by Dawn Klehr
Even above love. Or especially above love.
After pulling into our driveway, Brit quickly braided her hair and took off her makeup to look more like me. It worked. We were the epitome of identical; only our clothes and hairstyles set us apart. Once, a guy in my biology class asked if it was weird to look at my sister. He wanted to know if it was like looking in the mirror, if it was freaky. It wasn’t. Actually, when I looked in the mirror, I saw her, not me. I never really saw me.
I got out of the car, and Brit gave me a little wave as she backed up. For some reason, I didn’t return it.
After she left, I spent the first hour cleaning the house before our parents got home. Our house was the kind of place that screamed mediocrity. Dad’s old books on the shelves, and Mom’s tiny art collection hanging in the corner, complemented the old chipped desk that held a box of clipped coupons and credit card bills with mounting late fees. It was the kind of home that said, I was on a path but was derailed, and now I’ve settled. I’ve given up and will do only the minimum necessary to survive.
My parents had moved to this house, which sat on the border of Corktown and Mexicantown, from their tiny apartment in Ann Arbor—once they found out that their little oops was actually two little oops. This area of Detroit is an eccentric melting pot and my parents thought it would be “cool” to raise kids in the city, exposing us to culture before settling in the suburbs. This, of course, was before the city’s bankruptcy.
As I dusted Mom’s milk glass collection, I imagined Brit arriving at his house for the surprise of a lifetime. He’d tug on her braid and laugh, knowing it wasn’t me—since I’d already told him about the switcheroo. She, in turn, would roll her eyes at him and look down her nose, disgusted to be in his presence.
He wouldn’t like that.
His younger brother would be watching from the periphery, worried as Brit began to raise her voice.
That would make him even angrier.
It made me angry.
Made my hands hurt.
A loud shattering snapped me out of it. The sound: glass colliding with ceramic. The sight: blood dripping on the floor.
Lost in thought, I’d squeezed too hard and broken Mom’s favorite vase. It fell to the floor, and tore up my hand more than you’d expect.
Funny, the blood didn’t bother me. But the mess sure did.
I put things back in order and went to our bedroom to wait for my sister’s return. Taking a deep breath, I tried to shake away the uneasiness swishing around inside. Then I found my favorite mechanical pencil (the Pentel Graph Gear 1000) and focused on the first problem of my Calc homework. AP Calc BC, to be precise. We were working on derivatives in class, and normally solving problems calmed me.
I enjoyed the entire process: propping my textbook on a stand at a 45-degree angle; placing the graph paper on the desk directly in front on me; rolling the pencil in my left hand. The way the hi-polymer lead smelled the moment it hit the crisp white graph paper was euphoric, as was the feeling of the brushed metallic barrel on my fingers. It was perfectly smooth and cool, contrasting with the warm cushioned rubber pads on the grip.
Brit always gave me a hard time about my obsession with pencils, but mathematicians are very particular about their writing tools. That was what I wanted to do with my life.
Calculus, the most important branch of mathematics in my view, is single-handedly the best subject in high school—if you’re lucky enough to have the prerequisites required for the class.
I was.
I loved the way it built on every math principal I’d ever learned, the amazing proofs, the absolute logic. Calculus was a perfect world, and I was allowed access just by working the problems. Neat, clean, sensible.
Yet at the moment, it did nothing to soothe my nerves.
I checked the clock on my desk again. Angry red numbers announced the time: well after six p.m. Logically, I knew it was taking too long, but I reached into that place where I could hold on to things like hope and dreams. The place that gave me the opportunity to come up with alternatives. Other potential reasons for the delay.
They weren’t very plausible. Still, I didn’t let myself panic.
Setting my math aside, I paced along the center of our room. I walked the imaginary line. It was imaginary now, but when we were young, it was very real. One day I actually took masking tape, measured the dimensions of the room perfectly, and divided it. Her side. My side. Of course, the room wasn’t perfectly square—a fact that never sat right with me. It was the settling of the house, and perhaps the subpar craftsmanship, that were to blame for the imperfections. So I had to adjust for the flaws.
I’d rolled the tape across our wood floor, up the walls, and even along the ceiling. Separated it into two equal parts. Even though things were never equal with Brit and me. There was never any symmetry with us because the scale forever tipped in her favor.
“Stare at your own ceiling,” I’d tell Brit when she was lying on her bed daydreaming. Back when we fought all the time, I didn’t even want her looking at anything of mine. It was my way of leveling the playing field. When I thought I still had a chance.
By the time we were sixteen, we didn’t fight so much anymore. Mainly because I usually caved and let her have her way. Or let her think she was getting her way.
That was supposed to change tonight.
So why was it taking so long?
My answer came at the chiming of the phone. I picked it up on the first ring. “What’s taking so long?”
“He’s a total psycho,” Brit said.
“What happened?” I asked, feeling a hint of worry that it wasn’t done yet.
“Long story,” she said. “But that little shit is following me.”
“What?” I asked, trying not to overreact.
“I can see his truck behind me,” she said, clearly rattled.
“Okay,” I said as my brain worked to solve the problem. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
The Elements of a Crime:
#1 Mental State (aka: A Guilty Mind)
According to Wikipedia (though not my preferred resource, it’s the most relatable), mental state (mens rea) refers to the mental elements of the defendant’s criminal intent. This is an absolutely necessary element in crime. The criminal act must be purposeful. In other words, there must be a mental intention to commit the crime—a guilty mind. It’s derived from the Latin actus reus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea. Translated, this means “the act is not guilty unless the mind is guilty.”
So the guilty mind is probably the most common factor in determining liability. Did the accused intend to commit a crime?
In this case, the answer is yes and no.
Was there intent to hurt and do damage? Yes.
Was the intent for someone to die? My initial answer is no, but to be honest, I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t think through that part. Or care.
So, Element #1, a guilty mind? Yes, I have one. Every time I see him, it wears on me. It takes me back to that night. I guess that’s why I spend so much time on Hush.
With a click of the mouse, the chiming of the website rings through my speakers and the screen on my laptop comes to life. Welcome to Hush, an online community to anonymously share your secrets.
I’ve been visiting the site for over a month—it’s a place where freaks like me, who have nobody to talk to, can purge their sins. Everyone knows about it. Well, everyone aged fifteen to twenty. Nobody talks about it, though after some of the really bad admissions, it seems people are a little more cautious. The teachers and parents haven’t caught on yet, or I’m sure they would shut it down. That’s why it’s vital that all communication be done on public computers. Trust me, you don’t want to be linked to any of it.
My screen name: Responsible.
Telling, isn’t it?
Today is a messy one on
Hush. Some dark shit is being confessed out in cyberland. I scroll down the page and read the posts.
Guilty in Grand Rapids: I wish it was my dad who died of cancer instead of my mom.
Niceguy: Sometimes I think about hitting my girlfriend.
Unexpected Villain: I did a bad, bad thing.
I can’t believe I now fit in with these assholes. Not that I can judge anymore. My sins are just as bad. Worse, actually.
Opening up an online note, I customize the font and color—because appearance is pretty important when you’re out confessing to strangers—and then I begin to type.
Responsible: I let it happen …
5
Johnny
So I have a secret. A few of them, actually. Becca says I should go out and confess on Hush. Share my sins. Out with the bad and in with the good. She does have a point; it’s a much safer avenue than, say, trusting a real-life person. Not that Bec necessarily believes in that kind of thing, but she’ll occasionally spout out advice from her group therapy. It seems it might have been more helpful for her than she realizes.
This particular secret, however, is about my brain.
It is, well, seriously fucked. Doesn’t work right. Never has. My brain is like a fat guy at an all-you-can-eat rib joint. Things are going along just fine, I consume, take things in just as I’m supposed to. But then, without warning, I reach out to grab something—a word, a phrase, a number—and it slips out of my greasy hands.
My poor, unreliable mind just doesn’t grab on like it’s supposed to. Completely refuses at times, the asshole. And it’s not just for the stuff going out of my head, it’s all the stuff coming in too.
I remember one time, I must’ve been about eight years old or so, we had to take a test after reading a little story called The War with Grandpa. Mom spent all this time with me on it. We read together, separate, aloud, in quiet. I didn’t talk about it, but she knew I had trouble in school. After working for a few weeks, I knew the story inside and out. It was funny, about this kid who declares war on his grandfather after he moves into his bedroom. It was full of pranks, jokes, slapstick—everything an eight-year-old boy would find amusing.
By the time the teacher passed out the test, I was already thinking about the celebration Mom would have in honor of my first A. But when I read the questions, none of them made sense to me. I’d spent all this time on the book, and I couldn’t answer one question on the test.
It was crushing.
I could feel the tears starting to pool, but then something stopped them. Anger, pride, I’m not sure—but I knew I couldn’t cry in front of the class. So instead I tried to be funny. I wrote a different dirty word for each answer on the test, showing it later it to all my little buddies for shits and grins. They loved it.
Can’t say the same for my teacher. Or Mom. But it was much easier to have her mad than disappointed.
From third to sixth grade it was a guessing game: What’s Wrong with Johnny? Maybe he’s just lazy, bored, hyper, immature, careless. He could have behavior issues, ADD, ADHD, dyslexia. We never really narrowed it down. All I know was it made things hard. Reading, remembering, listening, organization, you name it.
Mom used to write me lists all the time. She’d lay out my schedule for the day, like you’d lay out clothes for a preschooler. I needed it, because I couldn’t remember. Without my lists, I was lost.
When I got older, I confided in my best (maybe only) friend, Paul. I tended not to let a lot of people in. Not that anyone really noticed. Did I have teammates? Yes. School pals? Sure. Friends? A select few.
Paul was my desperately needed ally. He was a good one. He’d even read things to me sometimes. And when Coach’s words didn’t quite register, he’d help explain. But then my issues became harder to hide. Reading aloud in class was a nightmare; getting called on in class was a nightmare. School in general? Nightmare.
I became the dumb kid.
The girls called me Waste of a Pretty Face.
To say I had anger issues over it … understatement.
Then I met Becca, and it all changed.
Oh, the anger was still there. I just had a new place to direct it.
On Travis Kent.
Stalking him became my new favorite pastime. I liked the anonymity of it all. In my head, I was working a case. I was the hero to Travis’s villain. I took notes of every detail. What he ate, the times he went to bed and the hour he woke up, when he went to the bathroom, who he talked to.
We had gym together, and for that I was thankful. You can find out a lot about a person in the locker room, though Travis didn’t talk crap about girls or sports like most of the guys. He kept to himself. His gym clothes were always laundered, not like most of us who would go a few days before bringing in something new. They were always neatly folded when he pulled them out of his bag. Because I’d been watching him for months, staking out his house numerous times, I knew that he was basically on his own with his little brother—the thirteen-year-old carbon copy who followed him around everywhere. Mrs. Kent didn’t live with them, and the mister worked long hours. So Travis was quite the homemaker.
In gym class, he was coordinated. I’d even go so far as to say he was talented in most sports. Yet he never went out for any team. He was scrappy and could hold his own. This was good to know. If threatened, he could put up a fight.
After class, he always took a shower. Always. When we didn’t break a sweat in class, most of us would skip it. Not Travis. He was the ultimate neat freak.
His body was lean and surprisingly muscular, especially for somebody who lived off mochas and Monster. On his chest, he had a jagged scar about six inches long. Definitely not a surgical scar. When guys asked about it, Travis simply said, “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
That gave me chills.
There were all kinds of rumors that followed Travis: he’d pummeled a teacher at his old school; he got rough with his girlfriends; he had hallucinations from all the drugs he took. Bottom line? He’s an unstable psycho.
So I guess it wasn’t strange that most people just let him be. They were afraid of him and nobody wanted to get too close.
Looking back, I wish I hadn’t.
6
Becca
Brit wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anything. That was part of her problem—she never knew when to quit. She would poke and prod until she got what she wanted. He was much the same way. This meeting was destined to be an all-out battle.
We ate a late dinner that night, grilled cheese and tomato soup, without her. During the middle of it, a cold throbbing pain sliced through my head. Quick and unwavering. The ache made my eyes cross and I spilled my milk all over the table, which put Mom in a tizzy. She didn’t like anything to be out of order. We understood each other in that way.
I knew what the ache was, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. Brit was always talking about metaphysical phenomena with twins. She was constantly showing me studies and reading me all kinds of stories and bizarre anecdotes. I’d never been interested. Never believed. But the pain I felt now? I knew, without a doubt, that it was Brit’s.
Figured. It was the first thought that came to me. Not panic or sadness or concern. Just the irritation that she was trying to control me again.
Brit always wanted to share everything. Though it was imperative that she went first. First to talk, walk, and ride her bike. First to get her period and first kiss. But she wanted me to be close behind. I still have scars on my legs from my first bike-riding lesson to prove it. The day she put me on a bike and sent me sailing down our sloped driveway.
She was bothering me all day to try out my new bike. We’d gotten them for our birthdays. Mom found them at a garage sale and Dad painted them to look like pink twins. It’d been over a month and I hadn’t so much as looked at the thing. Then the nudging and jabbing started and
I knew Brit wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I gave up and joined her outside, where she had both bikes out on display. She flicked up the kickstand and leaned the frame toward me so I could climb on. She held on to the bike to steady me, because my feet only grazed the ground. I felt so unstable and it made me sick to my stomach.
“Don’t worry,” Brit said. “I’ve got you. I won’t let go until you’re ready.”
“Not yet,” I said, trying to warm up to the idea. “Not yet.”
I put my feet on the pedals, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. And that’s when she let go. She not only let go but pushed me down the driveway. My eyes snapped open and everything was a blur. The trees that canopied the sidewalk; the patchy grass of our lawn; the cars parked in the street.
“You’re doing it, Bee,” Brit screamed. “You’re really doing it.”
She seemed almost proud of me for a moment. Though when I hit the curb that removed half the skin on my legs, I was the one who ruined everything.
Sadly, her later ideas about how to keep me locked in her shadow were even more painful.
As much as I wanted to ignore the feeling now, I couldn’t. The pain told me that something had gone terribly wrong with the plan. And here I was, cursing Brit’s name in my head while making small talk with Mom and Dad. Still, I couldn’t say anything about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
After we cleared the table and did the dishes, Mom grabbed her laptop to get caught up on email while Dad and I watched the news. This wasn’t my typical M.O. I didn’t spend time hanging out with the family when I could help it, but I didn’t want to be alone.
That’s when the doorbell rang, and I immediately realized I’d been waiting for it.
Dad got up and pulled the curtain back to reveal police officers at the door.