by Leah Thomas
“What’s going on?” Mr. Wheeler demands. “I thought you said you were at home?”
“Yeah, well,” Kalyn growls, “guess home is relative. Tam, turn the car around.”
I gape at her. “But—your dad—”
“Thanks, Gus. But he’s not going anywhere. Dad can call tomorrow. Mr. Wheeler, we’ve got other calls to make, but can you handle a sleepover tonight?”
“Well, I suppose so, but who is this? And—”
She hangs up the phone before he can argue.
“Let’s go back,” she says as we stare out at her home in ruins. It strikes me that our entire lives have been invaded by strangers, and this is just another illustration of the point, this swarm of people who know nothing laying claims on our lives.
“That’s very rational of you,” Phil observes quietly.
“Yeah, well,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder, “I’ve had enough for now.”
“Enough of what?” I ask.
“Everything, I guess.”
“For now and always,” Tam says.
KALYN
I WON’T PRETEND I don’t notice the exact moment eight o’clock passes.
There’s a big part of me wondering how Dad feels, calling and getting no reply, if he feels anything like how I felt last night when he didn’t call. There’s a small part of me relieved to let the phone ring in the empty prefab.
I don’t know how to talk to an innocent man, a giant kid. I know he’s not different, but it feels different. Like I’ve been talking to a Rose all along, or talking to someone not realizing there was a Rose underneath.
PHIL
I REMAIN UNCONVINCED that I’m a character worth saving.
They save me all the same. When at last the chaos has died down and proven itself less chaotic than a kitchen conversation, when at last we three are camped out in my basement on the dirty old sectional, we collapse like medieval lovers, arms wide or curled inward.
“When will it all be over?” Gus asks.
“Octogus, it’s never, ever over.”
“At least we aren’t alone,” Gus says, to both of us.
“Gus.” I perceive this as a moment for corrections. “What would you say if I told you I am always alone?”
“I’d say that you’re being more play, um, melodramatic than usual.”
“Gus. I am inhuman. I have always been. Kalyn insists I tell you.”
“I don’t know why I thought you’d be more tactful about it, Phil.”
I’m not awaiting her response. I await his. I have awaited it for years.
When next I open my eyes, I am staring into the stars of his. “Shut up, Phil.”
“I am not speaking in jest. I have antisocial personality disorder.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wish he would look away. “Thanks for telling me.”
“This is not a coming out, fool. I am telling you I am better left to the flames. I am as heartless as any murderer, most likely. Today . . . today I beat Garth senseless.”
“That’s not cool, but you did that for me, right?”
“That was scary shit, but the dude was swinging a chair at you,” Kalyn adds.
“No, but I—listen—I am telling you I feign my humanity.”
“That’s weird.” Gus puts his palm on my heart. “You look like a real person.”
“Would you stop making a mockery of this?” I pull myself upright so quickly that he falls back in the blankets, catching himself ungracefully on Kalyn’s knees. “I have hurt you and will hurt you again. I have only ever pretended to be your friend.”
“I’d say you’re a good actor, then. Which is basically, um, the same.”
“It is not the same. One day I may harm someone as easily as help them—”
Without warning, Gus’s arms are around my neck and his breath is at my throat. His heartbeat matches mine. “Me too, Phil, if you don’t shut up. Whatever this is, however you are, we’ll work through it. It’s not our first dangerous campaign.”
I don’t know what I’m feeling, or if I’m feeling, but there is something. Something like relief or warmth, unfamiliar in this familiar, dark space beneath my home. I can’t fathom why, but I hug him in turn. Perhaps we do become the roles we adopt. Perhaps thinking makes it so.
“Bad as things are,” Gus says, “I think it could be worse.”
“Indeed; we could be falsely imprisoned for murder,” I supply.
“Or we could be murdered,” Kalyn adds, “or raised by shittier parents.”
We quiet at that.
“Welp. Since we’re all being optimists now,” Kalyn says, “who wants to go to the dance tomorrow?”
“Not really dressed for it.” Gus pulls away from me. “And there’s something deep and dark that Phil hasn’t told you.”
“I have just unveiled the greatest secret of my existence. What else must I divulge?”
“Phil can’t dance. Not even a little bit.”
It occurs to me now that there are no finales. There is no such thing as catharsis. Our story will not end with us joking in a basement as sirens blare and motors rev and strangers battle nonsensically far beyond us, removed from us, in newsrooms and on forums and in fields they don’t belong in.
It is enough, for an instant, to pretend it might. It is enough to believe in no ending at all. Sometimes you must be satisfied with dissatisfaction. It is the most human thing.
EPILOGUE
Love, Kalyn Spence
KALYN
THINGS ALL FUNNEL downward.
I let Mom buzz the rest of the hair off on Sunday night. I look like 1980s Sinéad O’Connor, sans orthodontist.
After all the weekend drama—the dance was canceled, too—I figure I’ll be facing fists at Jefferson. It takes every god-given centimeter of my self-control not to bring another egg to school. Maybe it always will. Maybe I’ll always consider violence. But if it’s my first thought and not my first action, that’s progress. I don’t bring the damn egg.
I’m hitching a ride today so Mom can stay on the phone with the IFA and the lawyers and the press all morning.
See, tides are turning. Turns out all those rioters who thought they could trample our property are criminals now. Half the older men in town got caught on national television vandalizing our precious old junk. When Tam turned our truck around, Mom and Mrs. Peake decided to carry on down the hill, which is crazy and amazing. There’s a new picture making rounds, featurin’ Mom and Mrs. Peake facing down a line of protestors. The way those ladies are hollerin’, frozen on film, they could be related.
“They’re alllll getting served,” Mom tells me, gleeful as punch. The IFA has hooked us up with some good lawyers.
Now the whole world’s looking at Samsboro, and according to the world, things here aren’t so black and white. People are demanding the retrial. I wonder if any of the hateful moms of America have changed their tune. Probably not. Most people would rather be stubborn than right.
All that matters, at least to Gus and me, is that one of those people making demands is Gus’s mom. I don’t know what changed in that crowded kitchen. Maybe she’s glad to see that splinter gone. Maybe she’s done carrying on a legacy she never asked for, one she doesn’t want to pass down to Gus and me. She’s gonna testify. Combined with new evidence, that might be enough to exonerate Dad.
“It would help if your grandmother would testify, too,” she adds, but that’s not happening. All this stuff has done a real number on her. She’s been coughing nonstop since Friday, and she’s started calling me Claire. There’s no such thing as easy medicine.
So the retrial will happen; god knows what will come after.
Phil pulls the Death Van up our driveway. Mud attacks the Death Star. Considering everything, Phil looks the same as always. Can’t gauge a guy by lookin’ at him.
“Natalie Portman at last,” he says as I climb in. I punch him nicely.
We head back into town. Gus is waiting on the porch in that swinging chair, and
he’s wearing practical shoes today. I notice, but that’s his business, not mine.
Gus and I agree to hold hands on the way into Jefferson High. I don’t know what it means except it feels better to walk on four legs than two. Dogs like Angus know what’s up, I guess. Humans have to work harder to be good.
For every kid who seems ready to spit, there’s another kid who offers a high five. Garth doesn’t show up for school, and Eli Martin doesn’t meet my eyes, but he nods when I pass. I don’t know how much of this is genuine goodwill and how much of it is awe at the national attention. Everyone’s slipped out of their usual faces today, lost their petals.
Sarah spends the whole day fielding our encounters, laying out strategies for dealing with drama, making sure I “stay out of trouble.”
“I thought you liked me being trouble.” It’s weird, this little lunch table with the four of us—well, five, if you count Officer Newton, looming against the wall.
“I like you being you. You’re the only one who thinks that has to mean trouble.”
Phil shakes his head. “I think it also, but I am sure that’s a comfort to you both.”
Officer Newton is actually great at origami, which is something I never knew I wanted to learn until he started folding frogs in the desk next to mine, bored stupid by American History. Origami’s got me thinking about all sorts of things I want to create.
I’ve never been artistic, or I’ve never known whether I am. Truth is, I’ve never thought a lot about the future. Now I can’t seem to stop. Feels like it really exists.
I think growing up is relative, but I also think that no matter what, I don’t have to be more or less than a Spence; I’ve just got to be more or less me.
When I share this notion with Gus, we aren’t next to a dark kiln or cloud gazing on steps. It’s November, and we’re sitting on his porch even though it’s cold as . . . you know. Tam and Mrs. Peake are raking leaves onto flowerbeds again. Me and Gus are sharing hot cocoa and lukewarm chatter. The sky’s the kind of gray that means nothing at all.
“Well,” Gus says, setting down his mug, “I could’ve told you that.”
“Gimme a break,” I say, poking him.
“I mean it. I’m two years older than you, and I never, ever struggle with my identity.”
He can’t keep a straight face, but I would never want him to.
“I’m officially older than Dad ever was,” he tells me.
A second or ten passes. “Congratulations on surviving.”
“You too, Kalyn,” he says quietly. “Congratulations.”
It’s a stupid thing to cry about, but what the hell else is new?
GUS
I THOUGHT WHEN the moving van showed up Mom might panic, but it’s Tam who spends the whole morning finding excuses to blow her nose in the bathroom.
I need another surgery. Those pesky muscles in my upper arm have started pulling my right shoulder forward, and they threaten to slowly twist my spine. Maybe it has to do with Garth yanking on my arm, or maybe it doesn’t. Dr. Petani referred me to a specialist who thinks an operation will help me stand taller in the future.
She was more upset than I was. “Sometimes these things happen after a growth spurt. You should stop growing up so quickly, Gus.”
“Thanks, Dr. Petani, but I’m good.”
We’re moving into an apartment near Hardwick General, a hospital that specializes in orthopedic surgeries. The doctor there is super young and super enthusiastic. It’s hard to be excited about meeting people who can’t wait to cut you up. But people don’t always come across the right way when you first meet them. If I’m going to be seeing this guy for six months of rehab, I want to like him.
“If anyone will like a sadist,” Phil reassures me, rolling for initiative, “it’s you. I imagine you’re more cowed by the prospect of attending a new school full of oglers and necks of rubber.”
“It’ll be okay,” I say, and I think it mostly will be. After marching down the street with all the eyes of Samsboro on me, it’s hard to care about a few more strangers’ stares. “And we’re going to move back for senior year.”
“Yes, you’ll be fine. Even without your Mercutio.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. “You’ll be fine, too.”
“Obviously.”
It’s my last afternoon in Samsboro, and we’re playing a short campaign in his basement. Phil’s cleric attacks the warg who bit me during my last turn. He rolls a fifteen and adds a plus-five modifier, soundly wounding our foe.
There’s nothing but packets of paper and dice on the table between us, but it feels like so much more than that.
“Phil. I’ll call you constantly.”
“Oh, please not constantly. I may be preoccupied.” He’s jotting notes on his character sheet. “I’m going to attend therapy that doesn’t involve my own father. ‘Some good I mean to do, despite of mine own nature.’ ”
I want to tell him that’s great. I shove the popcorn bowl his way.
After we move, we’ll be three hours from Samsboro. Once the trial begins, Mom’s going to have a long commute on her hands. But I’m going to join her on that commute whenever I can.
“It’s your roll,” Phil says.
I want to tell Phil how much I’ll miss him. Instead, I roll the dice and attack, finishing off that goblin.
Kalyn’s family hosts a farewell barbecue. Mom seems nostalgic as we approach, commenting on the rusted Spence Salvage sign. “That was here even back when I was a kid, Tam.”
Mom’s still anxious about being outside, but she’s started writing thought pieces. When Grandpa stopped paying for my health care, Mom wrote an article about his years of abuse and blackmail. People started a fund-raiser. My surgery might not cost us a penny. It’s a surreal, scary, happy, guilty thought.
A couple days after her kitchen confession, I sat down across from Mom while she was working and waited for her to look at me.
“Can I ask you about s-something?”
“Anything, Gus. From now on, anything.”
“I want to know about Claire.”
So Mom told me. She told me about their first secret date, when they rode to Tittabawassee Creek and went fishing, even though neither of them knew the first thing about it. Claire sometimes bit not her fingernails but the skin around them, and thought it was a sign of her future schizophrenia. Claire could be sarcastic about even the most serious things, but sincere about the silliest. Claire adored “those hideous Precious Moments statues. She had no taste, but she loved me. I had no integrity, but I loved her.”
I said, “When we get to the new place, we could hang a picture of her, too.”
It’s a rollicking ride down the Spence driveway, but not nearly as rollicking as that moment. I wasn’t sure if Mom was going to sob or hold me. She did both.
When we reach the bedraggled prefab, Kalyn’s waiting with two baseball bats in her hands. She gets up from her perch on the ramp Tamara installed and holds them up over her head like rabbit ears.
“WonderGus,” she says, “wanna take part in a Spence tradition?”
“That’s not your best idea ever, sweetie,” Mrs. Spence calls from behind the grill. Tamara hands her a plate of tofu. Mrs. Spence cackles before dipping the entire block in barbecue sauce and slapping it down alongside the sausages. Grandma Spence, sunk into her chair beside the picnic table, makes a tittering noise.
“Oh, but it is a lot of fun,” Mom says. “If you’ve got helmets?”
Kalyn pulls two welding masks from a lawn chair behind her.
“You can come, too, Beth! Got another bat in the shed somewhere. Apparently we hoard baseball bats as well as DNA evidence.”
Mom laughs, something that seems no less amazing for happening more these days. “Oh, no. I’m going to hang back and reminisce.”
Kalyn and I beat the life out of a busted windshield, watching the glass pearl and bounce away. Phil would enjoy this more than I do, especially with my ar
m acting up. But we give it our all, in oven mitts and long sleeves.
It’s only after we’re done that I recognize the car we’ve wrecked is a Taurus.
“What?” she says. “I’ve still got angry feelings, you know.”
I kick the hubcap. “Yeah, me too.”
Dad’s a loss I’ll always feel, but like my arm and leg and Kalyn and my family, that loss is part of me. Dad didn’t die for any good reason. I’m sorry about what happened to him, and sorry I’ll never know him. But who knows who I would have been if I hadn’t lived my whole life without him. I wouldn’t know Kalyn. I wouldn’t be me.
It would be another great tragedy.
So I can’t really be entirely sorry.
KALYN
I SIT DOWN next to the phone. It’s definitely too early.
I haven’t spoken to Dad for a month. At first I was overwhelmed, and then I was angry. For weeks, Dad refused to participate in a retrial. All this work from all these people, and Dad wasn’t cooperating.
I think Mom put him straight, there.
Now I’ve had time to think about what to say.
The phone rings at exactly 8:00 p.m. I hear good ole sentient Judy, the same robot she’s always been, and then Dad’s voice, soft and gravelly like I remember.
“. . . that you, Kalyn?”
“Hey, Dad. A lot’s been going on.”
“So I’ve heard, baby girl. Proud of you.”
“You too. General consensus is you aren’t a murderer.”
He clears his throat. “Well, the word is often wrong.”
“Dad, I know you aren’t a murderer. So can you grow up and stop being a liar, too? I’ve heard what happened. I know about Aunt Claire. You shoulda just let her go to jail. How could you forget her like that?”
For half a minute, I can only hear him breathing and the echoes of life beyond the phone line, other convicts making phone calls home. Bodies far away.
“I think of Claire every day. Part of me thinks she’s still alive out there.”