He looked at me confused. “Calvin always comes home. Why wouldn’t he come home?”

“For all you know, he could be floating facedown in Sheepshead Bay!”

He stopped playing, but didn’t look at me.

“Or maybe he’s with his mother,” I said. “What do you think? You think maybe that’s where he is?”

“That’s enough, Antsy,” said the Schwa. “Leave him alone.”

He stood in front of the brick fireplace, wearing a dark red sweater. Blending in. Always blending in.

“There’s Calvin,” said Mr. Schwa. “He’s standing over there. No worries.”

“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

“Here and there,” he said. “Mostly here.”

His father returned to playing guitar.

“Dad,” said the Schwa, “Marco and Sam will be here at noon to pick you up. You have a painting job in Mill Basin.”

“Okay,” he said.

I went with the Schwa into his room, and he closed the door. The curtains were drawn, and the only light was what little spilled over the edges of the closed blinds.

“It looks like you’re turning into Old Man Crawley.”

“I quit yesterday,” the Schwa said. “Crawley made a big stink, threatened to get my dad fired and all, but I didn’t care. My dad’s friends would never fire him anyway.”

“I thought you might quit,” I said.

“I’m quitting you, too, Antsy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can stop pretending to be my friend now. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t! Well . . . actually I do, but only because I’m your friend. I’m not pretending about that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry about what happened with Lexie. I thought you should know I’m not going out with her anymore.”

“That doesn’t matter either. You can go now. Really.”

He sat there, waiting for me to leave, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything else back to him either. They say action speaks louder than words, but so does inaction. Sitting there like a rock was the strongest statement I could make about our friendship.

The Schwa watched how I didn’t move. I think it made him uncomfortable because he looked away. “You shouldn’t feel sorry for me,” he said. “You know, Buddhists believe the state of nonbeing is the perfect place to be.”

“You’re not a Buddhist.”

He looked at me, thinking for a moment. “I’ll tell you something, Antsy. I’ll tell you something you’ve always wanted to know—but if I tell you, you have to promise to believe it.”

“If that’s what you want, Schwa, sure. I promise.”

“Okay, then I’ll tell you a story . . .”

. . .And there, in that darkened room, where I couldn’t see the color of the sky or anything else in his eyes, the Schwa told me his deepest, darkest memory.