“I hope so. Becky's dad and I got engaged at senior prom.” She said it nostalgically, but it wasn't a hint to him. It was pretty obvious that they were heading that way too, with or without a ring.

“See you tomorrow,” Johnny said as he left, and Becky followed him outside. They stood next to his car for a few minutes, chatting, and he took her in his arms and they kissed. It was a kiss filled with passion, emotion, all the feelings they shared, and the energy of youth, and she was breathless when they stopped.

“You'd better go before I drag you into the bushes, Johnny Peterson,” she said with a giggle, and the smile that still tore his heart out after all these years.

“That sounds pretty good. Your mom might get a little upset,” he teased. None of their parents knew, or so they thought, how far things had gone, although unbeknownst to them, both their mothers were well aware of it. Pam had had a talk with Becky once, and urged her to be careful. But they both were. They were both sensible kids and, so far at least, had had no slip-ups and no scares. Becky had no intention of getting pregnant before they got married, and that was still years away. Johnny had to finish school, and so did she, and she wasn't even starting for another year. They were in no hurry, they had all the time in the world. “I'll call you later,” he promised, as he got into his car. He knew his mother would be waiting for him, most likely with something to eat, even though he'd eaten at Becky's house. And with no homework to do, he might spend some time with the kids and his dad. Depending on how things were when he got home.

He lived only two miles from Becky's house, and he was home five minutes later. He parked in the driveway behind his dad's car, and as he walked through the backyard he saw his younger sister Charlotte shooting baskets by herself, the way he used to do. She looked just like their mother, and a little like Becky, with big blue eyes and long blond hair. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, and her legs were nearly as long as his. She was tall for her age, and beautiful, but she didn't really care. The only thing that interested Charlotte was sports. She ate, slept, dreamed, and talked about nothing but baseball in the summer, football and basketball in the winter, and she played on every team she could. She was the most perfect all-around athlete, male or female, Johnny had ever known.

“Hi Charlie, how's it going?” he said, as he caught the ball she tossed at him. It always made him smile because she threw like a guy. She had a remarkable talent for sports.

“Okay,” she glanced over her shoulder at him after he threw the ball back to her, and she sank another basket. And he could see, when she looked at him, that her eyes were sad.

“What's up?” He put an arm around her, and she stopped for a minute, and leaned against him. He could feel the sadness emanating through her. In the last few years, she seemed older than she was, in part because she was tall. But she was also wise beyond her years.

“Nothing.”

“Is Dad home?” But he knew he was, by the car. Johnny knew what was bothering her. It wasn't new to either of them, but it still hurt, after all these years.

“Yeah.” She nodded, and then started to dribble the ball, as Johnny watched her for a minute, and then grabbed the ball from her. They played together for a few minutes, taking turns sinking baskets, and it struck him again how good she was. It was a shame in some ways that she wasn't a boy. And he knew she thought so too. She had gone to almost every game he'd played through all his high school years, and rooted passionately for him. Johnny was exactly who she wished she could be. He was her hero, more than anyone on earth.

It was a full ten minutes later when he finally left her, and went inside. His mother was standing in the kitchen, drying dishes, while his little brother Bobby watched her from the kitchen table, and his father was in the living room, watching TV.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, planting a kiss somewhere on the top of her head, as she smiled. Alice Peterson was crazy about her kids, and always had been. The happiest day in her life was when Johnny was born. And she still felt that way when she looked at him now.

“Hi, sweetheart, how was your day?” Her eyes lit up when she saw him, as they did every night. She had always had a special bond with him.

“Pretty good. Graduation's on Monday, and the prom is in two days.” She laughed at what he said, as Bobby watched.

“No kidding. Did you think I forgot? How's Becky?” Both kids had talked of nothing else for months.

“Good.” And then he turned his attention to Bobby, who smiled as his big brother approached. “Hi, kiddo, good day?” Bobby said nothing, but the smile broadened as Johnny tousled his hair.

Johnny had long-running conversations with him, told him everything he did every day, and inquired about his little brother's day. But Bobby never spoke, hadn't in five years, since he was four. He had had an accident with his father, when their father drove his car off a bridge into the river. They had both nearly drowned, and a passerby had saved Bobby's life. He had been on life support for two weeks, and he had survived it, but he never spoke again. No one had been able to figure out since then if it was brain damage from being submerged for too long, or trauma. But no amount of specialists, therapy, or treatments had changed anything. Bobby was alert, aware, and carefully observed everything around him, but he did not speak. He was in a special school for the handicapped, and he participated in some things, but he lived in a world that was airtight now, and completely sealed. He could write, but never communicated in writing either. He just copied the words and letters other people wrote. He did not answer questions, verbally or in writing. He did not volunteer anything. It was as though Bobby had nothing left to say. And ever since the accident, what had once been a tendency for their father to drink a little too much at parties had become a nightly anesthesia, so he wouldn't have to think. He never fell down, he never got sloppy, he wasn't aggressive or violent. He just sat down in front of the TV and got quietly drunk every night, and it was no mystery why. It was just the way things were, and had been for five years.

None of them ever spoke about it. Alice had tried talking to him about it at first, and she had thought he'd get over it, just as Bobby would get over his silence. But neither of them had. And in their own way, they were both locked into their own worlds. Bobby into his silent bubble, and Jim into his beer. It was hard on all of them, but they all understood by now, and accepted, that it wasn't going to change. She had suggested AA to him several times, and he just brushed her off. He refused to discuss his drinking with her or anyone else. He didn't even acknowledge that he drank.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” his mom asked him. “I saved dinner for you.”

“I'm okay. I had a sandwich at the Adamses',” he said, gently touching Bobby's cheek. Touching him seemed like the best way of communicating with him sometimes, and Johnny felt closer than ever to him. They had a bond that was unbreakable, and Bobby just followed him around sometimes, in his familiar silence, with huge, loving blue eyes.

“I wish you'd wait and eat here once in a while,” his mother said. “How about dessert? We had apple pie.” It was his favorite, and she made it for him as often as she could.

“That sounds good.” He didn't want to hurt her feelings. Sometimes he ate two full dinners, one at Becky's house, and one at home, just to please her. Johnny was crazy about her, and she about him. They were more than just mother and son. They were friends.

She sat down at the kitchen table with him while he ate his pie, and Bobby watched him. Johnny and his mom chatted about what was going on, Charlotte's home runs that afternoon, and the prom. He was going to pick up his rented tux the next day. She could hardly wait to see him in it, and had bought some film that day so she could take his picture, and she offered to buy Becky a corsage.

“I already ordered one,” he smiled at his mother, “but thanks anyway.” And then he said he had to work on his graduation speech. As valedictorian, he had to make the opening speech. And she was unreservedly proud of him, as she had been all his life.

He stopped in the living room for a minute on his way upstairs. The TV was blaring, and his father was sound asleep. It was a familiar scene. Johnny turned off the television, and went quietly upstairs, sat down at his desk, and looked at what he'd already written. He was still poring over it, when the door to his room opened and closed silently, and he saw Bobby sit down on his bed.

“I'm working on a speech,” Johnny explained, “for graduation. It's in four days.” Bobby said nothing, and Johnny went back to his work. He was comfortable with Bobby just sitting in his room, and Bobby seemed happy to be there. Eventually, Bobby lay down on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. At times like that, it was hard not to wonder what was on his mind, if he still remembered the accident and thought about it. If his not speaking had been a decision, or something he couldn't help. There was no way to know.

The accident had taken a toll on all of them in the past five years. In some ways, they all worked harder, like he and Charlotte, to be even more than they might have been otherwise, to make up for the grief they had all shared. And in other ways, they had given up, like their father, who hated his job, hated his life, drank himself into a stupor every night, and was consumed with guilt. And Johnny knew that in her own way, their mother had given up too. She had given up the hope of Bobby ever speaking again, or Jim forgiving himself for what he'd done. She had never gotten angry at him, never accused him of being careless. He had had a few beers under his belt when he drove off the bridge. But she didn't have to accuse him of anything. Jim Peterson hated himself for what he'd done. It was one of those tragedies that could not be reversed. But they had all lived past it, they had gone on. Things were different than they had been, always would be now. It was just the way things were.