right side is definitely slower than it should be, but there’s no hiss of air, so his lung isn’t punctured, which is something, at least. “Your left side is just bruised,” I tell him. I point to the swelling on his right side. “But here, at least one broken rib. Maybe two, judging by the size of this bruise.” He nods at everything I’m saying, so I stand and ask, “Can you stand and turn around?” His back isn’t as bad, and when I touch each bruise, he barely reacts - just tenses slightly under my fingers. “Other than a few bruises on your back, you’re okay,” I tell him. “You can sleep in this bedroom tonight. In about twenty-four hours, you can take the steri-strips off. Your cuts will close on their own, they just need time.” I start gathering the gauze and washcloths and am about to stand with the bowl when his hand wraps around my wrist. “Thank you.” His voice is quiet. Sincere. I nod, and he releases my wrist. I dump the water in the bathroom sink, rinse the washcloths, and toss everything into the washer before taking the bowl back down to the kitchen. When I make it back upstairs, he’s still sitting exactly where I left him. I grab his sweatshirt and head toward the door. When he doesn’t follow, I pause and glance back at him. “Come with me.” After tossing his sweatshirt into the washer, I walk towards my brother’s room with him trailing behind me, and I stop in front of the door without meaning to. My fingers find the name engraved into the wood - my grandfather’s handiwork - and I go still. Caleb. I close my eyes and take a slow breath. No one’s been in here since he passed away last summer, and every time I stand at this door, I feel the weight of that. I take another steadying breath and push the door open. The scent hits me immediately - sandalwood and something faintly like antiseptic, the ghost of hospital disinfectant that never quite washed out. I cross to his dresser and pull out a pair of boxers he probably never wore, a large black T-shirt, and black sweatpants. When I turn around, the boy is still standing in the doorway, watching me with quiet, careful eyes. I walk back and hand him the clothes, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know if you’re a boxers or briefs guy, but my brother never wore much of this stuff.” Our eyes lock, and he nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “You’re welcome,” I say, realizing I’ve been helping a stranger. “What is your name, by the way?” He lets out a low chuckle and extends his right hand toward me. “I’m Dayton Archer.” Something clicks as I grab his hand and shake it, his grip firm despite his injuries. “You’re the middle linebacker at Hamilton High. You’re a junior, right?” “Yeah, Eleanor, but how do you remember me when you only got eyes for the quarterback?” he asks with a smug smirk. “Ha, so funny,” I say as my neck and cheeks heat up. “You’re wrong, but do you need anything else?” He’s still smiling when he says, “No,” right as his stomach growls loudly, betraying him. I laugh as his smile falters, “Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I lift my arms in surrender and add with a small smile, “It won’t be poisoned. I promise.” That brings his smile back, and he nods. “Yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.” “No problem,” I say, pointing toward the spare room. “You can change in there. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen if you need anything. Throw your wet, bloodied clothes in the washer, then just push the start button.” He nods and takes a few steps back. I step out of the room and reach for the doorknob, my hand lingering on it a moment longer than it needs to. I stare into Caleb’s room. It looks the same as the day he got too sick to come home - his things exactly where he left them, the bed still made. My mom only lets the cleaner in here, making sure there’s never any dust on anything, as if keeping it perfect is the same as keeping him. The room stays frozen, suspended in the last moment he was still here. A mausoleum for the sweet boy my parents lost and the big brother I lost. I must’ve been standing here a while because the sound of a throat clearing behind me snaps me out of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “No. Not at all,” I say quietly, closing the door and shutting away the memories.