“What songs?” Burn demands to know.
“They were fairly obscure, Mr. Burnett. You wouldn’t know them.”
“What songs?” Burn shouts.
“Well, there was one called ‘Separate Lives,’ by Phil Collins, and a Beatles song that almost no one remembers, called ‘For No One.’ And the third was called ‘Did She Mention My Name?’ by this folksinger Gordon Lightfoot. I knew of these songs before, but did not comprehend how intensely personal they were until Roxanne pointed them out to me.”
If Burn had detonated all of the explosives at that very instant, I wouldn’t have known, because when Connelly used the name of the song that I had heard months before on Caitlin’s iPod, it was like Meadows and everything that surrounded us ceased to exist and I was somehow beyond time and space, simultaneously standing in the cold in Massachusetts, sitting on her bed, watching her naked, shotgunning with her at Kelly’s, having her crash into me on the bus line at McAllister, all at once in a terrific and terrible burst of a . . . moment.
And then I was back again, and the part of me that totally believed was gone, because even though this had to be more than just a coincidence, it was just too motherfucking strange. It was my head, my oozing, concussive head that temporarily shut down, no other way to otherwise explain the singular moment that I experienced.
And even though I tried to make sense of it, it made no sense at all, which infuriated me.
Point is, whether or not I connected with Roxanne, and on some level, it felt like I did, I was still in a room with her psycho brother, who was smarter than me and had an arsenal of deadly weapons and bombs. So, while Connelly is still droning on, I’m watching Burn, the way a kid watches another kid when you’re playing basketball, who are you going to pass to, what’s your next move. Adults would miss this; they tend to look down at us, which makes it easy to live in our secret society of childhood.
Burn has moved away from his laptops, is toying with his pistol, not aiming it but holding it in a completely nonthreatening way, no longer focused on the monitors. And it hits me, if this is basketball or poker or some other game, then Burn has just taken himself out of it, on the sidelines now, because he knows it’s over, because he’s no longer got control over what happens outside the faculty lounge. And as soon as someone gets close enough, it really is game over. And there’s only one game over in Burn’s mind right now.
And I completely understand it, because I am inside his head for the first time today. Only it’s not like the night of the poker game at all.
This time is different.
I’m in his head this time because I understand now what happened to him. I understand because it happened to me and I didn’t realize it. In spite of everything I had in my life, in spite of my incredible ability to have everything go my way, my gift, as Roxanne once called it, none of that mattered because she still killed herself, and when she did, an anger that was always inside me, there in the back of my brain, an anger that was always contained whenever I got what I wanted as soon as I wanted it, WAS BACK. It was something that I had all my life and only went away completely during those afternoons when I was with her, even though it was something that I finally learned to control better when Jacob moved out.
So now I could connect with David Burnett, because my anger had become pure anger, not mixed with fear or any other emotional thoughts but crystal . . . clear . . . unadulterated . . .
RAGE.
And that’s exactly what was going on with David Burnett. He had completely surrendered to the rage that was always inside us both, waiting there. He was fucking Darth Vader. He had always been Darth Vader, and Anakin was trying to break through sometimes, maybe Roxanne helped him keep it in check, I couldn’t say, but the only thing I was sure of was Anakin was completely gone now. He was all Vader, just like that day in the janitor’s office.
Which was fine by me, because this is what I was all about now.
And so I stood up, and when he saw me, he stood up, and when we connected this time, I didn’t look away, but neither did he.
And I felt the same electricity as before, only this time, it was mine. Definitely mine. And then I felt my rage-thoughts randomly focus on Roxanne, on Jacob, on Connelly, then on Burn, but then mostly on myself for being such a stupid, oblivious fuck-up and for getting into this situation in the first place. The evidence was in: What the fuck was I doing there? Who the fuck did I think I was? I was a fucking moron and I deserved to be there.
I look at Burn. He is holding the gun on me. “Sit THE FUCK DOWN.”
I continue to stand.
Everyone is looking at me.
“Sit down, MR. CRASHINSKY,” Connelly shouted behind me.
“Please sit down.” Joanne Muchnick.
“Sit down, Crash,” Burn shouts over them, “or I swear I will put a cap in you and pop you to hell.”
I’m thinking that I have to end it now, that I can no longer back down, and somehow I have to stop him. My head starts to hurt again. I can feel the gash on my temple bleeding again. It’s beyond painful. But that only makes the Rage somehow more . . . PURE.
And then Burn does something totally unexpected. He looks away, steps back, and flips a light on.
Everyone jolts back from the sudden change in the lighting. Suddenly daytime again.
“Time to get started. Mr. Connelly, will you please stand up.”
He refuses to look at me, knowing I am still staring at him.
Connelly is in a sudden and complete panic. He is not moving.
“Ed Connelly, you are required to stand.” Burn pretends to ignore me.
Connelly pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.
I don’t know what he’s planning with Connelly. I don’t care.
I inch forward.
“Sit the FUCK down, Crash.”
“How did it make you feel when you saw the video of her, David?” I ask him, actually screaming at him.
That gets him to look my way.
“Do you want to know what it made me feel like?”
“Don’t, Steven. I’m warning you.”
“Why not?” I answer. “You haven’t asked me yet, David. You haven’t asked me to share my memories about your sister.”
With that, I finally have his full attention. He is moving toward me and looking at me again and we are connecting and he knows that I am prepared to let him in, because he already knows what it feels like in there and it couldn’t possibly hurt any more than the hurt I was already feeling.
“I’m not interested in hearing how you fucked my sister.”
“Actually, she was fucking me, as I remember it. Like she did to all those guys in the video.”
That certainly gets him to come after me with everything he’s got.
Across the room in a single heartbeat.
Over me in the next heartbeat.
We are face-to-face. The middle of the room is suddenly empty, teachers are on the move. Even Connelly, who was previously absolutely frozen, is all the way across the room with the rest of them.
“Do I really have to explain this mechanism?” Burn asks me, pointing to his belt and to the homemade box with the red button. “I flip it, we all die. Are you ready to die, Steven? To be as dead as my parents? As dead as my sister?”
Now there is some kind of chanting sound going on behind us, because many of the teachers are trying to tell me, “Stop it, Steven. Leave him alone.” Even though Burn is the one coming after me.
“She was my fucking soul mate until you cut us off from each other!” I screamed at him, all hate now. “And I will never, ever love anyone the way I loved your sister.”
Well, that stops him now, because his expression changes, and for a second, all the anger is gone, replaced by grief. I see this change flicker in his eyes, like it was poker night. And maybe this is what Roxanne, from wherever she was, would have wanted. Because we were, the two of us, finally emptied of our feelings.
In that instant, it wa
s just me and him, Steven and David, and the rest of the world didn’t matter or even exist, and I had the same feeling for him that Roxanne must have felt that night in Massachusetts when she told him, “Let’s go home, David. I know how hard it’s been for you.”
I almost wished I could tell him that, but we both knew he was in too deep now.
“If you really loved her, then you really need to know,” he whispers to me, grabbing my neck, tightening his grip around it; then he pulls my face closer to him. He was always taller than me, and his arms were like iron. I feel his hot breath against my cheek.
“Our secret,” he whispers softly. “You have to promise.”
I can hardly hear him. No one else can hear him. I have this incredibly sad, incredibly scared feeling that I don’t want to hear him.
“What’s our secret?” I struggle to break free.
Softer whisper.
“Roxanne was alive that night when I went into her room and found her. Her head was back on the pillow, and there were empty pill bottles on the floor. I knew what she did. She reached for me, and when she did, I ran out of her room and closed the door. Then I waited. I lay in bed all night and waited, and I didn’t open her door until the next morning. I can’t believe I did that, Crash. I can’t believe that.”
With that, he let go of me.
That’s the secret.
“Our secret.”
That’s what I could not tell anyone, what I couldn’t and still can’t speak out loud, because it still tears away at me when I think about it.
That’s what’s been inside me since 1:05 P.M. on April 21, 2008.
When he told me this, he let go of me.
And he started crying, so completely that his entire body gave in to the feeling.
And the truth was that ever since she killed herself, I had kind of given in to a very quiet, very personal version of that feeling as well. Even though it never showed, even though I was able to balance it every day so no one knew.
I understood how empty my life was going to be without her, and how angry I was at her for leaving me alone forever, which is exactly what David felt, what he always felt. Like he said, it was too late after his father died and it only got worse after his mom and then his sister.
His sister fucked us both and now we are both too far gone.
But he could have saved her.
Hit with the realization that he let his sister die, that she would still be alive if not for him, the rage inside me was back full force, beyond any rage I had ever experienced before. It boiled through my insides, making me feel like I was on fire, like there was no escape, and with that powerful, horrible force building inside me, I went after him.
And I crashed into him. Completely rammed him with every ounce of my energy, with every ounce of every horrible feeling that I ever had in my life, all culminating in NOW.
But he didn’t go down.
Instead, his arms wrapped around me.
And we were hugging, the most intense hug I have ever had. It was that intense for two reasons:
The first was that Burn was still crying and he felt unstable on his legs, like he was unable to stand on his own, and he needed me for support, or else he was going to crumple.
The second reason was—and get this—to all of you teachers and coaches and everyone else who sold me short, who said that I wasn’t smart enough to take a foreign language or advanced bio or whatever. In the instant of that hug, in spite of my hateful rage, I became the smartest kid in the history of Westchester, maybe in the entire U.S.
Because I hugged him back.
I locked my hands together around his waist. And held him in a complete wrestler’s lock.
Because as long as we were locked together, Burn could not reach the button on his belt. And he would be unable to get to his guns.
Of course, when he realized what I was doing, he tried to break free, first stepping forward as if to pin me against the wall, but I pushed back on my legs and countered his progress, using everything I had inside me, every emotion that had driven me to insanity, because if someone had entered the room at that very moment, there was no contest who was crazier. Not at that moment. No contest at all.
He tried to twist his body free, but I twisted with him. Then he tried to pry me loose with his hands, and all this time I was screaming to the others, “Get the police. Get the police, get the police.”
And then he bent backward and lifted me off the ground, but I pulled myself back down, all with my fingers locked in a tight-knuckled embrace.
I stayed down.
And I stayed attached.
And I was still in such a rage that it didn’t matter to me that, with my body pressing against his, I could feel the lumps of the explosives and the switch that could have detonated based on the sheer force of us clinging together so tightly. And I didn’t care.
And Connelly, of all people, came in to help and grabbed one of Burn’s hands to keep him from trying to separate from me.
And then the cops came charging in. And they were on top of us, but I wasn’t letting go and they weren’t stopping me, because they were pulling Burn’s hands back, up and away, and then they managed to cuff him, with me still holding on, refusing to let go. Once they had his hands safely away from the switch, I finally released my grip.
As they got him down, his face got close to mine again, and he said, “You have to promise.”
They were turning him over, and some bomb guys were all over him. I saw another flash of anger, but then he was all about weeping again, completely surrendering to it.
Some other officers pulled us apart. They wanted me out.
“You better not tell anyone what I told you,” he screamed at me through his tears, as they forced him back through the door. “I’m warning you, Crash.”
Thinking of what he had done to his sister and knowing what I knew, I said the only thing that I knew could hurt him any more at that point.
“I had a straight flush,” I yelled back. “I let you win.”
I heard him yell something that I could not understand. It sounded like “Boston hikes. Boston hikes.”
Whatever.
At 1:11 on April 21, the siege was officially over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
How I Made the Cover Page
Two police officers accompanied me out of the building, physically holding on to me as we headed for the front entrance of Meadows High School.
On the way out, someone thrust a bottled water at me, and I chugged it down, tossing it back, empty. Someone else tossed me a T-shirt. Mine was covered in dried blood and drenched in sweat.
Quick change. I looked down at my new shirt, a police shirt. Jamie was going to love this.
I could hardly keep up with the cops, so it was a good thing they were there for me. My head was literally throbbing. I was suddenly hungry and tired and hot and cold and dizzy and calm all at the same time. My arms felt like overcooked macaroni, like my bones had melted, probably from holding on to Burn so tightly that every muscle had fused to him. Now they were having exactly the opposite reaction, all rubbery and loose. Plus I was still wobbly from the concussion I was sure I had.
I was totally unprepared for my first step outside.
There were crowds applauding for me, going wild, like I was a rock star, with me looking down from the stage at an audience. I held up my hand, trying to wave, and flashes of light went off in rapid succession. The sudden lights, the sound of applause were like lightning and thunder to me. So loud, so bright, and all I wanted to do was get home again and hug my little sister. And then lie down again.
I looked into the crowd: so many faces and I couldn’t focus to recognize anyone I knew. Then individual faces started to come together. There was Christina, waving to me, and good old Caroline and Jamie. There were my boys, Evan and Bobby and Newman and Pete, with Kelly and Annie Russo and Bosco—it was even good to see Bosco at that moment. And of course, there were other kids and their parents, kid
s still making it out of the side entrances and the gym exit and all converging around the barricade of official vehicles and press vans.
I stepped forward and the applause grew louder.
Everyone there was going crazy over me. There were cops clapping and firemen cheering. Some people were, swear to Christ, waving flags; others were holding their cell phones high, like it was a concert.
It was the motherfucking Fourth of July and I was America.
OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but this felt World Series good; not only World Series, but final-game, final-pitch, out-of-the-park-home-run good.
How good? Fuck you, Jacob Crashinsky, good. Your boy is a motherfucking hero after all, so maybe you should reconsider your opinions of him good.
That good.
Plus other kinds of good. Knowing that you saved everyone good, knowing that everyone was still alive because you reached into yourself and found an ability that no one else believed was there good, knowing that, except for you, many of those people, the ones coming out of the building, the ones standing on the lawn and being greeted by their moms, all of them could have died if not for you good.
And then microphones were thrust at me. Ten questions at the same time: How did you know, what made you think, what did he do, when did you realize . . . buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz buzz buzz. It was too noisy for me.
“What did he tell you?” A blond woman came at me holding her microphone like a baseball bat. “The teachers in the room said he whispered something to you. What did he tell you?”
More flashes of light and noise. My head was pounding. I was thinking I might actually pass out if I didn’t get food quickly. Plus I needed another water desperately.
“What did he say?” More microphones.
“That’s between me and David Burnett,” I said.
But they weren’t done with me. People had a right to know, I heard one reporter say. I was supposed to deliver a message. What was the reason for the siege? What was going on in Burnett’s mind?
Crash and Burn Page 49