by Jeff Zentner
I shake my head. “Not exactly.”
Mr. Krantz raises an eyebrow.
“After Blake’s funeral, a reporter tried to talk to me. Said Judge Edwards referred him to me.”
“And you told him…”
“That I didn’t really know what happened. That I was texting with Mars the afternoon of the accident.”
Mr. Krantz chews on the end of his glasses and chuckles ruefully. “Edwards. That crafty son of a bitch. He knew he might get you to voluntarily incriminate yourself, and because a reporter isn’t law enforcement, it would come into evidence at trial. Anybody else?”
“No.”
“You got a girlfriend?”
“Uh…no. I mean. No. I have a friend who’s a girl. She’s just a friend, though.”
“Don’t tell her anything.”
“Okay.”
“What are the chances the DA won’t file charges at all?” my dad asks.
Mr. Krantz blows out, his cheeks puffing. “That Judge Edwards can be a scary character.”
“We noticed,” my mom says.
“There’s some delicate stuff going on here politically. The DA, Karen Walker, is up for reelection next year. She needs Davidson County’s black vote to win. Edwards holds tremendous sway with that voting bloc. Plus Walker’s people are in front of Edwards day in and day out. So politically, this issue is two for the price of one. She makes it into Edwards’s good graces, and with it comes the black vote and she can grandstand about the perils of teen texting. Maybe even garner national attention. Sets herself up for a senate or gubernatorial race someday. She’s a winner the minute she indicts, even if she tries Carver and loses. And there’s an old saying that a good DA can indict a ham sandwich.”
“That is some bullshit,” my dad says in a low, trembling voice. I’ve never heard him use that tone before. It makes me afraid, hearing him afraid.
“Yup,” Mr. Krantz says.
“What do we do now?” my mom asks.
Mr. Krantz leans forward with his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. “We wait. See what the DA does. Meanwhile, Carver, you do not talk to anyone about this without me present, understood? The cops ask you your favorite color? I don’t want you answering until I’m sitting next to you.”
“Okay.”
“And in the meantime, Carver lives under this cloud,” my dad says.
“Pretty much,” Mr. Krantz says. “It’s a shit show, no doubt.”
“Is there any good news?” my mom asks.
Mr. Krantz reclines and clasps his hands behind his head, sucking at a tooth. “Carver wasn’t in that car.”
We wrap up our meeting and leave. Dad walks on my right side, Mom on my left. I’m hanging my head. “I’m sorry, Mom and Dad.”
My dad puts his arm around me. “You have nothing to apologize for. You did not intentionally hurt anyone.”
“Accidents happen,” my mom says. “Even terrible ones.”
“This must be costing a ton,” I say.
“Don’t worry about that,” my dad says.
“How much will this cost?”
“It doesn’t matter,” my mom says.
“It matters to me.”
“You have enough to worry about,” my dad says, removing his arm from my shoulder and rubbing the back of my head.
I was just curious, but now I need to know. “I got us into this mess. I think I’m entitled to know.”
My dad dodges my eyes. “Look. Keep your mind on school, get good grades, stay on top of scholarship applications. That’s how you can help.”
I stop walking. My parents make it a few steps farther before turning back to me. “How much?” I ask quietly. With my face, I try to tell them I’m not taking another step until I get an answer.
My dad looks at my mom. She gives him an ambivalent “if you must” nod. He wipes his hand down his face. “When all is said and done, hundred, hundred fifty is what they told me.”
Something bright and hot detonates in my mind. “Thousand?!”
“That’s if it goes to trial and we lose and need to appeal,” my mom says.
I close my eyes, dizzied. “But still.”
“We’ll borrow against the house if we need to,” my dad says.
“We could lose our house?!”
“Let’s cross one bridge at a time here,” my dad says.
“Don’t think that way,” my mom says. “We need to think positively.”
How’s this: I am positively fucked.
I flop on my bed and text Jesmyn. Well, that sucked gray, smelly rhino ass.
After a few minutes, she texts me a frowny face followed by Big hugs. Want to talk about it?
Basically, they could charge me with negligent murder.
Seriously????? Shit.
Yeah. Oh, and this will cost a bazillion dollars, so my family’s going to end up homeless, too.
If I were there I’d give you a huge hug.
I would gladly accept said hug.
Tomorrow morning. When I come to pick you up.
Deal.
It’s 7:17 a.m. on the first day of school at Nashville Arts. Jesmyn is supposed to be here in three minutes. I’ve been awake since 3:57 a.m. If there’s a hell, I imagine existing there in a perpetual state of having woken up two and a half hours before you need to be somewhere. And that’s even without the anxiety over maybe going to prison and the knowledge that today will be the air on the exposed nerve endings of my loss. I’m going to be reminded more today of Sauce Crew than at any point since the funerals. And I don’t know how I’ll react.
Those are the cons. On the pro side, Jesmyn will be here in three—no, two—minutes. And I’m excited to see her even though (because?) she’s part of the reason I couldn’t sleep.
I sit in my room, finishing the last couple of bites of a Pop-Tart. I brush some crumbs from my bed. Georgia sticks her head in.
“First day of schoooooool,” she says. “Looking sharp.”
I have my normally untucked button-down shirt tucked into my khakis. I’m wearing a blazer. My hair is neatly combed. As neatly as it’ll go, anyway. “I gotta represent on the first day,” I say around a forced smile.
“Oh, you’re reppin’ hard. Doesn’t school start at eight? You better head.”
“Jesmyn is picking me up.”
“I’m happy y’all are hanging out even though I don’t know her.”
“Me too. You’d dig her.”
“It blows about the circumstances, but…”
“Yeah.”
“How you doing this morning?”
“I’ve been up since four.”
Georgia leans against the doorframe. “Holy shit, Carver.”
“I couldn’t stop my brain.”
“You’re the only seventeen-year-old boy on Earth with that problem.”
I shrug. “Well.”
“Couldn’t you even, like, spank it to get back to sleep? That’s a thing dudes do, right?”
“What if I told you I tried that twice and it didn’t work.”
“Ewwwww! You are the grossest.”
“You brought it up. Serves you right.”
Outside, Jesmyn’s battered white pickup pulls up to the curb. I see her bend down as if rearranging things.
I jump up from my bed and grab my bag. Georgia steps away from the doorway to let me pass.
“Come here,” I say. “Come give your little brother a huge hug.”
She recoils and lifts her leg as if to kick me. “Sick, no. Keep your jizzy hands away.”
I put my finger to my lips to shush her, even though Mom’s in her bedroom. “I was totally kidding.”
Georgia hugs me gingerly, wincing.
“No I wasn’t,” I murmur midhug.
She pushes me away. “Don’t be such an actual, literal hog around Jesmyn.”
I contort my face into a cheery grin and speak in a robotic voice. “We here at Carver Industries value your feedback! Your comments are important t
o us! Unfortunately, we are not accepting personal criticisms at this time!”
“The cool thing about that joke is how it never gets old.”
“The cool thing about your face is how it never gets old.”
“Okay, well, this has been fun. Have a great first day, dingus.”
“I’ll try. Bye, Mom!” I call in the direction of my parents’ bedroom.
My dad’s already left for work at Belmont University. Today was his first day back too. My mom comes out of her bedroom, where she’s been preparing for work, and meets me at the front door as I’m leaving. She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. She’s perfumed with the sort of no-nonsense lotion that smells like pleasant chemicals but works really well. “Have a good day, sweetie.” There’s a wistful tinge to her voice. It wouldn’t surprise me if she were remembering the two mothers and one grandmother who aren’t bidding their boys farewell today for school.
I take off my blazer on my way down my front walk, remembering that Jesmyn’s AC doesn’t work. I open the door and get in. It’s a lot cleaner than the last time I was in it. It looks like she vacuumed. I smell vanilla. Jesmyn is wearing tight black jeans and black ankle boots with a blue denim western shirt. Something about how immaculately she’s put together makes my gently seething nervousness roil. Oh, right. School really is starting today. Not that I’d forgotten, but…
“Miss Punctuality,” she says. “Go me. And now for that hug I owe you.” She leans over and we embrace for several seconds. It simultaneously takes the edge off my nervousness and hones it to a new sharpness.
“You look nice.” I sit back and buckle my seat belt. She drives off.
“Thanks. I’m surprised I even fit in these jeans right now. My mom made my favorite breakfast and I completely pigged out.”
“What was it?”
“Biscuits and gravy, grits, country ham. Fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“That’s funny that’s your favorite breakfast.”
“Why?”
Oh, shit. Shoulda thought before speaking. “Because—”
“Because I’m of Asian descent and therefore it’s funny that I enjoy Southern food? I’m from Jackson, Tennessee, dude. Racist.”
My stupid mouth. “No, I’m sorry, I totally didn’t intend it that way. I mean, maybe I did a little, but I swear I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”
She laughs. “I’m just giving you shit. That is racist, though.”
“I really didn’t mean any offense.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I say dumb stuff when I’m nervous.”
“At least it’s not your first day at a new school in a new city.” She pauses with a smirk. “Full of racists.”
“I deserve that.” I roll down my window the rest of the way and rest my elbow on the sill. “It’s because it’s not a new school that I’m nervous. Everybody knows what happened. Everyone’s going to be staring and whispering probably.” As I say it, the bubbling inside me begins to boil faster.
“Eli said people are generally pretty cool there.”
“They are. Mostly.” Mostly when Adair isn’t turning the screws on them, though. I angle a vent blowing tepid air toward my face. “Ever notice how every time we hang out, we’re both sweating our asses off?”
“We’ve always hung out in August.”
“Good point.”
“You had Sauce Crew. Now you have Sweat Crew.”
I let the words melt on my tongue. She’s joking, but I relish their taste. “Sweat Crew. Yeah.”
“Do we have any classes together?” she asks. “Let’s see.”
I pull out my schedule. “I have AP English lit, creative writing, writing critique group, lunch, AP history, teacher’s aide, and AP biology. How about you?”
She starts to pull out her schedule. I instinctively put my hand over hers. “Not while you’re driving.”
“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “I was giving it to you so you could read it.”
She gives it to me, and I read: music theory and sight-reading, piano performance, lunch, show choir, calculus, yoga. “Yeah, not much similarity here.” This is no surprise. I rarely had classes with Eli, Blake, or Mars. Eli was always music heavy and Mars was always drawing/painting heavy. Blake and I sometimes had writing classes together, but then he had his A/V stuff that I didn’t.
I tuck her schedule in her bag. “Do you want to hang out at lunch?”
“No, I’d rather have that moment when I’m walking through the lunchroom with my tray and nobody will let me sit with them.”
“She’ll be here all week, folks. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.”
She turns up the volume on her stereo. “This is one of my favorite songs.”
“What is it?”
“ ‘Avalanche’ by Leonard Cohen.”
“I’ve never heard of Leonard Cohen.”
Her expression is abject disbelief. “Whaaaaaa— Dude. We gotta fix that. You’re a writer. He’s like the best writer.”
“I’m a little dumb about music. I listen to whatever people—Eli, Georgia, whoever—introduce me to.”
“Okay, then you’re going to start listening to music I introduce you to.”
“Deal. What’s funny is that my dad used to be a songwriter. That’s why he came to America and moved to Nashville. He even had a medium hit in the nineties.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.
“Come on.”
“It was called ‘When My Heart’s Torn Up.’ Bowie Lee Daniels cowrote it and performed it.”
She pounds the steering wheel with both palms. I notice that her fingernails are painted in the NAA school colors: blue, except for her ring fingers, which are painted yellow. “I’ve heard that song a million times. I used to have to line dance to it in grade school PE.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool. You said he used to be a songwriter?”
“He teaches English at Belmont now.”
“I want to meet him.”
“Someday.”
We pull into the NAA parking lot and my heart starts pounding. I’d lost myself in our conversation. Jesmyn navigates to a parking space, parks, and turns off her truck.
She sits there for a second. “Hey. While we’re talking music. Have you ever heard of Dearly?” She sounds slightly tentative.
“Yeah. I haven’t listened to him much. Georgia’s a big fan.”
“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Anyway. I have two tickets to his show at the Ryman in October.” She hesitates for a moment. “I was going to go with Eli. Do you want to go?”
Inwardly, I’m screaming, Yes, yes, of course. Meanwhile, my mind is saying, Ahem. Now you’re actually taking something that belonged to Eli. It’s only a concert ticket and he’s not around anymore to use it and he’d want a friend to have it, but nevertheless, you are taking something that belonged to Eli and using it to have a good time with his girlfriend while his ashes sit in an urn.
“Yes,” I say, as a lightning pang of remorse seizes my stomach. I swallow it down. “I’d love to.”
We’re standing in the parking lot outside NAA’s front doors, gathering our will to enter the modern, boxy, glass-and-steel building with reclaimed-wood accents. We have probably ten minutes before the first day of junior year starts.
“Come on,” Blake says. “We gotta make an entrance. People will expect it.”
“Of you,” I say.
“I’m not going to walk in first day of school and fart or something,” Mars says.
“Yeah, I’m not looking like an asshole potentially in front of Olivia,” Eli says.
“Because that ship hasn’t sailed,” I say.
Eli grabs me in a headlock and starts noogie-ing me. “Dude, stop, you’re messing up my hair. Dick.” I break the hold and pull away.
Blake stands between us, arms outstretched. “Okay, when you guys are done playing grabass”—he pronounc
es it grahboss—“I want to go over the plan.”
I smooth my hair. “Listening.”
“So we’re gonna walk in—we’ll all be walking in slow motion—”
“Dude, that’s lame,” Mars says.
Blake raises his hand in a pleading gesture. “No, listen. Then I’ll do my plan. But y’all can’t laugh or anything. You have to keep walking. Cool?”
We groan and roll our eyes. “Okay, cool,” we all say, as if it’s a great imposition, even though we’re dying to see what Blake cooked up. I know I am.
We wait for a space between people walking in, and then we go. Blake’s in front; we’re dispersed behind him. It’s hard to walk in slow motion, but we do it. Through the glass doors. People milling around in the entryway, chatting, stop to stare. At NAA, you stare when you see Blake Lloyd has something up his sleeve.
Slightly ahead of me, I see Blake’s pants start to sag precariously. Then they’re off his butt. Then they’re down around his knees. He’s having trouble walking. We’re trying to play it straight and keep up our slow-motion stride. Mars covers his face with his hand in slow motion. Then Blake’s pants are around his ankles. He’s wearing tighty-whities.
He breaks slow motion and jumps forward a couple of steps, then stumbles, arms flailing, and skids onto his front. While falling, he hurls his backpack along the floor ahead of him. It’s unzipped. About twenty issues of Cat Fancy magazine slide across the floor, fanning out.
We’ve completely broken character, and along with everyone else, we’re watching Blake scuttle around on the floor like a crab on ice, grunting and wheezing, trying to stand. We’re howling with laughter. He almost makes it up but puts his hand on a Cat Fancy, slips, and hits the deck again. He goes around on his hands and knees, red-faced, gathering his magazines, tighty-whities gleaming.
Finally he makes it to his feet, pants still around his ankles. He addresses the cackling throng, which includes Adair and her friends. “Hey, everybody. First day, huh?” There’s a weighted pause as people suppress giggles to hear what Blake will say/do next. And of course: phththththththththtphphphphph. He rips one, sharp and stuttering, with a certain full-bodied richness at the finish. The crowd goes bonkers. Full-on applause.