“That’s fiber, not oat,” says Shane, lowering his sleeve. “Your full name was too long.”
I slap Shane’s back. “It’s the thought that counts, dude.”
“Let me see yours again.”
“You’ve seen it a hundred times,” I say as I pull up my own sleeve to expose my skinny, pale arm. “It still says ‘Carpe Mortediem!’”
“I know,” says Shane. “I just want to find something wrong with yours.”
“Good luck.”
Getting inked didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Meaning I didn’t cry like a girl. I’m pretty sure Shane did though. Mostly it was just boring. I sat in a chair while a skinny giant dude named Karl talked about his hog. I know he was talking about his motorcycle but I kept imagining him on the back of a giant pig, racing down the interstate, picking up chicks.
There’s something about getting inked with your best bud that bonds you. For the first time all day, I’m glad Ronnie isn’t with us. It’s not that I don’t want to be with her and have everything be good again, but this is one thing between Shane and me that I’m glad I don’t have to share.
“Hey, Shane?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They’re your initials not mine.”
“I’m not talking about the tat.”
“I know.”
“If you wanna have stuff that’s just between you and Ronnie, then I respect that.”
For the next few seconds it’s just the shuffle of our feet. I don’t know about Shane, but I’m so exhausted I could sleep for a week. Of course, my plan is to not sleep at all until I’m dead, but the four miles from the Bunker to the tat shop seems way longer on the way back.
“It’s not that I like keeping secrets from you, Ollie.”
I think back to my conversation with Hurricane. “It’s cool, Shane. I ge—”
“Hypothetically, Ollie, if your best friend’s keeping something from you, it’s probably because he’s afraid you won’t want to be his best friend once you find out.”
“Hypothetically, that’s bullshit. Hypothetically, my best friend could never do anything that would make me stop being his best friend.”
Shane is quiet until we’re close to his house. I can barely feel my legs, but if I listen closely enough I can hear them scream in agony.
“Hypothetically, maybe you know you’d never stop being his friend, and maybe he even knows it too, but that doesn’t make it any less scary. It’s hard keeping secrets, but it’s even harder to tell them, especially if you’re worried that telling will make the people around you stop loving you. Hypothetical best friends don’t grow on trees.”
As we stop in front of Shane’s house, the puzzle pieces start to emerge from the fog of liquor and weed. There’s just one thing I’ve ever kept secret from Shane because I was scared of what he’d think, and there’s only one thing I can think of that he’d be afraid to tell me. Except I don’t know how to go about asking him, so I just blurt it out.
“Shane, I know you’re gay.”
He’s stunned. “How do you? Did Ronnie—”
“Ronnie didn’t tell me anything. I figured it out all on my own. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“How?”
“It’s just that I finally realized we’ve been through everything together. I know everything about you, and there’s only one thing I could think of that you’d be scared to tell me.”
Shane kicks at the sidewalk. “And?”
“And what?”
“Do you hate me?”
“Don’t make me punch you, idiot. Of course I don’t hate you.”
“I was so scared to tell you.”
I clap Shane on the shoulder. “There’s nothing you could do that would ever make me stop being your friend. Not even smokin’ pole.”
“Listen, Ollie. I don’t even know if I’m . . . you know.”
“Black? We’ve already covered this. You’re definitely black.”
Shane shoves me away. “Gay. I’m not sure if I’m gay. I think I am. I’ve been having some feelings.”
“About me?”
“Hell no,” says Shane with a laugh. “You’re like my brother. And your ’fro’s pretty tragic. There are blind guys with better fashion sense. And—”
“I get it, dude. Thanks.”
Shane shrugs and concentrates on the ground again. “I didn’t know what you’d think. It’s so confusing. When you were being a major douche at the CUDDLE house, I talked to GP a little in the kitchen.”
“Wait,” I say, my eyes getting saucer huge. “You didn’t?
Shane shakes his head. “No. I’ve never. Unless the Internet counts.”
“Don’t need the deets, Grimsley.”
“I just don’t know.”
“And you don’t have to. Gay, not gay, you’ll always be my best friend.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re dying.” Shane gives me a halfhearted grin, which is better than nothing.
“Hey,” I say, trying to make him feel better. “I’m the one who accidentally spanked his monkey to some dude-on-dude action.”
“Please explain how you accidentally do something like that and then not tell me about it.”
“It was scrambled and the sound was down. In my defense, they totally kind of looked like chicks. Hairy chicks. I thought it was French.”
“Wow.” Shane pauses for a long time. “I’m really going to miss you, dude.”
“Me too.” Silence. “So I guess this is what you and Ronnie were arguing about.” Shane nods. “Well,” I say, “I’m glad you told someone, even if it wasn’t me.”
“It’s not like I didn’t want to,” says Shane.
“I get it.”
“Anyway, she wanted me to tell you. She said you could handle it and she thought you should know before you died.”
Shane and I sit in silence again, only now I can hear the ticking of time passing me by, and honestly, it’s superannoying.
“Your parents probably expected you a while ago,” says Shane. He looks like he might be crying a little, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
“Yeah.” I know I should go but I don’t want to. “Shane . . .”
“I’m sorry I punched you.”
“No you’re not.”
“No,” says Shane, “I’m not. I’m still pissed that you’re leaving me.”
“I know.”
Shane stumbles into me and hugs me for real. Not like how guys usually hug each other with pats on the back. “I love you, Ollie. And not in a gay way.”
“I love you too, Shane. In any way.”
The hug lasts longer than it should but it’s cool. Shane could be trying to touch my ass for all I care. He’s my best friend and I’ll let him go when I’m damn well ready.
Finally I pat Shane’s arm to let him go and he yelps. I stumble back a little and he rubs his tattoo.
“Sorry,” I say. We both stare at the ground. “So I guess this is good-bye.”
Shane pulls off his glasses, wipes his eyes with the back of his arm, and says, “Not so fast, Travers. Just because we got all the mushy feelings out of the way doesn’t mean you’re done with me.”
“What?”
“I’m coming to dinner.” He points at his belly and gives me the best grin ever. “This belly still needs food.”
8:32
I hate to admit it but I feel like I’m emotionally done. Just done. Not done as in I’ve checked off everything on my list and tied it all up with a neat bow, but done as in I don’t know if my heart or soul or whatever you wanna call it can take too much more.
But I’m nowhere near the end. Shane’s still tagging along, babbling about what foods he hopes are at dinner, and I’ve spent like zero time with my parents. And Nana. How can I die without hanging with her?
What I need to do is just suck it up and smile but I feel the same way I did this one Thanksgiving Shane dared me to eat as many pies as I could.
I finished a pumpkin and a blueberry. When it came time to do the apple though, no matter how much I wanted to, I felt like I’d explode if I tried.
But it’s like GP said, this day isn’t all about me. I have to soldier on and let Shane and my family smother me with mushy feelings no matter how much it sucks. So bring it on. And don’t forget the pie.
I just hope I can sneak away from my happy family to take care of some “unfinished business” before I die. The way Hurricane left me hanging, I’m like a dangling participle in need of a subject to modify.
Nana hugs me the second I walk in the door. She hugs me so hard I’m not sure she isn’t secretly a bodybuilder. “Ollie, how was your day?” she asks, but doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Shane, I should’ve known.” Nana leads Shane and me to the dining room table and sits us down. She’s so insistent I’m afraid she’ll waterboard me if I don’t make with the details, and fast.
“Come on, Oliver, I am not a patient woman. How was your day?”
“It was cool.”
“He gets that from you,” says Nana accusingly to my mom. “But that’s okay, because I know that Shane will tell me everything I want to know. Starting with what happened to Oliver’s eye.”
If you couldn’t already tell, Shane’s more than my best friend. He’s part of the family whether he likes it or not. I know that after I’m gone, Shane’ll still come around to help Nana with the crossword puzzle and fix Mom’s computer and steal food. It helps a little to know that with him around, I won’t be gone completely.
“It was a minor misunderstanding,” says Shane, trying to dance around the issue. Did I mention that Shane’s a terrible dancer?
“Shane popped me in the eye when I showed him my letter,” I say.
“Hey! I was upset.”
Mom grabs my chin and tilts my face to the side. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Shane.” I can’t tell if Mom’s upset that I’ll have a black eye for my funeral, or proud of Shane for throwing a solid punch.
“If you think the eye’s good,” I say with a smile, “wait till you see the tattoos.”
Mom and Dad laugh. So do Shane and I, but nervously, because we can’t believe they think I’m kidding. Nana, on the other hand, does a good impression of Mom’s Look, but she doesn’t rat us out.
The whole kitchen is filled with light and love and awesome smells. It’s the Disneyland of kitchens.
“What did you guys do today?” I ask. I don’t much like being the center of attention where my parents are concerned.
“They went to the courthouse,” says Angela. Shane and I both practically jump out of our chairs when the twins sneak up behind us.
“And they got put in jail,” says Edith. Then they flash us their evil genius smiles because it’s maybe the first time in their short lives that they aren’t the ones who got into trouble.
“You did what?”
“It’s nothing, dear,” says Mom as she dances around my father in the kitchen. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them cook together. I’ve seen Mom cook in Dad’s kitchen at the restaurant, and I’ve seen Dad cook in Mom’s kitchen, but I’ve never seen them cook together. It’s actually really excellent.
It’d be cooler if I hadn’t just seen the look that passed between them that said that whatever happened had something to do with my letter. And that they’d failed. There are always stories about people freaking out and trying to figure out how to reverse a Deathday Letter. No one knows where they come from though and it’s ludicrous to try, but I guess they wouldn’t be my parents if they hadn’t given it a shot.
Dad brings two spoons to the table and hands one each to Shane and me. “Spaghetti sauce à la Travers.”
The sauce is delicious. So amazing that I can almost forgive him for this morning’s scrambled egg debacle. Spaghetti is my favorite dish my dad makes. I know it’s lame. I mean, here’s a guy who has cooked for movie stars, and my favorite thing of his is spaghetti. Sometimes you just can’t fight who you are.
“Wow, Mr. Travers.”
“Best ever,” I say, and hand back the spoon. “What else you got in there?”
I make my way into the kitchen. Mom sniffs the air as I get closer, and then sniffs me. “Did you bathe in mint? And vomit? What have you been doing all day?”
Dad puts his arm around my shoulders and guides me out of the kitchen. “We’re making all your favorites. Spaghetti, mac and cheese, fried chicken, and not a veggie in sight.”
Nana coughs.
“Okay, there are mushrooms in the sauce, but you just said it was my best ever so—”
“It’s cool, Dad.”
“Right,” says Dad. “So why don’t you go upstairs and shower. It smells like you’ve had a busy day.”
“And make sure you use a lot of soap,” says Nana. “Or bleach.”
Mom holds her finger under her nose. “You smell really terrible. Then you can tell us all about your day.”
There’s that naked feeling again. Mom and Dad and Nana and even Shane are all staring at me, waiting for me to do something, but all I can think is that I’m finally gonna have like twenty minutes of sweet, blessed alone time.
“Shower,” I say, pointing upstairs.
“You can use the twins’ shower,” I say to Shane, and toss him some spare clothes and a towel.
I bound up the stairs and close my door behind me. Alone at last. I’ll go back down and spend time with them later, but right now I just want quiet.
My room is exactly as I left it. My comforter is still in a massive heap against the wall and my clothes are all over the floor. It’s sad to think that soon my parents will box up all of my junk and give it away. Pieces of Oliver Travers sold on Craigslist.
The face in the mirror isn’t even mine anymore. I mean, it’s me. Same hair, same eyes, same unfortunate nose, same green hoodie. Maybe a little worse for the wear, especially my eye. But it’s still me. Except it’s not. It’s not me because in order to be someone, you have to grow up and become them, and I’m not grown up yet. I’ll never grow up. Never know who I was gonna become.
This reflection is just a ghost. A backward image of someone who’s forever frozen as wasted potential.
Robotically, I drag my hoodie over my head and let my shorts fall to the floor, not taking my eyes off the reflection. If I stare long enough, maybe I’ll be able to see into the future. Yeah, getting my Deathday Letter gave me the opportunity to do stuff I wouldn’t have done otherwise, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. In many ways it makes it worse.
Everything that’s gone wrong today and the few things that were right swell in my chest and bleed into my fist as suddenly I’m punching the mirror. I’m screaming and putting my fist to the glass and watching it shatter and feeling it cut my knuckles and screaming and screaming and punching.
And I’m on the floor still staring at the not me in the shards of glass. And there’s blood everywhere. More blood than glass. But I keep punching ’cause I can’t do anything else. I can’t put the face in the mirror back together. It’s a puzzle now and I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like, so I just keep hitting.
Until I can’t anymore, ’cause Mom’s here. Cradling me in her arms like she did when I was a kid and I had a nightmare. I’m not even ashamed ’cause sometimes your mom is the only person in the whole world who can fix a thing, even if it can’t be fixed.
“Ollie.”
I don’t answer. I just sob. Fifteen years old, sitting on my floor not even caring that I’m buck-ass freaking naked, covered in blood and broken glass, crying to my mom.
“I’m sorry I broke the mirror,” I say after my sobs turn into great gasping cries and then finally into just embarrassed sniffles.
“I don’t care about the mirror,” says Mom. “Let me see your hand.”
My hand isn’t that bad. Little cuts crisscross my knuckles. “It doesn’t matter,” I say with a laugh. “I doubt this is what kills me.”
Mom chok
es back a half laugh, half cry of her own. “That’s not funny, Oliver.”
“It’s totally funny.”
Mom shakes her head and helps me up. I grab my hoodie to cover myself with. Just ’cause she wiped my butt and changed my diaper and bathed me when I was a baby doesn’t mean I want her seeing my bits and pieces now.
I cross my room to the bathroom, expecting Mom to leave, but she tiptoes through the glass and stands in the doorway.
“Your father and I would take your place if we could.”
I look into my mom’s eyes. They’re blue like the eye of a hurricane. I wipe away a tear that’s poised on her lash like a high diver. “You really think I’d wanna live without you guys?”
Mom hugs me harder than Nana and Shane combined. “Now you know how we feel.”
“But you still have the twins and Nana. And Shane. Sorry, I can’t do anything about that one. You’re pretty much stuck with him.”
“Shane I can handle,” says Mom. “But between you and me, when I get my letter, I think those girls are going to be the cause.”
I laugh because it’s true. “Just wait till they start dating.”
“Those little girls dating is the reason I won’t let your father own a gun.”
My tears are dry and my smell plus my near nakedness is starting to equal major embarrassment.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I should . . .”
“Okay.” Mom reluctantly lets me go.
I’m not sure how I’m gonna manage to get away from my parents long enough to die.
“I’ll be down in a few.”
“Dinner will be ready when you’re finished.” Mom hesitates in the doorway and smiles. “So long as your father hasn’t burned my chicken. I have never met a four-star chef who can’t fry chicken.”
“Maybe he married you for your awesome chicken-frying skills.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe all the other girls just knew better.” Mom snickers.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom chuckles quietly. “So I guess you weren’t kidding about the tattoo.”
The Deathday Letter Page 14