No More Dead Kids

by Thomas Marshall

  •The word ‘ampersand’

  •pet·ri·chor

  •Boys who…” (and I don’t remember the rest)

  Things I love: Brooke.

  Two weeks later I looked up Brooke again on the internet, but when I searched for her, I found nothing. Only echoes of her presence on others’ pages, memories of her existence. I talked to her again on the phone though, I am really loving these late-night conversations. We talked, and I still skirted around telling her I liked her. We talked about so much. That night, talking to her, time evaporated, as we became lost in each other and the conversation and the hours passed without meaning. All of a sudden it was 12:30 in the morning tomorrow, and we could barely grasp where the time could have gone. I think it will be these nights that I should remember the summer by, I already hold them so dear.

  Thinking back, a few months ago I started writing down all my dreams. I stopped after this one dream. In the dream, I was on a beach in Italy, looking out onto some canopy tents set up on the bank, when a beautiful girl ran up to me. We embraced and fell into the sand. And as I looked up at her, I knew that she was my wife. I stopped writing down my dreams after realizing the happiest I’ve ever felt was not even real. And then, talking to Brooke, I thought I would be able to tell her, but I couldn’t. The conversation just went around in circles as I kept almost being able to say something, getting right there with the words on the tip of my tongue, and then backing down or changing the subject, because I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I just couldn’t do it, I wasn’t able to; she even asked, although not directly, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I could not tell her that I loved her –I told her so much else, but not that which mattered the most. The story of my life. That is how the conversation went, even though I don’t remember most of it.

  I’d call her again next weekend too. We talked, I told her how highly I think of her, and we talked some more. She told me how much she appreciates me, and how I’m always there for her, listening and helping her. She told me she does not want a boyfriend –and that’s okay, I’ll be a friend, and a good one, and I will look for a less meaningful relationship elsewhere. Because (no matter the substance) I need a girlfriend. I do so much, I try to be such a nice guy, I deserve to have a girl that’ll reciprocate that.

  Wow, that was quick. I dunno, Brooke sounds pretty cool, and as Michael Scott said, ‘engaged ain’t married,’ though I didn’t really want to put this idea in his head. I’m sure he’d be throwing his heart at someone else by the next week. I mean I think he should worry about the substance of the relationship though, that is, if anyone would have him. I don’t know, I don’t want to get his hopes up, but I don’t want to crush them either. I just hope he’s happy. Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone could just be happy (excerpted from my Mr. America acceptance speech)?

  I’d finish On The Road and start This Side Of Paradise instead of re-reading The Stranger or The Catcher in the Rye, my two favorites (something I would also later be told is known as a ‘red flag’). I’d see Ken that week, and we’d hang out in his massive house, in his room, in his other room, outside, and in the pool. Ken’s family was napkins in the bathroom rich. His parents were nowhere to be found, and his sister was away at summer camp, he told me this was normal. He seemed really eager to show me a funny video on YouTube, some music video from Korea. He said a friend of his had shown it to him the night before, I guess that’s how internet videos spread. And, I have to admit, it was pretty funny, bizarre, but hilarious, it was called ‘Gangnam Style.’ I’m surprised it only had a few hundred thousand views though, I was getting pretty sick of hearing ‘Call Me Maybe’ by that point in the summer.

  After that, we sat by the pool after a swim and chatted. I worried he was sliding into apathy, but I wondered if that was better than remaining in rage or in love. I remembered that poem about the ‘hostilere’ again, I guess that when I was young, I imagined that depression was some big, dramatic, and recognized remorseful failure; but it’s not, it’s worse, it’s not even giving up, it’s not knowing that you’ve given up. It’s apathy. It’s the waxing and waning neurasthenia, it’s the crushing boredom, routine, and petty frustration that life is actually made up of, and it’s apathy toward this terrible waste. But it’s still just so much easier, so much safer to just not care. Kenneth felt so much, I didn’t really want him to stop feeling, I didn’t want him to lobotomize himself with apathy.

  “I don’t know man,” I immediately regretted that I’d started, but I was too deep into that sentence not to continue, “you don’t have to give up on everything if one thing doesn’t work out. There are a lot of people, a lot of girls out there, and you’re a good guy. You do just have to admit you feel a lot more than other people, y’know? And that makes things harder, you love more, and you get hurt more. But when things work out, and they will, it’ll be so much more meaningful then.”

  “Thanks, Alexander,” he sighed, “I know.”

  “Don’t worry man, things’ll work out. Maybe not with who you imagine, or how you imagine, but they will.”

  “I hope so,” sighing again, “Oh, so I was in school today getting a locker—”

  Dammit, I thought, we have to get lockers.

  “—and all circumstances led me to meeting with this girl, Olivia, Livi, this cool freshman girl who I’d seen before but never really interacted with. She’s really pretty, I mean really pretty, and I had always noticed her because she dressed really uniquely; she was really artsy and pretty, almost gothish at times, really gorgeous and obviously not caring what other people thought or were into at the time. An extraordinary girl—”

  I rolled my eyes internally. Also, another fucking girl?

  “—I’ve always kind of liked her and thought she was really neat and original. So anyway, we exchanged numbers.”

  I was actually a little bit surprised, “Oh wow, good for you, man.”

  “Well, I gave her mine, clumsily and rushed, eagerly scrawling it on a sheet I ripped out from the notepad I keep in my pocket,” he admitted, kind of unnecessarily. That sounds more like it though.

  “Uh, oh, okay.”

  When I went to the bathroom, I had to go through his house and his room to get there, passing the study where Ken told me his dad kept a gun. Ken mentioned that gun to me in passing more than once. I hated guns, always have. I thank God that I didn’t grow up with a gun in the house because I know I probably wouldn’t be here now if there was, it would have been so easy, so quick, and that’s not something you can recover from, not like knives, not like pills, a gun is pretty final.

  Ken’s room was huge and completely full wall-to-wall with stuff. He even had a two-screen computer set up, I think he played a lot of those anti-social escapist MMORPG games. I spotted a notebook on the bedside table with the words ‘The Son of Rage and Love, The Diary of Kenneth Chester’ written in sharpie over white-out on the cover, on top of a ‘League of Legends’ strategy book. I hesitated, consulting with the metaphorical angel and demon on opposite shoulders, and turned to go to the toilet. Then I immediately turned back around and opened the famed journal and read.

  It’s a fact that men think about sex once every six seconds. Therefore, as a man, I should think about sex once every six seconds. But if I think about sex once every six seconds, then I think about killing and killing myself at least once every twelve. Suicidal ideation.

  This is not angst, this is anger, this is rage.

  Aaaaand, I immediately closed it.

  When I got back, Ken then told me about the confirmation retreat he went on, he was still religious I think, or maybe that was the point in time he stopped being religious, I don’t know.

  “Do you want to see my dad’s gun?” Ken asked almost out of the blue, but still as if he’d had it on
his mind for more than a while.

  “God no,” I reflexively let out.

  “What?”

  “No, I- I really don’t think so.”

  “Here, let me show you,” he said as he walked indoors.

  I protested in vain and anxiously waited outside for him to return. When he did he was holding a handgun in one hand and a clip in the other and smiling proudly.

  “Ken, I really don’t want to—”

  “Check it out, man,” he said as he put the clip in and scanned the yard with the handgun in a swiping motion, back and forth, doing his best impression of a rogue cop. I ducked and scuffled to stand far behind him, I fucking hated guns, I was actually scared.

  “See how cool I look man?” he said as he turned around to me, extending the gun in my direction, “Here, wanna hold it?” he asked.

  “No, now please, could you just put that thing away, I told you, I don’t like guns,” pleading, dodging his delighted and lackadaisical aim.

  “Fine, you’re no fucking fun,” he said as he went back to pointing and aiming the gun randomly around the yard. He then straightened his aim, relaxed his shoulders, and pointed the gun straight in front of him, looking down its barrel, and made a shooting sound, “pssheww,” he slowly moved the muzzle to his temple and made another slow “pssheww,” then opening both of his arms up and out like he was on the cross he grinned satisfied. It seemed so rehearsed like he’d done it a hundred times before with either his fingers or the gun that was in his hands now. Without looking at me, he went back inside and put the gun back away.

  I left soon after.

  I mean I don’t know what to do, really. I’m kind of in over my head now, I guess. All I can do is help, but really, what do I know to be able to give advice? I don’t know if I should be scared or worried. I’m really just a kid too, two years older than him, but really, what does that even mean. I’d just become jaded and apathetic over those two years, and I’m giving him advice on romance when I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with Lila. I guess I should just keep doing what I’ve been doing, texting her, having dinner there, etcetera. I haven’t had dinner there in a while, come to think about it. I don’t know, maybe I should just stop trying, stop talking to her, and just not risk it. I mean, if I fuck it up, which I’m sure I could, I’d never talk to Mr. Darcy again. I mean it would be nice though, even just to get to know her more, she’s pretty damn cool, I mean, how could she not be though. I don’t know, I really just don’t want to fuck things up, and I really just don’t want to get hurt. I better just suck it up and let it fade away.

  I texted her that night.

  CHAPTER 13.

  Do I Wanna Know?

  THE DAYS OF SUMMER were getting dangerously numbered, and as the last throes of August belched out the heat that had been withheld all summer, I knew I’d be heading into a year of lasts. From the last first day of school to the very last day of school, it’d be the last everything by the time the year was through. I was eager though, or at least I was eager to be done with that first semester of college application shit, I’ve heard senior year is pretty fun after that. I wanna get drunk, get high, and get laid before I graduate. Like, I know that’s not the pinnacle of the high school experience, but I still want to leave from here having done at least those things before I get to college.

  One summer afternoon, I was talking to Dan about Lila, as well as venting about having to listen to Ken.

  “Follow your own goddamned advice, Alex.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Dude, go for it, keep going at it, don’t be so fucking mopey, so ‘oohhh, aww, I don’t know if I’m good enough, what if I mess up’ that’s bullshit man, and besides you’ll never get anything if you don’t risk losing something.”

  “Gotta risk it to get the biscuit…”

  “Haha, exactly. But seriously, man, I don’t know, I’d be so happy for you, you deserve a good thing like that.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “It’s just what? Alex, we’re gonna be seniors, and then we’re gonna be out of here, what have you got to lose?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll text her and ask her if she wants to hang out.”

  “Good. Oh, speaking of taking risks, did you ever go over to see Ken like he kept asking you?”

  “Oh my God, I totally forgot to tell you, it was absolutely insane. I mean, he’s absolutely insane.”

  “What happened?”

  I explained what happened to him.

  “Jesus Christ, dude.”

  “Yeah. I mean I don’t know what to do, really. I’m kind of in over my head now, I guess. All I can do is help, but really, what do I know to be able to give advice? I’m giving him advice on romance when I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with Lila.”

  “Lila? Whatever, you’re fine, don’t worry about it,” Dan said quickly; he then quickly became stern, “But Alex. Ken. He has a gun, this is a big fucking deal, Alex. Is he dangerous?”

  “I haven’t had dinner there in a while come to think about it.”

  “Whatever, just text her tonight. But Alex, what are you going to do about Ken?”

  “I don’t think he’s dangerous, he’s just depressed, and I get that; and I mean, it’s his dad’s gun anyway, and the clip didn’t look loaded so I’m sure the real ammo is locked away and he’s not gonna really let anything happen, I’m sure Ken was just showing off.”

  “If you think so, just stay on his good side, and put in some good words for me just in case.”

  “Will do, and I’m really sure it’s noting, he knows I’m here for him if he needs me. And anyway, Lila’s gonna be going up to NYU in New York with her sister.”

  “Oh so that’s where New York University is, I would never have guessed. And still, text her when she gets there then, ask her how it is.”

  “I know, I know. Also, when she texts she says ‘haha’ instead of ‘lol,’ I appreciate that. She’s truly cool, in the most Fitzgerald sense of the word.”

  “You know, Alex, sometimes you say things that make me seem like the straight one.”

  . . . . .

  I texted Lila, I forget about what, but I just texted. And we chatted, she was getting ready to leave for NYU to help her sister move into a new place as well as go to some college parties, she said; I told her to have fun. I told a few more jokes, and she typed out ‘haha’ instead of ‘lol,’ (not that it makes much of a difference though). She said she packed On the Road to start reading on the flight along with another book, On Chesil Beach, for the way back. It was nice talking with her, I liked it, I liked her, and she was smart, funny, nice, and cool. Maybe I even ‘like liked’ her.

  I texted her again a few days later, the night I knew she’d have arrived at NYU; she texted back and talked about how much she loved the city, and how she’d be going to a ‘real college party’ that night.

  She was going to go to a college party.

  In New York.

  At a college.

  A party.

  Fun.

  Shit-

  And in that moment I knew I was in over my head because my heart sank into my stomach the second she said that. I wasn’t just concerned, I was jealous, possessive even.

  I hesitated to text again, I didn’t want to seem overeager, or concerned, or jealous, or especially possessive. So, I just waited for her to text and waited. She texted at 11PM, with the time difference that made it 2AM there in New York.

  “God night alez” [thus was it written]

  Wow, the first drunk text I’ve ever received, I really guess I’m getting closer to being
a college student. Not counting, of course, the many angry or disappointed missives I’d wake up to find my father had emailed me in my youth. But I won’t dwell on that, back to Lila.

  She’d ‘lol’ and apologize to me the next morning. We texted more that afternoon, and into the night. Just talking about things, but talking with a certain feverish compulsion like we had to talk to each other, like the other was the only other person in the world worth talking to, and like absolutely nothing else mattered in that moment or in any moment before or any moment after. Pacing in my shut-off bedroom, clutching my phone in my hand, heart leaping with every ding and vibration when I’d immediately and clumsily thumb out a reply, checking it intensively for any grammatical, syntactical, or social errors and making sure subtext matched with context matched with intentions. My god, texting a crush is such a delicate and calculated game. Insert Buzzfeed listicle gif of some person and/or puppy and/or baby doing something that visually embodies that sentence; a picture’s worth a thousand words, right? Fuck me. A picture’s worth a thousand words, but a word is worth a thousand feelings. That’s why Salinger wrote stories and not ‘which Freaks and Geeks locker are you, and what they look like today.’ But I digress.

  Lila and I kept texting, and texting, and the things I wanted to say kept becoming bigger and more difficult to say, and I didn’t want to not know the tone in which she was responding, or if everything she’s said so far has been complete deadpan sarcasm, because I can’t tell over text.

  “Can I call?” I typed out then deleted.

  “Let’s talk over the phone.” Deleted, again.

  “Wanna talk over the phone, my fingers are getting tired.” Deleted, I didn’t want her to think I was anything but diligent with my fingers.

  “Can I call?” Deleted. Retyped. Sent.

  My phone began to ring. I picked up after letting it ring once more.

  “Hey, Lila, how’s it goin’?”