Andrew restarts the game and Jade winks at me. I realize she has no idea who Braylon Edwards is and probably no idea what an end zone recital could mean. She was just pretending to impress him. Go, Jade!
Jade offers to give him a tour. I’m not invited. I’m unsure how the tour of a three-bedroom apartment can take an hour and fifteen minutes, which feels like seventy-two hours when you are trying to busy yourself waiting for it to be over. I could have written a master’s thesis on annoying siblings, complete with copious revisions. At last, after polishing twenty nails and reading Vogue cover to cover, I sneak down to her bedroom door and eavesdrop. I hear my obnoxious sibling asking, “So you like her, right? Like, you like her like her?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“But she’s cuter, right?”
“You’re cuter.”
“I’m too young for you.”
“Would you move to Arkansas?” I think he’s joking.
“Would that help?”
“No, it was just a dumb joke. And your sister has more wonderful things about her than I can count, the best of which is that she is completely crazy about you.”
“Okay, but do you like her like her?”
I barge into her bedroom like a house detective only to discover them playing cards in the fort that they built from stuff that Nicole has forbidden be used for such purpose. Far from apologizing, Andrew deals me in, then kicks my ass at Hearts.
Eventually, Jade asks (well, actually orders) me to make them some dinner. The angel hair arrabiata, and don’t screw up on the al dente. Andrew says he’s insulted, meaning he is offended that Jade hasn’t realized he can cook rings around me. Which he proceeds to do.
Just as he is plating our scrumptious feast, including a hand-grated mountain of asiago, his new iPhone goes off. The ringtone sounds suspiciously like “Wind beneath My Wings.” Before I can subtract a masculinity point, he assures me this is Carmen’s special ring. So I subtract twelve points.
I watch his face as he listens to a just-audible rant on the other end of the phone, about as carefully as I’ve ever watched anything. Is he in love with her? Is that what love looks like? For some reason, it doesn’t look like the kind of love I’d want to be in, but what do I know.
My stomach jolts uncomfortably when I hear him offer to be “home” in twenty minutes.
“I thought she was working, but she came home to cook a surprise dinner. Sorry to, well, not eat and run, I guess.” He doesn’t look nearly sorry enough for me. He looks like he can’t wait to get “home.”
He kisses Jade and hugs her hard. He thanks her for the hospitality. I walk him down to the street and watch him get into the GEM.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask suddenly, leaning into the window.
“Whatever you want.” He’s smiling at me, like he’s wondering what took so long for me to ask.
And it’s just that simple. I have a new friend.
“Meet me at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-seventh at eight thirty,” I say. “Don’t eat breakfast first.”
He leans out the window and impulsively kisses my cheek. Then he peels out in his oversized roller skate.
Later, when I’m getting into bed, I think of my dad. How he used to tuck me in the night before my birthday and tell me all the places he was going to take me the next day. He always left out the best one as a surprise.
And I cry myself to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
sloane
I wake up in a cold sweat. I’m not ready for this day. I wish I could sleep right through it. Today is the memorial, but it feels just like the day after Bill died. I would’ve preferred to just keep dreaming of Maggie than face a world where something like Bill’s accident could happen.
I’m sure she feels that way about her dad being gone too.
The sky is just beginning to light ahead of the sunrise. I jump out of bed and race downstairs in my pajamas, hoping to catch my dad before he goes for his run. He’s on the front porch in his Cornell sweatshirt, tying his Saucony running shoes.
I sit down next to him and lean my head on his shoulder. He smiles, grateful for the affection, but immediately aware that something is up. One of the things I really love about him is that he’ll let me say things like this in my own time. So he just kisses me on the head, and looks patiently into my eyes, and waits for me to say…
“I had a horrible dream. I’ve had it before. We live in Manhattan. But you’re dead. I mean you don’t die in the dream. You’d been dead for years. And last night in the dream I was lying in bed the night before my birthday, and remembering you and all the things we’d done together and missing you so much. And it just felt so real. And when I woke up, I was still missing you.”
He stares in my eyes, and I can tell that he’s trying hard to look calm and unconcerned. But if my daughter were to ever tell me she has a recurring dream in which I’m dead, I guess I’d be a little worried too.
“I’m sorry, Bug,” he says as he hugs me tight. “How often do you have this dream?”
I don’t say anything, just keep hugging him, draped over his shoulder. I pick at a small hole in the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Lots of times?” he asks.
“Why? Would that be a bad thing? I mean they’re not always sad.”
“So what are they like?”
I hug him tight and then let go. “I can’t talk about it this morning, I have to go write my thing about Bill. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“You know I am. And tomorrow is your birthday, and I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
But of course, one day he would. As Bill did. As everyone we love does, unless we go first. The one thing that I’m carrying around that nobody else does is Maggie. What’s it going to feel like the day I stop dreaming about her and her sister and that grouchy dog? And then, the thought that is always the caboose on this train: it is entirely possible that one day, Maggie will go to sleep and I’ll simply be gone, and everything around me will be gone with me, and she’ll have normal dreams, and her own normal life. This is the craziest possible thought that any human has ever had.
And the only comfort is, I know Maggie has it too.
I go back upstairs and shut my door. There is a mountain of crumpled pages strewn around my desk. I glance at a framed photo of me and Bill and Gordy at the beach two summers ago. It isn’t a posed shot. Kelly just happened to snap it when we were going for a swim. Gordy’s strong back is diving under this big wave like he’s a dolphin. And Bill is right in front of me, his back to the wave, breaking its force so it doesn’t pummel me over. You see my profile, my head tilted up toward the sun, and my smile is so big it seems to take up my whole face.
I pull out Bill’s iPod (Gordy and I pass it back and forth when we miss him) and listen to the very last mix that Bill made for me. It’s on my iPod too, of course, but today I want to hear it on his. It’s called Jabberwocky, after the dragon constellation on my ceiling. It was Bill’s favorite.
I sit down and stare at my laptop, and this wave of self-loathing swamps me. I’m a wretched person. I have this one opportunity to stand up in front of the world and give them some glimpse of what Bill, and loss, and grief, and the loneliness that life can drown you in mean to me. And I find myself procrastinating with thoughts of this dumb “double-date” at the Seahorse tonight. Do I really not have anything to say about the only person who knew all my constellations? Or maybe there’s just too much to say.
How can I possibly even scratch the surface of honoring Bill at an event like this? The adult world that runs our school considers this a teachable moment (a new phrase for our era) where children will learn to process loss and grief and loneliness by sitting in the football bleachers and being presented with the truth of mortality. There’s nothing to be taught. Only something to be felt. And I swear to God no one needs to sit in football bleachers to feel it.
Just to make my morning complete, I’m two-thirds out the fr
ont door when I hear, “Hey, Slime!” Tyler has never called me anything else. He apparently made the drive home from University of Vermont last night.
I don’t think I have it in me this morning to navigate this encounter. I pretend I haven’t heard him and just keep walking. One of the things about being six-four is that your legs are very long and you catch up to diminutive feminine types in about three strides.
“Good to see you too!” he booms with what he considers irony. “No hug?”
I look at him and realize that of course I don’t actually hate my brother. He is decent and good and this is all my problem because I’m jealous of his easy path through life.
So I hug him. And I mean it. And he feels that. And he hugs back.
“Glad I caught you. I really want to talk to you about Bill’s thing today.”
From his pocket, he pulls out a wad of folded-up paper, like four or five pages. He looks at it nervously, shaking his head.
“I wrote up this thing, you know, about sort of being Billy’s mentor and all, you know, at quarterback and just generally about guy stuff.”
“I’m sure it’s eloquent.”
He stares at me for a beat. Smiles a small smile. “Don’t ever change, kid. I wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s just a tough day.”
“Well, that’s why we’re talking. I thought maybe it might be better if I didn’t say anything and just left it to you and Gordy.”
He seems awkward making this extremely generous and considerate offer. I can’t remember ever seeing him awkward before.
“Thanks, Ty. It’s really sweet of you. But Bill was your friend, and you deserve to say your piece to honor him.”
“Yeah, he was my friend. And we were real close. But not like you two were.”
I almost choke. I can’t tell how he means that.
“Billy was special to you. I mean, very special. I’m your brother, and I’m not super-bright, but I know that much.”
“Thank you,” I say. And somehow I’m blushing that he knew or had even noticed that Bill and I were special to each other. Which of course we were.
There’s a silence.
“So, uh, how you doing?” He clearly has forgotten our Mafia bit, one of our few inside jokes. So I answer…
“No, how you doin’?” in this Jersey mobster voice.
“No, how you doin’?” Now he’s smiling, relieved of the burden of his kindness and free to joke around. It takes about ten more “how you doin’s” before the loser cracks a smile and the winner who keeps his (or in this case her) face straight gets to punch the loser on the arm.
A horn sounds. It’s Gordy, picking me up in his old Land Rover, which is unexpected and extremely welcome. Tyler and I walk out together. He and Gordy do their dumb guy fist bump, do their dumb guy joke, do their dumb guy sports talk stuff, and just before my brain melts into a slushy, I’m alone with Gordy cruising down the street.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
“How are you doing?” This is a serious question. I shrug because he knows I’m not doing well at all. He nods in agreement. Gordy has these beautiful, clear eyes, and today they remind me of when we were six years old for some reason. He looks directly into mine and then turns back to watch the road.
“I know I said you wouldn’t be alone up there, but would you mind being the only one to talk today? I wrote my speech out, and I’ve rehearsed it a bunch of times, and I cry every time. I just can’t get through it.”
I wind my fingers through his free hand and squeeze hard.
“We can do this any way you want. But I think since you’re feeling like that, we should try to prep you to give the speech. Maybe we’ll change a line or two.”
“I tried that.”
“Have you tried swallowing real hard, just before you get to the place before you cry? It always works.”
“It won’t. It won’t.” He starts tearing up.
I haven’t seen him cry since the night he drove to my house to tell me that Bill had been killed in the crash. The patrolman had called Bill’s folks, and his dad called Gordy crying and asked if he would tell Bill’s friends. Gordy immediately jumped in his car, tears on his face, and drove about ninety miles an hour to my house so I wouldn’t hear it from anybody else. That’s the kind of guy Gordy is. And gorgeous, too. Just ask anybody.
“Pull over,” I say softly. “Let’s see the speech.” He pulls over and shows it to me. It’s folded up about twenty-five times and since it’s in pencil is almost indecipherable. I scan it. Really sweet, really from the heart. I’m proud that he would even think of saying something this emotional in front of the guys.
“I love this, Gordy. You have to give it. And you and I are going to sit here and rehearse and rehearse until you’re happy with your performance. And it doesn’t matter how many classes we miss.”
It takes about eight readings until he isn’t crying anymore. He thanks me for the tip about swallowing, which seems to be helping him. I wouldn’t make too large a bet on whether or not he’d cry, but at least he’ll read it. As many times as I’ve seen him cry (which might be five or six), he always swears that no one else has ever seen him crying, even his mom. Guys are weird.
We get to school in time for first period, only missing homeroom. By lunch my heart is jumping on the way to the hill. I am so ashamed to even be thinking about you-know-who when Bill should be the only thing on my mind. But the truth is I can’t think about much else. Not only is he not in his usual spot under the tree, but Kelly says casually, “Don’t bother looking for Mr. or Mrs. Porcella. They were both missing from my second period today.” She raises her eyebrows in an attempt at lewd inference.
“Think they’re having a hot lunch?” Lila is more direct.
“Hope so for her sake,” Kelly adds. “She looks like she could use it.”
So I bawl them out for joking about my friend and spend the rest of lunch praying that the girls can’t hear my heart pounding through my chest. Of course he and Amanda are together. Why shouldn’t they be?
I fight to think of Bill and how he deserves my full attention and loyalty today. Which makes me feel worse because I can’t seem to do that. Every cell in my body is aflame with jealousy over a guy I don’t know who doesn’t even like me. That’s how I roll.
By the time almost a thousand people are filling the stands, I still haven’t tamed my mind. I feel completely numb. I keep looking for James everywhere. The cheerleading squad files in wearing their uniforms, with Amanda in the lead. No James. No James anywhere. Then, just as Gordy gets up to speak, squeezing my knee on the way—
—I see him. He enters at the far end of the bleachers carrying Pablo, the mutt he adopted on Wednesday. He simply climbs the steps and finds a seat. He keeps hugging that little mutt and kissing its head as if they were alone in the world.
Lost in the dangerous alleys of my obsessed mind, I suddenly realize that Gordy has been talking, is in the middle of his speech, and is looking right at me while I have been fixated on Pablo and his owner. I can’t believe that I’d let Gordy down this way. I finally snap out of it and focus on what he’s saying about our dead friend.
“I can’t help but think about the life he had yet to live, all of the things we may get to do that he won’t: enjoy summer again, graduate from high school, go to college, fall in love for real…”
The eye contact between us seems to jolt him and he starts to cry. Everyone around me is deeply moved and touched, and the more Gordy has to swallow and start over, the more everyone connects to him. In this moment I want to believe that we are all connecting a little more to Bill’s memory. Maybe a group remembrance isn’t as horrible an idea as I’d thought it’d be.
Then suddenly, he’s finished. The crowd applauds in support of Gordy and in appreciation of Bill. I stand and meet him halfway. I give him the biggest hug out there in front of everyone, he hugs me back, and it’s like we are all alone, even though every
eye is on us.
He goes to his seat. And it’s me alone at a microphone.
“I didn’t write this out beforehand,” I say. “Like many of us, I loved Bill so much, I love Bill so much that there are no words. Let me share just one story.”
I scan the crowd and see my family in their section. My dad with his calm and supportive look. My mom with tears in her eyes, which I appreciate so much that it almost makes me cry on the spot. Tyler is there, and even his standard maddening smile seems on my side for once. He is holding Max’s hand, and I remember how much Max loved Bill and wonder if my case of the cooties could have anything to do with him being gone. Bill always played with him, brought him treats, and most importantly talked to him like an equal. Max looks devastated and lost holding Tyler’s big hand. And then my baby brother stares straight into my eyes and I’m filled with love.
“There was something that I wanted more than anything I’d wanted in my life before. Or even since. And there was a very good reason why I couldn’t have the thing I wanted. And I was inconsolable. I cried. I thought I was the unluckiest, unhappiest person on this planet and that things could never ever be right again. I tried to hide it from my family, from my girlfriends, from Gordy. But I couldn’t hide it from Bill.
“So Bill hugged me. Actually, held me. And we were totally silent for what seemed like a day and a half. And when he thought I could hear him, he told me that it was important to just let myself feel bad as long as I wanted. And it was also important to remember at the same time how lucky I was for everything in my life that brought me happiness. And to know that I would feel that happiness again someday.
“So I tried. And the thing that I kept clinging to was how blessed I was to have Bill in my life. Then he died. And I thought of that day that he held me, and I realized that I still have Bill to cling to and always will.”
Feeling empty, because I should have done better, I put my head down and start back toward the bleachers in absolute silence. Suddenly, there is this really strong applause, and for some reason I look up directly at James. He has that ugly dog in his lap, and he smiles at me.
Lucid Page 9