by J. Bengtsson
“I can do this on my own,” she said, a new determination steeling her resolve. And just like that, Sam took her first tentative glides forward.
After skating around and around for a good hour, we finally called it a day, collapsed onto the benches, and removed our skates.
“That was…” Sam’s smile lit up her face. “The best birthday ever.”
“Hold on,” I said, remembering the surprise I had for her in my backpack. “I have something for you.”
Dipping into my bag, I found what I was looking for: a plastic container holding a cupcake decorated just for her. Peeling the lid back, I cringed at the remains of the confection stored inside. Instead of my proud creation, there was only a pile of cake crumbs and a ring of frosting around the walls of the plastic. The #17 I’d formed was smeared into a clump of nothingness. I shut the lid and slipped it back in my bag.
“Never mind,” I grumbled. “I guess I don’t have anything for you.”
“What was that? I want to see.” She reached around and snatched my bag.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Sam pulled the lid off the plastic and choked back a laugh.
“It was a chocolate cupcake,” I rushed out the words. “Not, um… roadkill.”
“You made me a cupcake?” Placing a hand to her heart, Sam visibly swooned.
“My mom helped me, but yeah, of course… it’s your birthday.”
Sam continued to fixate on the remains until, unexpectedly, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
I hooked my arm over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam. I know it looks like shit now, but I promise when I packed it this morning, it looked nice. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have stored it upside down in my backpack.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she shyly lifted her gaze to meet mine and I gulped her in. She was gorgeous and vulnerable and everything I never knew I wanted. This wounded girl was rewiring my brain and, like a speeding train barreling toward me, there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“Don’t apologize,” she said in a halting tone, her hand reaching out to grip mine. “You’re the best birthday present I ever got.”
10
Samantha: Crocodile Tears
They mill around in gloomy clothes, their somber faces offering each other solace in this time of mourning. I should be grateful they came at all, but I’m not. I’m angry. Furious. Where were these people when he needed them? Not here, that’s for damn sure. In fact, they’d have been hard-pressed to answer his call had he rung them up in the middle of the day to talk. But now – now they come to pretend. ‘So sad,’ they say. ‘Such a tragedy.’
Go cry your crocodile tears somewhere else.
There she is, my mother, front and center, the martyr. She looks frail under all the black, her hands shaking. No tears are shed. ‘She’s strong,’ they say. ‘She’ll get through this.’ Oh, yes, I have no doubt she’ll survive. In fact, instead of bearing the blame that should fall squarely on her shoulders, she will come out looking like the victim. ‘He was weak,’ she says. ‘All he had to do was ask for help.’
Go spew your hateful lies somewhere else.
My father’s there too, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘Why?’ he asks. “My boy was so happy.’ Yes, he was. When he was ten! Before we were left alone – with her. I can barely look him in the eyes. Traitor. He cradles his four-year-old son in his arms. The six-year-old circles his feet. The replacements. He’ll never let those ones go. Where was that commitment seven years ago, when his other son could still be saved?
Go pretend you’re Father of the Year somewhere else.
These people are nothing but imposters. They don’t care. They didn’t love him – not like I did. They can grieve without me. I’m done. Slipping out the front door, I walk over to the tree – our tree. Sinking to the ground, I rest my back against the weathered trunk and remember. Him. Us. Tears cascade down my cheeks. He’d once been happy here.
The mailman, passing on the street, makes awkward eye contact as he slips letters into our mailbox. Does he know my heart has been ripped from my chest today? Does he care? Once he’s left, I rise to my feet and move to the box. Who else wants to pretend to care? I riffle through the Hallmark-sized envelopes, tossing them back into the mailbox. I don’t want their pity. I want Sullivan.
Something catches my eye – an envelope. Just a standard letter, but there’s no mistaking the handwriting. The gasp that rips from my throat startles even me. To Samantha. From… him.
With shaky fingers, I open the letter. Something bulky is wrapped in paper and taped shut. Attached is a post-it-note. “I’m so sorry, Sis. I tried, I really did. I hope this gives you more strength than it gave me. I love you always. Sullivan.”
He was my brother. My best friend. And now he was gone… forever. I tore through paper and tape, already knowing what was inside before the contents were revealed. Sobbing, I fixed the agate pendant around my neck, then looked up to the sky in thanks as I rubbed the smooth stone.
The door swung open to my room, startling me from the daydream that was currently destroying me. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Why had Sullivan chosen three days after my birthday to do the horrible deed? There was no good time to die, but casting a shadow over the day of my birth felt like a punishment.
My mother swept in. “What are you doing, Samantha? It’s a school day.”
“I know, but I can’t go. Not today.”
“Yes, you can. Now up, out of bed.” Mom yanked the sheets clear off me before opening the blinds and flooding the room with light. “Today is no different than any other day.”
Oh, but it is.
“Today is the two-year anniversary,” I whispered. “I can’t.”
Although she tried to suppress it, I could see just the slightest tremble of her lip. Somewhere deep inside, she still felt.
“He chose to leave us, Samantha. We don’t mourn weakness. Now, get up. It’s a school day, and you don’t want to be late.”
With every step I took, I could feel the heaviness, like weights circling my ankles. I wanted to drop to the ground and sob, but that was a luxury I was not allowed. Weakness was not allowed. That mantra had followed Sullivan into his grave. He hadn’t been allowed to feel. Be a man, Sullivan. What’s wrong with you, Sullivan? Why couldn’t she see he was perfect as he was? Why couldn’t he? My sensitive big brother had suffered in silence, choosing the worst possible way to make his voice heard. He was only nineteen.
Sometimes, I wondered what it would be like to join him. How easy would it be to just cease to exist? No more pain. But then I’d be just like Sullivan – a memory hanging around Shannon’s neck – and I refused to do that to her. She was like a sister to me, and I would not place on her the burden Sullivan had placed on me.
Hundreds of unsuspecting students passed by as I opened my locker, leaning into it for support. What would they think if I died? No doubt they’d be scratching their heads and saying, Samantha who? Just like Sullivan, I’d die in obscurity, no one mourning my passing.
Sudden warmth spread as arms wrapped around me from behind. My knees nearly gave way from the force of the hug.
“You’re okay,” Shannon whispered in my ear. “I’m so sorry, Samantha. I forgot the date. I’m so sorry.”
Shannon’s strength was what I needed now. It would get me through the day, and then tomorrow, I’d wake up and move on… again. Slowly I turned and transferred some of the overwhelming weight onto her devoted shoulders. Thank god for Shannon. I often wondered if I’d been there for Sullivan at that exact moment when he’d made the decision to end his life, would he still be here today? Or would my intervention only have pushed his death forward to another day, another time? Could you really save someone determined to die?
Touching my fingers to the stone, I imagined Sully’s last moments. In my mind, I watched as he solemnly removed the necklace, carefully slipping it in the envelope, and quickly scribbled the note. Gett
ing the necklace to me had been important to him in his final minutes. Maybe he knew the stone would be the one thing I would cling to when he was gone. Maybe it was a way to purge his guilty soul. After all, he was doing what he’d promised never to do. I won’t leave you Samantha. You’re all I have. And, of course, I’d repeated those lines right back to him.
We’d had a deal. He broke it.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying – but failing – to block out the thoughts of his final minutes. What had he been thinking? How had he made his legs move across campus to post my letter? And why had the person who loved me most in the world climbed the stairs to the top of his dorm and jumped?
I hurried to third period, hoping to arrive before Keith in order to fix the protective goggles over my bloodshot, puffy eyes. But when I walked in the classroom, I saw he was already there, holding his hand over the open flame, a defiant smirk across his face, and as miserable as I felt, my suffering eased just a pinch in his presence. He had, after all, made me a cupcake.
“Ouch,” he yelped, yanking his hand away from the flame. “Sweet merciful crap, that’s hot.”
What did he expect? He was literally playing with fire. I shook my head at his antics, the smile typically reserved for him slow to take flight. Normally I adored Keith’s youthful exuberance, even envied his middle school mentality. He was so full of life, and I wished I could have stolen just a smidge of his energy and passed it on to Sully before he died. Maybe it could have saved him.
Blowing on his sizzling hand, Keith lifted his eyes to acknowledge me.
“Hey there, Sammy.”
I cringed. Sammy was even worse than Sam, and today was certainly not the day to assign me a new nickname.
“Samantha,” I snapped.
Unaccustomed to my harsh tone, Keith looked me up and down. “Okay, wow. Maybe this isn’t a good time to ask you why islands don’t float away. I mean, they’re surrounded by water.”
I held firm to my scowl, determined not to let Keith’s stupid questions cheer me up. Not today. My sour face seemed to wise him up.
He leaned in closer, the sparkle gone from his eyes. “You okay?”
Caring about my birthday was different than caring about me as a person. People who cared didn’t take the long way around the school parking lot to avoid running into their buddies with a nerdy girl by their side. I mean, if Keith couldn’t even make the trip across the lunch tables for me, then he certainly wouldn’t have my back if I really needed him.
“I’m fine,” I replied, looking back toward the door that I desperately wanted to escape through. But then what? Home? Her? My mother’s bullying was getting progressively worse, forcing me to spend the majority of my time at home barricaded in my room for safety. Spoons were the least of my problems. Bruises littered my arms and back, and my grandmother’s china, once considered an heirloom, was now just a worthless pile of broken shards.
Staying home, curled up in my bed, and sleeping my sadness away – that’s all I asked. But even that request had been denied. It wasn’t that my mother cared if I missed school; she just couldn’t allow me even the tiniest of victories. Not that mourning Sullivan’s death would have been a victory, but at least I wouldn’t be subjected to the lunch line on the very date my heart had been ripped clean out of my chest.
“You don’t look fine,” he said, interrupting my internal rant.
“Neither do you,” I replied. “Are those third degree burns on your hand?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
I grabbed his hand and turned it over. His palm was red but otherwise uninjured. I blew on it as a mother might do to heal her small child.
“Hot,” I warned in a cautionary tone. “Ouchy.”
He laughed, yanking his hand away.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with fire?” I questioned.
“Not since I was eight and lighting matches in the bathroom.”
“Obviously, that message didn’t stick. Why were you lighting matches in the bathroom in the first place?”
“To watch them burn. Duh.”
With Keith, often the simplest answer was the right one. Untouched by adversity, he knew the world to be a good place. I wasn’t as convinced.
“I also enjoy blowing things up. Does that make me a pyromaniac? I don’t think so.”
“Actually, yes, it does,” I answered, no longer able to suppress a smile. “How often do you blow stuff up, anyway?”
“You know.” Keith ran his fingers over his stubbled jawline. “A fair amount actually.”
We exchanged amused glances, and I could feel the sadness begin to fade. Some might say Keith was the only beneficiary of our tutoring sessions, since his rewards were clear to see. They could be measured in higher test scores and passing grades – tangible evidence of our partnership. But what Keith gave to me was far more powerful a force. Every smile, every laugh I attributed to him was another day I kept moving forward – kept breathing. So did it really matter that he refused to be seen with me in public? After everything else he’d given me, how important was it that he sit opposite me at the lunch table?
“Here’s today’s lab,” I said, passing him the assignment. “Take a look. If you have any questions, just ask.”
Without skipping a beat, he raised his hand.
I tried to block out the frantic arm waving, knowing he couldn’t possibly have formulated an intelligent question in the short amount of time he’d been allotted. Ignoring him, I dipped into my bag for my own work, all while keeping an eye on my smirking lab partner. I wished he weren’t so attractive. It would have made it so much easier to ignore him.
I sighed. “Yes, Keith?”
“I have a question.”
“Okay, go.”
“Is this the experiment where we boil acid to prove it contains hydrogen?”
I rocked back in my seat, surveying him with curiosity. Keith had come a long way from the boy who’d met me in the library after school that first day with just an unsharpened pencil to his name. Now, when he slid onto the seat beside me, he was prepared and thriving, as if a low-voltage light bulb had switched on inside his head. Yet Keith loved to get under my skin with stupid questions. The whole floating islands bit was just the tip of the iceberg. And whether his ignorance was real or faked mattered little, as Keith had an arsenal of dumb queries at his disposal.
“Wow, Keith,” I said, in deference to his intelligent inquiry. “You’ve done your homework. Good for you.”
He shook his head. “Nah, this is one of my do-over classes. I remember this experiment from last year. It was gnarly.” He pointed to the diagram on his sheet. “Gas is going to come out of this tubing, and when it does, get me a match – I’m gonna light this place up like the Fourth of July.”
“Uh, I think not,” Mrs. Lee intervened. She’d been standing nearby when Keith had made his loud declaration, and now she was on high alert. “Remember your promise, Keith. No fire.”
“Actually, I believe the deal was I couldn’t be on fire. No mention was made of the classroom.”
“It was implied.” She grinned, laying his test facedown on the table. “Let’s not ruin the good thing you’ve got going on here.”
She patted his shoulder, and as she walked away, Keith and I both dove for the test. I got to it first and flipped it over.
“An 88%,” I whispered, gripping his wrist and shaking it. There was no hiding my pride. Keith was proving no obstacle was too great if you set your mind to it.
“Are you crying?” he asked, skirting his eyes over me. “You’re that shocked by my grade?”
It was only then I felt the tears trickling down my cheeks. Swiping them away with the back of my hand, I tried to cover for my slip-up with a faked smile, but found that once the tears had started, there was no stopping their descent.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, for the first time realizing I was crying for something unrelated to him. “For real, Sam?”
“
I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re rubbing the stone.”
I wanted desperately to trust him, but the people in my life had made it hard for me to take that leap of faith. My bottom lip trembled. “I’m struggling.”
That was all Keith needed to hear, and he leaned in close until we were nearly touching. If there had been any doubt that he cared about me, it was put to rest when I searched his eyes and saw pain in them – for me. “What can I do to help?”
I shrugged, unable to form a sentence without sobbing and alerting the students around us of my meltdown. My gaze shifted to my trembling fingers.
“Hey.” He nudged me. “Sam, look at me.”
I lifted my eyes.
“Ask me anything. I’ll do it.”
Only one person in Pearl Beach knew my history… and all the secrets that went with it. Even then, Shannon only gained access after touching her hand to my bruised shoulder and watching me wince. Yet here was Keith, a guy I’d known mere weeks, edging himself into my life with ease. But how much headway had I made in his? Then it occurred to me. Maybe the fact that he kept me from his friends, spoke more to his insecurities than to my deficiencies. Maybe Keith didn’t know who he was any more than I did.
“My brother died two years ago today.”
The background noise fell away, and for a moment it was just the two of us sharing a deeply personal moment.
“Ah, Sam,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been joking around.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you before. Please never stop making me smile.”
He nodded, staring down at his wringing fingers. “How did he…?”
“Die?” I finished the question.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Oh.”