The Secret Year

by Jennifer R. Hubbard

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t take chances like that.” She sighed, and the steam from her breath rose and vanished. “It’s freezing. I should get going.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Now she took a step away from me, toward her car. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “Aren’t you going?” She took another step.

  “Yeah.”

  “You realize you’re just standing there in one spot.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She walked backward to her car, watching me. “Good night,” she called again.

  “See you.” But I didn’t move until after she’d driven off.

  I went home and sat alone on my bed. My parents were asleep, and they’d turned the heat down. I sat there with my coat still on. I usually didn’t mind being alone, but tonight I minded. I looked at the phone. Once I would’ve called Syd, but I couldn’t do that now.

  Shadows piled up in the corners of my room. I breathed in. The quiet made my ears feel hollow. I thought of Kirby standing with me in the parking lot, talking about thin ice. I thought of Julia standing with me on the riverbank last winter, daring me to walk across the frozen river. I hadn’t done it. She’d taken a step onto the ice, and I’d pulled her back, and when she play-fought me, I carried her up to her car.

  I looked over at my desk, at the purple notebook. I’d been waiting to finish it—waiting for what, I wasn’t sure. Now I went over to the desk and opened it. Standing there, I read the final entries from August. I read her words about summer nights and mosquitoes and the slow black warmth of the river, about hot mist and the taste of salt on our skin. And then I sat on my bed and read the only entry from last September.

  Dear C.M.,

  Tonight I’m going to break up with Austin. I’ll do it at Adam’s party. I figure I can tell him and then he’ll go off with his friends and get drunk, and I can hang out with Pam. What do you think? This secrecy thing is getting old, isn’t it? It was exciting at first, but now I’m tired of sneaking around. And maybe you are, too. Maybe that’s why you acted the way you did the other night.

  I know I’ve talked before about getting rid of Austin, but this time I mean it. I’m going to start my senior year with a clean slate. And you know what? I’m not doing it for you. After all, in spite of what you said on Friday, you seem fine with what we have now. I want to break up with Austin for myself, not because it’s what you want but because it’s what I want.

  Wish me luck. It will be hard—I can’t deny that. I’ve known him for so long. But it’s not fair to him, all this lying, all this wishing I were someplace else. It’s time to end it.

  The next time I see you, I’ll be free!

  The notebook ended there.

  Every time I’d opened it, I had thought the next page would be the one to tell me what I needed to know. Now I’d run out of pages.

  More than anything else in the notebook, I had wanted to read this entry, the last one. I wanted to know what Julia thought about the last time we saw each other. I wanted to know if it ate away at her the way it did at me. But she hadn’t said much about it after all.

  Sometimes I wondered why she’d written this book. She’d never given it to me, or even told me about it. But then, the Colt she was writing to was not exactly me. She had told him a lot more than she’d told me. He was more dependable than I was; he didn’t talk back or have moods of his own. He didn’t pick a fight with her on the last night he’d ever seen her.

  If she’d broken up with Austin, would she still have needed me? If she could see me or talk to me anytime, instead of squeezing our whole relationship into Friday nights and unsigned notes and secret phone calls, would she still have wanted me?

  And would I have wanted her? At first, the whole thing seemed like such a great idea. Heaven had dropped right into my lap: sex with no strings attached. I should’ve known there are always strings. They’d slipped around my wrists and knotted up before I’d even noticed. They still pulled at me, still chafed.

  Kirby gave me Pam’s address, and I wrote Pam a letter. I didn’t e-mail her, because I didn’t want to make it easy for her to forward my message to sixty thousand people. Pam could tell half of Black Mountain that I was claiming to have slept with Julia Vernon, and they’d love to come after me for it. But even though it was a risk, I had to write her. Not only did I owe her an apology for the way I’d acted at Barney’s, but I needed to know more about Julia’s last night.

  It took her two weeks, until the middle of February, to answer. I spent those two weeks working, going to school, scraping ice off the driveway, hanging out with Nick or Kirby but never with Syd, and rereading the notebook. I don’t know what I thought I would see in Julia’s words that I hadn’t seen already.

  I came home from an eight-hour Saturday shift to find Pam’s letter on the kitchen table. I didn’t open it right away. I took a shower, thinking about the letter the whole time. Then I took it into my room and looked at it, the way I’d looked at the purple notebook that first afternoon. I held it, weighed it in my hand. It was a thick letter, so I was pretty sure she hadn’t written just to tell me to leave her alone.

  Finally I opened it: fat loopy writing on little blue sheets of paper.

  Colt: Thanks for your letter. At first I thought you had some nerve writing to me, but now I’ve read your letter a couple of times and I think I understand. Honestly, at first I thought you were playing a stupid joke on me, making up this whole story about you and Julia. Then I remembered this one time when we were at our lockers and she was complaining about Austin and I said something like, “Oh, but you know you love him,” because she was always going on like that. And she smiled and said, “What if I told you I was in love with somebody else?” I jumped all over that, trying to find out what she meant, until she backed off and said it was only a joke. But there was another time when we bumped into you in the hall and she got all jittery and confused and you gave her this long look. I didn’t think it meant anything then. At least now I get why you were such an asshole at Xmastime.

  So you want me to tell you Julia passed out and never knew what hit her, right? Well, I can’t tell you that. Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. I think she probably didn’t. Because what happened was she got drunk, falling-on-the-floor drunk, and I put her in my car and she rolled down the window. She wouldn’t fasten the seat belt because she said it made her sick to have anything around her waist. I put it on her even though she didn’t want it. She might’ve unclicked it on the ride up, though.

  She kept sticking her head out the window. Then she’d kind of loll back in the seat and mutter or laugh to herself. She was completely bombed. Maybe that’s as good as being passed out, because she sure wasn’t feeling any pain. Not then, anyway.

  I don’t remember the crash. We skidded on the wet road, I know that. I remember driving and then skidding with everything whirling by the windows, and then I remember being outside the car, wandering in the road, wondering what happened. Looking at my car all smashed up and screaming for Julia. We had run into one of the stone posts at the end of the Melvilles’ driveway, but I don’t remember actually hitting it.

  I stopped reading and closed my eyes. Well, this was what I had asked for, all right. The details. I could see the stone post, all the stone posts on Black Mountain Road. Why did they need those things at the ends of their driveways, anyway? I opened my eyes and continued reading, not because I wanted to anymore, but because I had to.

  I called 911 on my cell phone, but somebody who’d heard the crash had already done it. These people came out of their house and put a blanket on me. When I tried to go to the car they turned me around and walked me the other way. My arm hurt and they said it was probably broken, and my head hurt, and there was no way I thought Julia was dead. I was covered with t
hat air-bag powder, so I thought even if Julia had taken off her seat belt the air bag would’ve saved her. Since nobody would let me near the car, I knew she was hurt pretty bad, but I never in a million years guessed she was dead. In fact, it took me weeks to believe it.

  I don’t remember the exact crash, just before and after it. The doctor says it’s common not to remember an accident. The trauma interrupts your brain from making memories. So the crash will always be a blank spot and I’m glad.

  You asked what Julia was like at the party, if she was happy, why she got drunk. She told me she wanted to break up with Austin. She kept having another drink to give her courage, or maybe to get her to the point where she didn’t care what she said. She drank so much so fast that Austin got disgusted with her and told me to take her home.

  That was a real laugh, let me tell you. It was okay for HIM to get totally bombed whenever he wanted, but if he had to take care of her, forget it! She called him a hippocryte (is that how you spell it?) and a pompous ass, but he thought it was the booze talking. He laughed at her and waved good-bye while I dragged her out of there. She didn’t get to break up with him the way she planned.

  So Julia hadn’t broken up with Austin. She hadn’t tied that up, finished it off. I guess I always knew it. But here’s the question: did she drink too much so she could break up with him, or did she drink too much so she wouldn’t have to?

  I’ll tell you the truth, Colt, I wrote this letter not sure if I’d ever send it, thinking maybe I’d tear it up. But I’m actually kind of glad I wrote it. This is the first time I’ve talked about that night in detail, except to this counselor guy they made me see. I told him some things because I was supposed to, but really I didn’t want to talk about it. Because the fact is, it’s my fault. The hardest part ever was looking Julia’s parents in the face afterward. Even though it was an accident, I was driving. Maybe if I’d driven slower or concentrated more or steered the car a little bit differently, she would be alive. How do you think I can live with that? You wrote that you feel guilty. That’s funny, Colt, that’s really funny because who are you to feel guilty? I’m the one.

  I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but I’ve told you everything I know. I hope it helps. I know what it’s like to keep thinking about Julia, to keep thinking what-if. Anyway I’m trying to get on with my life and just accept it because there’s nothing I can do about the past. You just have to live with it.

  —Pam

  chapter 15

  Tom had spring break at the beginning of March, when the trees were bare and the mud still had shards of ice in it. He came home for two days. He planned to spend the other seven in Florida, driving down with some guys from school. They were taking turns so they could drive straight through.

  I was the only one home when he got there, since Mom was working at Barney’s and Dad had a tiling job, for a change. I was lying on the rug watching TV when Tom burst in the front door. His entrance shook the living-room walls. “I didn’t recognize the place,” he said. “Without those junkers in front, the house looks almost respectable. If we chop down the trees growing out of the gutters, we might really have something.”

  “Well, feel free to start chopping. Before they get me to do it.”

  He flopped down on the couch. “Where’re the parents?”

  “Work.”

  “I notice you and Mom never work the same shifts.”

  “No, we’d drive each other crazy.”

  He stretched, then plunked his feet on the coffee table. “It’s good to be home.”

  “Just don’t make any big announcements this time, okay? They’re still recovering from the last one.”

  He laughed. “I managed to control myself over Christmas, didn’t I?”

  “I guess.”

  “Oh, hey.” He snapped his fingers. “Mom asked me to find out if you’re on drugs.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “She says you’ve been very secretive this year.” He laughed again. “I told her if you were really high all the time, you’d be a lot more cheerful.”

  “Mom’s crazy.”

  “Well, we all know that, but . . . I told her it was highly ironic for her to worry about you taking drugs when Dad lies around here drinking seven days a week.”

  “You said that?”

  “Yup. Since they’re already pissed at me, I might as well say whatever’s on my mind. It’s actually quite liberating.” He stood up. “Come on, my drug-addicted little brother, let’s shoot some targets.”

  We went out back and shot for a while until Tom said, “You remember the old tree house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder if it’s still there.”

  “It is. I was up there last fall.”

  “Hey, let’s go check it out.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” I never liked remembering the day I’d been there with Syd.

  “Aw, come on.” He hauled the orange cone up on the porch.

  When we got to the side path that led to the tree house, though, I couldn’t make myself go. “You go ahead,” I told him. “I’m going down to the bridge.”

  So he went off in search of his childhood or whatever he was looking for, and I took the path that led to the bridge. I didn’t make it that far, though. On the way, I ran into Kirby.

  “I thought you liked the south side of the bridge better,” I said.

  “I do. That doesn’t mean I stay there all the time.”

  “Well, welcome to the north side.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stood there looking at each other for a minute, in that way we had of not talking and not needing to talk. Her eyes were very dark. She swept a strand of long black hair behind her ear. “Where’s Michael?” I said.

  “Home, probably.” She shrugged, keeping her eyes on mine. “We broke up last weekend.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.” I hadn’t been in the cafeteria all week, which was where I usually saw Kirby and Michael. The weather had finally turned nice enough for me to eat outside. Hardly anyone else thought it was nice enough—I guess stray patches of snow and screaming March winds put them off. But I could feel spring coming, and I didn’t mind eating alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Kirby. I had to force that a little bit. Michael was okay, but I’d always thought she could do better.

  “That’s all right. We’re still friends.”

  Kirby and I began to walk together. We headed down toward the riverbank. “He’s a good guy, you know?” she said, stopping to untangle her hair from a twig she’d snagged it on. “Just a little—intense.”

  We reached the water’s edge. I thought she was going to say more about Michael, but instead she asked me, “Did you ever write to Pam?”

  “Yeah.” I bent down, picked up a handful of stones, and flung one into the river.

  “Did she write back?” Kirby scooped up stones, too.

  “Yes, she did.”

  Silence, except for the sound of our rocks plunking into the water. I knew she was waiting for me to tell her about Pam’s letter. But keeping my mouth shut about Julia was too much of a habit by now. Finally Kirby said, “I hope she told you whatever you needed to know.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay.” She threw her last stone. Then she turned to face me.

  I had the feeling she was going to say she had to leave, and I didn’t want her to go yet. “Come with me a minute,” I said. I took a few steps backward, watching to see if she would follow. She did, raising her eyebrows as if to ask where we were going.

  I led her along the riverbank to a spot where a feeder stream came in. It made a waterfall there: only a few
feet high, but nice to look at. At least it was something to show her.

  “I never knew this was here.” She bent down to wet one hand. “Ooh, it’s cold. But doesn’t it look like spring? The water and the rocks and the moss . . . it’s so green.” She looked up at me.

  “Yes,” I said, because she seemed to expect it. But I wasn’t looking at the water. I was watching her, the curve of her mouth and the way she flicked droplets off her hand. A couple of the drops spattered my jeans.

  “Thanks for showing me, Colt.” She wiped her hand on her jacket and smiled at the waterfall.

  For days after that, I thought about calling Kirby. I had nothing to say, but I kept wanting to talk to her anyway. It wasn’t until Thursday that I understood why.

  That night I had a dream about her, the kind of dream I used to have about Julia. The kind of dream that made me check the sheets in the morning. After that, it was pretty obvious to me what was going on. Any idiot would’ve figured it out sooner, but she was the first girl I’d liked since Julia, and I realized I’d been going around thinking I would never feel that way again. But now it was all rushing in on me in a hot flood, and I didn’t want to think about anything else but Kirby.

  I saw Michael on Friday. He came up to my locker before lunch. He was always pale, as if he spent most of his life locked in his basement, but today he looked even worse. Not only white, but wrung out, like he’d given double blood donations. “Eat with me,” he said.

  “I’m going outside.”

  “It’s like a tornado out there.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t care.”

  His voice dropped. “I can’t sit alone in that cafeteria while Kirby’s in there.”

  The sound of her name made my skin prickle. I did not want to sit with Michael while we both drooled over the same girl. But I couldn’t walk away and leave him to fold up on the floor—which was what he looked like he was about to do. “All right,” I said.