****
As they begin to lower Tristan’s body into the ground, I notice Brett isn’t among the spectators. She’s disappeared. So quickly. So effortlessly. With a small sigh, I move away from the crowd. But my shield is not as strong as I’d like it to be. The words of the townsfolk reach me. Consume me. Like a damn bout of the Super Flu that there’s just no escaping from, and I feel like I’m right back in that car losing my shit.
Except this time, I’m alone.
“Such a waste. It just makes you want to go home and hug your children every night.”
“They really need to beef up the education at that school. We can’t just ignore the problem and pretend it will go away. Just last week, I caught Bill drinking a beer in the garage.”
“Poor thing. She looks terrible. I heard there were problems in their marriage before. I can’t imagine this will help.”
It doesn’t matter who owns these words. The thoughts belong to all of them. One giant fucking machine with one big ass mouthpiece, no matter how different the voice coming from it can sound.
Anything would be better than this.
Anything.
I find Brett sitting underneath the Lee Memorial Bridge. Like all small, southern towns, Wendall has a variety of dilapidated houses, bridges, and monuments. They stand as reminders of the town’s glorious past.
It was here the three of us formed some sort of dysfunctional therapy group—a means to surviving this hell. It has always been a place of solace for us, but it’s a place for hand jobs and necking to all the other teen scumbags in this pathetic town. I wonder if there is anything not corrupted in this town. As I approach the bridge, it no longer brings me comfort. I see it for what the others made it—a place to get off.
I certainly have no intention of doing the latter with Brett Jensen.
Even if I want to.
I want to.
She pulls her knees to her chest as she sees me approach. I notice how her knees announce themselves from underneath her dress as her legs move closer to her. She has a small tear in the knee of her black stockings.
I’m fascinated by it. The Brett Jensen I know would never leave the house with such a glaring imperfection. I briefly wonder if my eyes are still red from my meltdown in the car. I reach inside my coat pocket and pull out a pair of sunglasses, placing them over my eyes before Brett has a chance to look into them.
She clears her throat. She’s beautiful. Truly. I’ve always thought she stepped right out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Long neck. High cheek bones. Slightly too long of a nose, but it sits perfectly on her face. Large, dark chocolate eyes. Perfectly shaped eyebrows that, if raised the right way, will drive any boy wild. Chaotic, curly black hair.
I move to sit next to her. She looks up at me. Despite the darkness of my shades, I can’t miss the way her eyes light up momentarily. I look away from her. I need to see her, but I also need to remember our relationship is covered in caution tape.
I’m not sure how long we sit there without talking. “I threw up,” she remarks, breaking the silence.
“You threw up?”
“Yes. When she came in to tell me. I threw up all over her feet. Then I threw up in the sink.”
“Were you hung over?” I ask.
“Maybe. And maybe…”
“How’d your mom tell you?” Brett offers a short, bitter laugh in response. I scratch my chin and shake my head. “That good, eh?”
“You would think she was auditioning for a Lifetime movie or something.”
For some reason, I laugh. Brett smiles. An actual smile. The kind of smile that transforms a face. If she was beautiful before, she’s luminescent now. These sorts of moments are so rare, so precious, I feel both a need to forever stay in this place and flee it as soon as possible.
I’ve always had a crush on Brett Jensen. I’ve just been smart enough to know that I’m too messed up to ever be with her. And now, with Tristan gone, I’m pretty sure I’m damn near done. Ruined. And maybe that’s what I deserve for not convincing him to stay with us.
“Maybe she thinks Julia Roberts will play her,” she continues, pulling at the grass growing up between the cement base of the bridge. “I mean, this has movie written all over it. All-American boy dies under mysterious conditions.”
Oh, Brett. There is no mystery about it. He left us.
“More likely some has-been from one of those medical shows,” I say instead.
Brett nods. Suddenly, her hand is on mine. I feel the tension she is holding within herself by the pressure she exerts onto my skin. My cheeks burn, and I am ashamed by my body’s quick reaction to this small movement.
“You can be whatever you want now, Ed,” she whispers.
I try to pull my hand from her grasp, but she merely holds on tighter. “What are you talking about?” I manage.
“You have a get out of jail free card thanks to Tristan. You could skip school for a week or flunk the whole year, and no one could say anything. You are…were the best friend of the dead kid. Who would give you grief? You could become anyone.”
She’s holding on so tightly to my hand that I begin to lose feeling. I let her words sink in. Settle. And the funny thing is—they make sense. Perfect sense. I know how I am going to deal with all of this.
My life hasn’t been easy. And there are a lot of people to blame for that. My dad, for starters, is a real shit. Not that I’ve ever had the chance to tell him. But if I could, I’d let him know he screwed me up.
People who mess up others’ lives should know it.
If Tristan really got drunk and drove his car into a tree, then the people of this town put him behind the wheel. They are to blame as much as he is. This damn, suffocating place. Maybe it doesn’t matter how and why he died. He died. He left. And since I can’t yell and hit him, I can get back at the place that created him, the place that created the first friend I’d ever had only to take him from me years later. The same place that allowed him to think he was invincible and could go around faking his way through life.
I yank my hand away from Brett so forcefully that her elbow juts into her stomach. I move away from her because she can’t go on this journey with me. Partly because there is something still so innocent about her that wouldn’t be able to survive where I am going. The other reason is it will take me from her, take me where I can’t hurt her.
Brett stands up. She moves toward the river that flows under the bridge. I don’t stop her as she wades into the water. It moves toward her, attempting to consume her. But she isn’t willing to go all the way in. It reaches her knees, covering the tear that so hypnotized me before.
“There’s this road in Virginia named Witch Duck. They used to drown witches near there. If they drowned, they were innocent, and if they survived, they were witches. Then they were hanged,” she calls out to me over her shoulder.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, stuffing my hands into my pockets, controlling my need to pull her from the water.
“Just thought you needed to know.” Brett inhales deeply and lifts her head to the sky. After a moment, she moves back to the grass. She’s a mess, and I wonder how her mother will react when she shows up to the wake. “Who are you going to become, Ed? This is your chance. You could make your life better. They’d have to let you in. So, who do you want to be?”
I shouldn’t be surprised by the directness of her question. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about Brett. But something about the way she asks it makes me feel like she finally understands we can never be.
And I feel loss all over again.
Finality is a bitch.
“I’m going to become one of them. I’m going to show them how easy it is. They’ll let me now.”
“You hate them.”
I nod. I do. I won’t be able to explain to Brett that, like them, I deserve to be punished. I want to see this world that Tristan was so desperate to stay in, so scared they would shut him out of if they knew the truth. I want
to get them to accept me, and then show them just how easily I can reject them.
She nods. She reaches out her hand and rests it against my arm. “Then you learned nothing from him dying.”
And then, she’s gone.
Chapter Four
Brett:
My brother wasn’t drunk the night he died. He told me he wasn’t drunk. He never lied. Not to me. Well, he usually didn’t lie. Did he lie? He didn’t seem drunk. If he wasn’t drunk then his death was no accident.
He was murdered. It’s the only explanation. Somebody must have found out. He was too darn special to be taken away by some unforgiving act of fate. I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Everything has an answer. Everything. One moment I had a brother, and one moment I didn’t. I just can’t wrap my mind around it. It’s a math problem, an equation. There’s an answer to it.
I turn over in bed and stare into my bathroom. My room is starting to smell like puke. I throw the covers over my head and wonder how long I can breathe just through my mouth.
The police ensured us that it was a drunk-driving accident. My mother didn’t ask for an autopsy. If they conducted one anyway, my parents never bothered to tell me. My mother just wanted the mess cleaned up. My dad…did my dad have an opinion?
Maybe I am reaching, longing for some excuse for this to make sense.
Did the police know Tristan had enemies? Should I have told them? Wouldn’t that be betraying my brother? The things I could tell were secrets. They are secrets. Still.
If my brother was murdered, then it involves all of Wendall. Maybe I shouldn’t have turned down Ed and my brother’s suggestion to watch Veronica Mars with them last month. It seemed like a silly show about a cute, blonde teenage private eye. Who knew it could have helped me?
I wonder if it’s on Netflix?
With a heavy sigh, I throw the covers off me. There is no hope of finding sleep. I know that. I haven’t heard any noise from downstairs, so I figure it’s probably safe to venture down. Dad hasn’t shown his face much, and Mom was passed out the last time I checked.
****
I’ve never understood why people bring food over after someone dies. I mean, I get the logic behind it—they don’t want you to have to worry about cooking. But as I stare at the hodgepodge of homemade goods in my fridge, all I can wonder about is hand washing and stray strands of hair. I shudder and close the door.
The pantry holds nothing but stale chips. Football watching season is over, so no one has bothered to restock in weeks. I grab a bag and plop down on the couch. I turn on the television, quickly muting it so I don’t wake my mother up. Besides, it was a game Tristan and I used to play. We’d make up our own stories and dialogue to whatever images were flashing across the screen.
Tonight, I can’t come up with a single scenario. I just let the colors entrance me, making it painless to exist.
“What are you doing?”
Her voice snaps me from my hypnosis. I drop the chip I’ve been holding in my hand for God knows how long. I scramble to pick it up before my mother can yell at me for getting chip grease on her couch. But then I remember she hasn’t done much of anything lately, and I leave the chip where it lies.
I watch as her eyes move to it. And I realize I want her to yell. I’m begging for it.
“You have school tomorrow.”
That’s all she gives me. No reprimand. It didn’t even sound like a warning, more like a statement of fact. I take a deep breath and stand up. I leave the bag of chips where they lay.
“Have you heard from your father?” my mother asks me. That’s when I hear it. The tiniest bit of emotion.
I shake my head. “Have you?” I ask.
She goes rigid, her hand frozen in mid-air like she’s reaching for something that’s not there. I know what she wants. I trudge into the kitchen and pour her a glass. I know it’s not right, but nothing feels right anymore.
And maybe tonight we can both misbehave.
I place the glass of vodka in her hands, and she comes alive like some mechanical toy your parents put a few quarters in to stop you from crying while they argue over what wine goes best with lamb at the grocery store. She throws the glass back and turns to go upstairs.
I walk back over to the bag of chips and dump the contents out onto the crisp white sofa. I press my fist against the pile of waste and smash and smash until I’m sure it’s ruined.
Tomorrow, I will have to behave. Tomorrow, we all will.
Chapter Five
Ed:
“Can I ask what you’re doing?”
I slam the lid of the washer closed with a bang. “Thought it was pretty obvious,” I lamely joke without turning my head to look at my mother.
Mom playfully slaps me in the back of the head. “Don’t be such a smart ass.”
I rub my hand against her point of attack and turn to face her, leaning against the rumbling, angry machine. “I’m so sorry, Mother dearest. With your gracious permission, I was hoping to do a few loads of laundry. If that pleases the lady of the house,” I counter, mimicking the affectations of all the male stars of the classic movies Brett used to make me and Tristan watch. Against our will. Of course.
Mom crosses her arms. “I can see that. I’m surprised you even know how to use one of those things.”
“Now look who’s being the smart ass,” I laugh.
Mom smiles. No doubt happy not to find me slitting my wrists after Tristan’s funeral. We have barely seen each other since the event. She’s been busy working doubles, and I’ve been busy avoiding her.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“I’m a growing boy. Of course I’m hungry. I’m always hungry.”
I follow Mom into the kitchen. She gets to work, popping a frozen pizza into the oven. “Any big reason for actually putting effort into what you look like?” Mom asks casually.
Too casually. She knows something’s up. She would never understand why I was planning on working my way into the Wendall High elite. I barely understand it. My reasons for doing so change so often even I can barely keep them straight. Part of me wants to see what Tristan was so desperate to protect. Another part of me wants to pull them all in only to abandon them, show them they mean nothing. And a small part, the tiniest, darkest part, wants for one second to know what it would feel like to be one of them.
And thanks to Tristan’s death, I can.
Like Brett said, they’ll let me now.
I shrug. “No reason in particular. Just figured it was about time I started taking care of my own stuff. Soon enough, I’ll join all those idiots who pay outlandish amounts of money to get this so-called higher education everyone is gushing about, and I won’t have you around to do my laundry for me.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “All the idiots who pay outlandish amounts of money? I hope you’re not including yourself in that category. You’ll be in the ‘I have to take out every loan I can and then pay outlandish amounts of money plus interest later’ group. Thanks to your dear old mother here.”
My mother says it all with her usual wry sense of humor, but I can tell it’s a sore subject for her. She’s done the best she could for us, but she’ll always think it was never enough. No matter how many times I tell her otherwise.
“Guess what’s coming on television tonight?” she asks, artfully changing the subject. A family trait I proudly carry on.
“Some sort of reality show where the worst of American society gets paid millions of dollars to suck at life,” I scoff, pulling two cans of soda from the fridge.
“Well, probably, and don’t act you don’t love those shows. But that’s not what I was referring to. The Outsiders,” she says.
I freeze. Literally. It’s as if my brain has forgotten how to demand that my body move. I should see a doctor. This isn’t normal. They probably make pills for this.
“What’s wrong? You love that movie. I swear, you and Tristan...” Her voice trails off. She’s staring at me in that way I hate—that mothers-se
e-all way. I want to run up to my room, but damn if I can get my legs to work. “I’m sorry, Ed. I just thought maybe it would be nice if we sat down and watched it together. I was flipping through the guide earlier, and I saw that it was coming on, and I couldn’t help but remember that week you two were over here and watched it every night.”
I nod. Numb. I remember too.
“Maybe we can watch it, and we can talk about him. I miss him too, Ed,” Mom says softly.
I nod. Still numb. Still unable to move.
My mom busies herself around our small, cramped kitchen, no doubt giving me a bit of space. The oven buzzer goes off and suddenly, I’m free from the claws of Mr. Freeze. I bolt to the pantry to pull out paper plates and napkins, but mostly I move so my mother can’t see my face.
“Maybe next time it’s on,” Mom says from behind me, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.
All I can do is nod.
****
Later that night, I lie awake in my bed. I won’t be able to sleep until I find it. With a groan, I throw the covers off of me and stare at my mess of a room. It has to be in here somewhere. It has to be.
I start with the massive piles of dirty clothes that lay like poorly placed mines all over my room. An hour later, I still haven’t found the damn thing. But my room is starting to look mighty inhabitable.
If I got allowance, this would be worth an extra ten bucks for sure.
I scratch the back of my head, surveying my humble abode, begging and pleading with my subconscious to remember where I put it.
It’s stupid really. It shouldn’t mean so much to me, but I still need to know where it is if I ever plan on sleeping again.
And then it hits me.
The box where I keep all my comics.
Of course.
I fall to me knees and jut my arm under my bed, feeling around frantically for the box. I can’t help but sigh with relief when I pull it out from the dark abyss of underneath my bed. There are no monsters under there. Only hope. A small moment of comfort.
The Language of Silence Page 2