Gone, Gone, Gone

by Hannah Moskowitz

  I say, “Are you okay?”

  And she says, “Thiskidgotshotoutsidemyschool.” And then she’s sobbing again. My sister. “H-he got shot.”

  “What?”

  “My friend saw it, j-just outside. He j-just . . . he was about to go inside—”

  She’s okay. She’s okay. It wasn’t her. I still can’t breathe. “Holy shit, Michelle. Holy . . . Oh, God, God, fuck.”

  She mews. “Th-they’re going to make me hang up in a second, we’re on lockdown.”

  “Okay. Okay. You called Dad, right?”

  I can hear her brush against the speaker of the phone a few times. She’s nodding. “He’s o-on his way.”

  “You’re safe. You’re safe? There are adults with you?”

  “Yes.” She sniffles.

  “Okay. You . . . don’t do anything stupid, okay? Stay safe until Dad gets there. Stay safe after Dad gets there!”

  I let her hang up first.

  I should call Dad. I want to. But he doesn’t need to worry about me right now. All my sisters are probably attacking him with calls, or they will as soon as they recognize the name of Michelle’s school. Maybe I should call Veronica, my middle sister? She’s six years older than me, but she always reads my papers before I turn them in, and she’s good at softball, and boys like her. Would she be good at this?

  He told us our children were safe at school.

  My lungs are tightening up.

  He told us they were safe.

  My teacher sticks his head into the hallway and says, “Lio.”

  I’m standing here holding my phone. He could give me detention. I expect him to at least take my phone away.

  He says, “Back to class, now, okay?”

  My tongue feels too heavy for my mouth. I nod and follow him back inside the classroom, but I don’t know if I’m going to stay or if I’m going to get my things and run.

  They’ve rolled out the TV, and everyone’s crowded around watching the news. There’s the outside of my sister’s school. There’s a reporter, and her hair is perfect. There’s the police chief, and he’s crying.

  He’s crying.

  He’s our police chief, and he’s crying.

  I need to get out of here. I need to get to my sister.

  I’m fully willing to fake an entire string of sneezes to get out of this class, but the bell goes off as I’m gathering my stuff. Everyone mills around, mumbling to each other. Thirteen years old. How did this happen?

  How the fuck do they think it happened? Exactly the same as the ones who weren’t thirteen. Why do we care so much more when it’s a kid who dies?

  Michelle is fine. She’s fine.

  I want to go to Craig. I don’t know if I can go to Craig. I don’t know if we’re talking.

  So I find Jasper. “We have to go get Michelle.”

  For a minute I’m terrified no one’s told her, and I’m going to have to do it. She’ll start to cry. I don’t know if I can handle that.

  But she puts her arms around me and holds me.

  Jasper and I don’t touch very much. I hug Michelle a lot more, though I get along more easily with Jasper. But the way we get along tends to be quiet and snarky.

  Everyone can see her. A senior hugging a sophomore. I want to bury my head in the shoulder of her puffy jacket and fall asleep.

  She says, “Dad’s with her, baby. Dad has her.”

  I know that she’s right. But it doesn’t feel like enough. I say, “Can we go get the house ready for her?”

  She shoves her hair out of her eyes. Her makeup is all smudged. Was she crying? Why haven’t I cried? “This isn’t a surprise party, Lio.”

  I pull back from her.

  She sighs.

  “Give me your keys,” I say.

  She says, “I know you want to be there for her right now. But what Dad needs to know is that we’re safe and that we’re where we’re supposed to be. He doesn’t need us in his hair right now.”

  “Keys.”

  “And I have a test.”

  “Jasper, give me your fucking goddamn keys!”

  She takes them out of her pocket but doesn’t hand them to me. “What are you going to do with them? You can’t drive. You are not driving my car.”

  I say, “I just need the house key.” I’m lying.

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’ll figure it out!” I run off before she can say anything. I’m faster than she is. But she’s not following. Hugging in the halls is one thing, but she isn’t going to be seen chasing after me.

  I bring her keys to Craig. He’s at his locker, fondling the pictures of his animals. Like they’re scratch-and-sniff pictures, and they will feel closer to real if he touches them enough.

  I say, “Can you drive?”

  Craig looks at me for a second. “Are we talking?”

  “Please?”

  “You’re talking.” He looks at me, down his nose, like he’s doing it to remind me how short I am. How does he do that? How does he make me care? I’m used to being this height. How does he make me feel so small?

  He says, “Why are you talking to me? Jesus, what do you want, Lio? I already feel like shit.”

  I guess I thought . . . the emails . . . I guess I thought we were okay.

  He says, “I’m sorry I assumed New York was some kind of haven of personal growth and identity and community wellness or something. Because . . . well, clearly you came from there, so I guess it has to be at least a little—”

  “—fucked up,” I finish, quietly.

  He’s really surprised I interrupted him. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “A little fucked up.” He looks away and finishes taking books out of his locker. I hope he doesn’t cry. I think it’s adorable how much he cries, but I can’t deal with any more crying today. That’s probably why I’m not doing it.

  I say, “I need to get home.”

  He looks at me. “What’s up?”

  “The kid who got shot goes to my sister’s school. I don’t . . . I don’t think she saw anything. But she’s really freaked out. Dad went to get her. I feel like I should be home.” I’m panting.

  I force the keys into his hands.

  Craig puts his hand on my arm and looks down at the keys. “I can’t drive.”

  He showed me his learner’s permit the day he got it. He was so proud. I say, “You’re better than I am.”

  He nods a little. “Okay. Come on.”

  CRAIG

  REALLY, I SHOULD CALL MY BROTHER. HE WOULD pick us up.

  But Lio wants me to be his hero.

  And I’m really only a little bit mad at him, anymore, especially since he talked to me, he came to me and he talked to me, and he asked me for help.

  And that’s a reminder that I really, really want to be the one to fix him.

  The rain is coming down like crazy, so I’m trying to hurry, plus Lio looks like he’s about to require the use of psychiatric drugs. He leans against the car and blows on his hands while I unlock it, his collar hitched up so it protects some of his skin from the cold. It’s an old car, so both doors need to be unlocked by hand before we can get in, and Lio’s just standing there, nursing a cigarette between his fingers, trying to keep it lit, taking short drags on it like they’re all he can stand.

  He’s making a lot of glances over each shoulder—Is anyone coming? Who’s coming?—but I tell myself he doesn’t want to get caught, not that he’s worried he’s going to get shot, because I really don’t know what to think, if all of a sudden Lio’s afraid of getting shot. I don’t know what that means about anything.

  Anyway, he’s not freaking out or anything, he’s just a little twitchy.

  “Ready?” I ask him.

  He gets in the passenger seat and pulls his seat belt on tight. He shakes his head to dry off. He’s soaked, which sucks, because he’s wearing really nice clothes today. Not nice as in formal, I mean, his black jeans have holes in both knees, but in the way that his hat looks like something he me
ant to wear and not something he tugged on as an afterthought and his shirt is gray in a way that looks silver.

  He shivers while he puts out his cigarette. He should have worn a raincoat like I did, though I wish I’d brought an umbrella instead of a raincoat so I could share it. Once I get to his house, I’ll hold my arm over his head on the walk—probably the run—in, so he won’t get any worse.

  “You okay?” I say.

  He nods. I find the heat and turn it on. He sneezes quietly, and it might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. It’s so stupid, but that sneeze makes me entirely not mad at him anymore. Maybe most of my anger was already gone, or maybe it’s the look on his face afterward, staring straight ahead while he emanates waves of Craig hug me.

  Damn it. I need to focus.

  “Can we talk while I do this?” I crank the key in the ignition. “It’s just, I mean, I’ve only driven like twice, and it’s kind of hard for me to concentrate when it’s all quiet. So if you could talk? Alternately, you can make noises like animals. That’ll help.”

  Lio meows for a minute, and I nearly die from so many feelings.

  I ease out of the parking lot. He’s stopped meowing by now. I say, “But seriously, talk?”

  “You talk,” he says. “I’ll answer. Promise.”

  I say, “So are you gay or whatever?” I watch the other cars for a minute to remind myself which side of the road I need to be on. It’s not something you think about when you’re not driving or when there isn’t someone you give a shit about in the passenger seat.

  He says, “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know. I mean, I kind of assumed, but I kept leaving you places to drop it into conversation or whatever and you never did.”

  “I thought you knew.” He pauses, and I try to think of something else to say, and then he says, “I’m sorry.”

  His voice is so quiet and naked.

  I say, “You really made me so mad. And I really just don’t feel like being mad, you know? And I don’t want to be thinking about all of this, but last night I was thinking that if you ever got sick, it would really freak me out.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I say, “When you sneezed just now, it reminded me, that’s all.”

  “Because of the cancer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t have cancer anymore.” I hear him pick at his jeans and I want to check on him, but I need to concentrate on the road. I can see him a little out of the corner of my eye, so I see when he turns toward the window and fusses with his hat in this way that I can tell he doesn’t notice he’s doing it.

  He says, “Every time I get a cold, it’s like my dad is holding his breath. Or if I get a nosebleed. Or a bruise.”

  I don’t know what those things have to do with leukemia, but I’m sure they’re significant. And I hate myself a little because instead of listening to the feelings behind his words, I’m keeping a list of these things in my head, inscribing it into myself that I need to watch him if he gets a cold. Or a nosebleed. Or a bruise.

  I say, “Can it come back? I mean, I know it can, but . . . I mean, is it something that you need to be worried about or whatever? Or even, like, thinking about?”

  “It’s statistically more likely that I will get cancer again than that someone who’s never had cancer will get cancer. But it’s by no means certain or even likely that I’m going to get it again. There’s about a seventy percent chance I’m done with leukemia for good.”

  This is the first thing I’ve ever heard Lio say that doesn’t seem to cost him a lot of effort. He doesn’t agonize every word. I can see him well enough to be pretty sure that he doesn’t rub his nose while he talks. I realize, a minute of silence later, that this is because it’s the first time, I’m pretty sure, I’ve heard him say something not true. I mean, it might very well be true, I don’t know. But he doesn’t believe it. It’s not true for Lio.

  I say, “You worry about it?”

  He shrugs.

  I don’t think I ever would have figured that out on my own, without this conversation, without that shrug, even if I knew Lio for a million years. I don’t know why I think that, because I’m generally so good at shaking things out of people that they don’t want to talk about, that they probably shouldn’t be talking about, but I just have the feeling that this is something that Lio is really good, even by his standards, at not talking about. I think this is totally different from the dead brother thing, but maybe the only reason I think that is because he’s still picking at his jeans, and when he talks about Theo he’s always so calm. It’s hard to know. I’m so focused on driving.

  I say, “I don’t think you’re going to get cancer. I really don’t think so. I mean, smoking doesn’t help, probably, but you’re not going to get cancer.”

  He shrugs again. “If you had been around when I was five, you wouldn’t have thought I was going to get cancer then, either. I was just a kid.”

  And even though I don’t think I could have figured out, now, that he’s scared, I still think I could have looked at kid-Lio, even if I was five years old myself, and known that he would be one of the kids who gets cancer. I can’t get it out of my head that he would have had that old-photograph-cancer-kid glow.

  But I’ve never known a cancer kid in real life. I guess there aren’t that many of them. I wonder what the chances are that one identical twin gets cancer if the other one does. I know Lio knows.

  He says, “Some five-year-olds have to get leukemia. They just have to. It doesn’t matter to cancer which kids.”

  But it didn’t have to be Lio. And it won’t be Lio again. I know it.

  I want to pull this car over and say all the things we haven’t said yet. I want to scream at him, what the fuck is this relationship, what are we doing, why do I care more about you than I do even about my missing animals, why have you gotten your way into my head when I can’t have you right now, when I probably can’t have you ever because I am a fifteen-year-old torn to shreds, do I just feel this because you’re crazy, is it just because you’re crazy and I need to fix a crazy boy, is all of this just because I need to fix something and holy mother of God, Lio, can I fix you, and you better not get cancer again!

  “You missed the turn,” he says.

  “What?” Fuck. I was driving to my house without thinking about it. I was driving to my house with a kid in the car that I’ve already decided can’t come to my house, what the fuck, Craig, what the fuck.

  Lio says, “U-turn?”

  “Fuck no, I don’t know how to U-turn.” I slow to a stop at a red light and look around. I don’t see anywhere good to turn.

  He shivers a little. “I don’t know how else to get there. I don’t know this place at all.” He curls up with his head in his hands.

  And at that moment, that’s when I know.

  That’s when I know as much as I think that I can.

  I say, “Come on.”

  He looks up.

  I say, “My house, come on.” I keep driving down this road. “You’re coming home with me.”

  He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t say no no no I need to be with my family.

  I’m going to take that as a sign.

  The light turns green.

  I unlock the front door. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

  He stands there, dripping on the kitchen’s fake tile. He takes his hat off and wrings it in his hands. “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “At work.”

  He coughs a little. I say, “Hey. Let me get you some dry clothes.”

  He comes up beside me, quietly, while I put the kettle on to heat up water. I should probably make it with milk, that’s probably better. But the package says water, and I don’t want to screw it up.

  He says, “I like your house.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Craig?”

  I swallow and turn around. And there is Lio, and right now he is a
ll blue eyes and wet hair.

  He says, “Do you have two sets of dry clothes?”

  “What? Of course. Why?”

  He pushes me up against the counter. I’m cold everywhere he touches me, except my mouth, my mouth is burning against his mouth. I’m all wet. I’m melting.

  Lio meets the animals and says hello to Zippers again. He asks me, softly, if I’d like to go out looking for them tonight. I want to so badly, but he’s shaking already from asking me, and I think he’s had enough scare for one day. “Maybe someone will call who found one,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

  He nods.

  “Yeah. So someone else can find them tonight.”

  He looks around the kitchen, the dining room, giving himself a small tour. I should show him around, or say something, but I’m too stunned by his presence in my house. He fits in like a painting into a gallery, in a way that I never did. I’ve always been too loud and too messy for my parents’ things.

  “Where’s your brother?” he asks eventually.

  “At the mall.”

  He laughs. “We should hook him up with one of my sisters. They love the mall.”

  “He’s old.”

  “So are some of my sisters!” He has this huge smile on his face, like he was carved from a pumpkin. When do I ever see Lio smile?

  He looks fucking adorable in my pajamas, like he’s a kid on Christmas morning, or a boy trying on his dad’s clothes. It’s so much easier just to look at him than to think about things, and the truth is that looking at him is making me goddamn happy.

  After about an hour—we play video games—I tell him, “You really need to call your dad. And probably your sister.”

  “Which one?”

  “Um, as many as you like, but I was thinking mostly the one whose car you stole.”

  He nods and uses my house phone and lies on the floor of the living room with his feet up on the table and Michelangelo, who Mom brought home from the shelter, curled up on his stomach. (Still need: One dog, two cats, two rabbits, a guinea pig).

  “Hey, Dad,” he says after a minute. “How’s Michelle?”

  He’s quiet for a long time. I wonder if his dad is talking this whole time or if there are long pauses where he waits for Lio to speak.

  And then he keeps asking about Michelle, again and again, like each time his dad isn’t giving him enough of an answer, or isn’t giving him the answer he wants. And I remember when we first started talking, over IM.