It was so absurd, but Foley just sat there, calmly, watching me, nodding. When I stopped, he goes, Also, Theadora, as I mentioned when we first met, there were two NSA agents on their way to arrest a renowned hacker named Jeremy Naas, alias John Cameron Conlon, when he left your house, here, on the afternoon of April 4, and I said, If that’s true, Foley, then why don’t you ask the agents where he is? And Foley said, Because they’re dead. Both NSA agents are dead, Theadora, he said, and my jaw dropped, clunk.
I looked at my mom, the lawyers, none of them could look me in the eye, but I didn’t care. I managed to shut my mouth, and then I said, That’s not funny—that’s not funny at all, and Foley raised his brow, tilting his head to the side. He said, I couldn’t agree with you more, Theadora. It’s not funny that your boyfriend is missing, and two federal agents are dead. It’s not funny when local authorities handling the missing person’s investigation, Detective Knox and his colleagues, failed to discover blood in the trunk of John Conlon’s car that is not John Conlon’s blood, which matches the blood of the girl he inadvertently killed, six years ago. I said, If that’s true, about the agents, then why isn’t it in the news? Foley nodded, like he was overflowing with compassion, and he goes, We’ve kept it under wraps—can’t have it on the nightly news or going viral on the Internet, can we? Thea, first things, first. If you don’t believe me, what I’m telling you about John Conlon, or Cam, as you call him, why don’t you ask his mother? Ask Karen Conlon who Jeremy Naas is. Jeremy Naas: N-A-A-S. Ask her, he said, folding his hands.
I thought I was going to be sick. I felt vomit building in my chest, my throat, heading for my mouth, and I turned and ran for the toilet. But I didn’t make it, and puke ran down the side of the toilet, the floor. My mom knocked and came in, but I didn’t turn around. I rested my head on the toilet seat: Let me be. Please, I said, and I could feel her open her mouth, then she changed her mind and quietly close the door, leaving me alone.
I waited in the bathroom until Foley and the lawyers left. Then I brushed my teeth and told my mom I was going out for some air—I think she knew, because she offered to give me a ride, and I said no. I slipped out the back, and when I got there, Karen was in the backyard, weeding, and I set down my bike, knocking on the gate. Thea! Well, hello, stranger! Come in, she said, taking off her gloves and giving me a kiss. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, she said, and I said, I need to talk to you about something. All right. Can I get you something to drink, Thee? she asked, opening the porch door, while I followed her inside. No, thank you, I said, having a hard time speaking. Please, sit down, she said, looking a the porch swing. Give me just a second to wash my hands and I’ll be right with you. Sure you don’t want some tea, something?
No, thank you, I said. Well, then, she said, sighing and smiling, walking back out on the porch. She looked tired, pale. What is it? she asked, smiling, sitting down beside me and grabbing my hands. Who is Jeremy Naas? I asked, practically pouncing. It hit her like a slap across the face, and she goes, Who told you that name? I go, Is it true, Karen? Is it true? I said, waiting, and until the very last second, I prayed she would deny it. But then she didn’t say anything, and I kept waiting. I said, Tell me it’s not true, Karen, please, and she almost stuttered, swallowing, and then she almost stuttered, swallowing, and then she said, I am so sorry.
I walked right past her, opened the screen door, and stormed down the hall, throwing Cam’s bedroom door open, staring at the ceiling—they were gone. The stars were gone, and Karen stood in the kitchen, her mouth wide open. Neat trick, I said, practically hissing, walking back outside, no idea what I was even doing. Karen closed the door behind her and then held up both hands, patting the air, telling me to calm down, and she said, Thea, what are you talking about? Now slow down, and talk to me, she said, and I said, Talk to you? How am I supposed to talk to you when, when I don’t… I don’t even know who you are? And she goes, I know how it must seem, and that was it: I snapped.
I go, You lied to me? All this time, you’ve been lying to me? She goes, Please, let me explain. I said no and she goes, Thea—he wanted to tell you. And I go, Not enough to tell me—and you—you! Everything I’ve been through, and you knew all along? She goes, He was afraid—we were both afraid, but then he met you and he didn’t want you to know. I said, Tell me the truth. You could at least have had the decency to tell me the truth. What did he do? What did Cam do? Tell me, I said, and she goes, He started a fire—yes, he was very young, and he knew what he was doing, but he had no idea that… It was an accident, she said, looking down, and then I knew. She died, I said. And she nodded. I said, It’s true, then, that a little girl died in that fire? She nodded yes, again, and I reached for my bag and I took out my phone and I texted him, sitting on the swing with Karen, reading my text out loud as I typed: You lied to me. You’re a fucking liar!
I grabbed my bag, got up, and ran for the door—I bolted, Karen calling after me, Thea, please wait? I couldn’t get the door open, because it’s a little sticky, and because my hands were shaking so badly. Karen walked up, behind me and she said, Thea, I am so sorry, and I turned around and I looked at her, and I said, Sorry? You’re sorry? How can you be sorry when I don’t even know your real name, Karen? And then I walked out.
I got on my bike, and I knew exactly where I was going: the grocery store. To buy razors. And then the gas station, on my way home. To use their bathroom. I wanted it out, I wanted the pressure out, I had to get it out, and I didn’t even realize I was talking to him, until I heard my own voice say, Motherfucker, you mother fucker! No more—you lie to me, I’ll lie to you! And then my foot slipped, and I almost fell. I banged my shin on the pedal so hard, I had to get off, pull my bike over, off the street, then I just threw it down, on somebody’s yard, kneeling down on the sidewalk, and I bawled. Heaving, shaking, on my knees, the sobs couldn’t even find their way out. An old man wearing suspenders and a madras shirt stopped watering his lawn, watching me, not knowing what to do, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of it. Really, the one, the one person… Jesus Christ, the love of my life, that’s what I thought he was, and it was all a lie.
I lay there, on the ground, for I don’t know how long, but almost until sunset. And then I sat up, balancing on my elbow, looking around, and then I saw something, icing on the cake. Just down the sidewalk, about five feet away from where I was sitting, they’d just poured new cement in the sidewalk; it was fresh, and someone had written—not my writing, some little kid, someone who must have seen it on TV, they wrote TD + CC = TLA in a big heart with an arrow shooting through it. Looking at it, I grabbed my left shoulder, where my tattoo had been, and part of me wanted it back to keep. But another part of me wanted it back just so I could cut it out. I looked around in the grass, trying to find a stick, and I did, then I crossed it out. I had to really scrape, because it was almost dry, and I don’t know why, really, but I drew an anarchy symbol over the heart, and then I picked my bike up. Go to hell, I said.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2010
(SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER)
8:14 PM
We were watching something on TV. I don’t remember what. I didn’t even care. I was sitting at the end of the couch, with my sketchbook open, remembering the moment I felt him standing there, behind me. I was thinking about the moment I felt him standing over me, watching me draw. I was thinking how odd it was that someone was standing over me, and I couldn’t imagine who, but I didn’t feel scared, either—no, I felt… I felt like he knew me. Like instead of waking into a dream, where you know everything that’s going on, but you don’t know how? For the first time, I felt like that, but waking into my own life, you know? Weird.
Honestly, it felt more like I’d been waiting for him all this time, so long I couldn’t remember when, and then, at that moment, when I finally looked up: seeing his face, his eyes. I swear, he is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen—like how can a boy be that beautiful? Thea? Mom said, and she startled me. Like she’d been say
ing my name, but I didn’t hear her. Maybe she had. What? I snapped, then Rain Man goes, You’re smiling. He wasn’t teasing me, really, more like he’d never seen me smile before. Still, I go, Shut up, closing my sketchbook. Ray goes, What did I say? That’s when I knew my mom knew something was up. Not just because I’d been sitting there, staring at the television with some goofy smile on my face, but because she didn’t scold me or use that stern voice she puts on, when she’s saying, Don’t push your luck, kid. I think she knew I was thinking about a boy, and I think she was happy.
Just as I was leaving the room, we heard something, the strangest sound coming from my bedroom. Leave it to Ray to open his big mouth and insert his big foot again: What’s that? he said, looking around the room. I go, My phone, even though my back was turned, and Mom goes, It’s Thea’s phone, and I couldn’t see her, but I could tell she was giving him the eye: Tell you later. I didn’t even care what look she was giving him at that moment. It was all I could do not to sprint into my bedroom. I have a text, I have a text, I thought, closing my doors, rattling my fists to silence the squeal in my throat. And only then, shoving my hand in my bag, fishing for my phone, did it occur to me: What if it’s not him?
My heart stopped for a second, then it started again: because I knew. Of course it’s him: ha! I blew on my knuckles: ha, and I wiped them against my chest, and then I wiped my hand against my tights, because my palms were sweaty. I don’t know where the words came from, but all I could think was, Finally! It’s beginning—my life’s finally beginning!
THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 2011
(TEN WEEKS LATER)
7:02 PM
I made it to the end of the block, and then I stopped and hid behind empty trash and recycling cans, thinking I was going to be sick. I expected… I expected Karen to tell me it was insane, it was a lie, both. She didn’t. Because it wasn’t—it was insane, but it wasn’t a lie, and I got dizzy for a second, had to bend forward, taking deep breaths before I could stand again.
I didn’t know where to go, and I couldn’t go home, I just couldn’t. So I started walking to Silver Top, and halfway there, I got a text. From Jenna Darnell. She said she had something she very much wanted to show me, alone; it would only take a minute. I told her to meet me in ten minutes. I didn’t even care anymore: What, another sex tape? Another fantasy? Another dream for the whole world to see? I couldn’t feel anything, my whole body was buzzing, inside, outside. Seemed as good a time as any to see whatever it was, this breaking news.
She came alone. She had one of her news suits on, camera-ready. The Elders stopped talking, soon as she walked in, and she said hello. I don’t know if they greeted her or what, but she didn’t waste any time, either, sliding into the bench. We’re running a story tonight, and I wanted you to see it first, she said, pulling out her computer, pressing a key. The bus depot, the school bus garage—every bus in our entire school district was tagged. Every single bus in the fleet was tagged, she said, showing me individual photos that she took or one of her camera guys took. It looked like gibberish, if you just read a few of the words on each different bus. But it looked familiar, too, even though I couldn’t put it together right away. Not yet, she said, watching the buses pull out, fall into formation. Still nothing, just a dozen buses with white big black tags, a few letters, exclamation points, and then she pressed another key. I was getting impatient, like, whatever. Wait, she said. Now look here, she said, pulling up video from the camera in front of the high school. This was just this morning, she said, and then she hit play, so you see all the buses pulling in front of the high school, weaving in and out, and then, snap! She hit pause. And you could read the billboard the twelve buses made. You could read the gibberish, now that they were all lined up, it was a page from Hubble. Each bus had a few words, but together, in tableaux, you could read an entire paragraph from our notebook, what I wrote to Cam.
It was my handwriting, it was exactly what I wrote him the day my dad showed up at our house: I wish you could see my face now. Every day, I wish you could feel what I feel, even though I know you can’t. And you couldn’t yesterday, or the day before that, or last week, and chances are, you won’t feel what I feel tomorrow or the next day, either. But I still can’t stop wishing that you could. So what is it, chemical? Really, is hope just another chemical? I don’t know, I really don’t. Whatever.
I didn’t say a word. I just stared, biting the inside of my cheek as hard as I could without showing it. It’s almost as though it was torn from a girl’s diary, Jenna said. No, I said, and she looked at me. You don’t think so? she asked, and I said, No. Meaning no comment. I’m not supposed to talk to reporters, I said, doctor’s and lawyer’s orders. She looked away, scratching her temple, seeing her plan didn’t work. She nodded, sliding out of the booth, grabbing her computer. Well, I’ll e-mail you a copy of the still, if you like. I wanted it, and then, on second thought, I said, That’s not necessary, but thanks. She smiled, All right, then. Good to see you, Thea. You, too, Ms. Darnell, I said, and I looked away. I waited until the bell over the front door rang, and then I slid across the booth and rested my head against the front window. I ducked down, so the Elders wouldn’t see me crying, while hoping, if Cam was out there, he could see me now, and I closed my eyes, thinking, Nice trick. I’m touched, really. And I know you’re out there, watching me. But the thing is, how do I trust you if I don’t even know who you really are? The person I loved, he never really existed, did he?
I felt so betrayed. I can’t even put it into words, how that felt, and a moment later, Sharon left something on the table, and I saw she’d brought me napkins to dry my face. I nodded my thank-you, and I didn’t feel sick anymore, and I didn’t feel sad or scared or angry or anything. I’m sure it was shock, but still, I almost laughed. After all, the joke was on me, because in the end, turns out, I thought right: I just made him up in my head.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2010
(SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER)
4:03 PM
I hate American Apparel. Okay, I’ll shop there, but I hate their ads. Seriously, if I have to see another chick, bent over with her ass spread… And it’s always chicks, too. You never see a guy with his butt or his legs spread at the camera. Which was why I’d been working on a series, swapping men for the girls. I had an entire folder of American Apparel ads and Xeroxes of famous men I’d been working with. Some of them were pretty good, actually. Bill Clinton, that was good. But George Bush and Dick Cheney in matching micromesh bodysuits were probably my favorites. And if nothing else, it made social studies a little more interesting.
I was working on a new ad, when I realized there was someone standing over my shoulder, staring at my drawing. And I remember… I remember the exact moment I stopped drawing and I looked up at him, and then he stood straight, stepping back, realizing his bad manners, staring over my shoulder. It’s so stupid, but I remember the moment the image of his face clicked in my brain, like the picture was taken, and I realized he was, quite possibly, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. And for some reason, I wasn’t at all surprised to find him there. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, he said. Yes, you did, I said. You’re right, he said, but I didn’t mean to be rude. Despite leaning over my shoulder, staring at my notebook, I said. Well, there’s staring, and there’s staring—. Yes, and you were staring, I said, looking at him, like, come on. That’s what I’m trying to say. Exactly. And who knew? he said, tilting his head, taking one last peek at my drawing: Really, who knew Stephen Hawking was so flexible?
That was it: that was the moment. I thought I’d find a way to discount him, to write him off, dislike him, maybe even loathe him and his beauty, but then it hit. It doesn’t happen but once in a blue moon anymore, but still. You know there’s an operation they can do to cut your blush out? Snip, snip: no more blushing. Me, it’d take more teams of surgeons than those conjoined twins, because they’d have to start disconnecting me at my hipbones. Maybe even my kneecaps. And at that moment, I felt it coming, b
lood like a tsunami ocean. He took a seat at the same moment I stood from the table: I need to get a drink of water, I said. No problem. I’ll be here, he said, putting his bag up on the table. Great, I said, and then, thankfully, he couldn’t see me wincing at my stupid comeback: great? How fortunate that I was carrying my notebook, too, because otherwise, I would’ve held up my hands at myself: What was that? Great, I said, walking into the hall. That’s just great, Thea….
THURSDAY, JUNE 16, 2011
(ELEVEN WEEKS LATER)
4:45 PM
We kept it quiet. For like three weeks, I didn’t see her, didn’t ask about her—I didn’t even want to think about Mel for fear that somehow, some way, someone would find out. That one day I’d get some text or I’d go home and find a video on YouTube and Knox would never let me see her again. No way: it was our birthday, so we kept it to ourselves for almost an entire month.
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