by Dawn Klehr
Josh was Brit’s third boyfriend and I hadn’t even had one yet. I also had no interest. I liked schoolwork and reading and spending time with my dad putting puzzles together. But by the end of the school year, Brit was tired of my childlike ways.
“It’s time, Bee,” she said one afternoon.
“Time for what?” I asked, scared of her glossy-eyed expression.
“Your first kiss.”
“No, it’s not,” I said, wanting to run and hide. “I don’t even have a boyfriend yet.”
“But I do,” she added, her plan already in motion.
Brit said she was doing this as a favor. Giving me the best possible first kiss with a guy I could never get on my own. I had to admit that her assessment of the situation was completely accurate and she made a very good argument. So, after getting over the initial embarrassment and anxiety about kissing my sister’s boyfriend, I made an erratic decision to seize the day and agreed to her little ruse.
Carpe diem!
The next day after school, I met Josh at the park. I wore Brit’s powder-blue hoodie instead of my usual brown cardigan. Even back then we dressed differently.
Josh took my hand. It was warm and a little sticky, but also nice. He talked about his big win in kickball during gym class and the gross fish sandwich they’d served for lunch. He made me laugh.
I didn’t say much because I didn’t want to give it away. I let him do most of the talking and he seemed to enjoy that, which I later realized was probably not how things usually went down when he was with Brit.
But I had to hand it to her; she knew how to pick ’em. I liked being there with Josh. I liked it quite a lot.
We sat on the swings for a while and had a contest to see who could get the highest. He won. Then, once we slowed down, he jumped off and came over to my swing. I could remember the butterflies in my stomach when he closed in on me like it was yesterday. That homey smell of fabric softener on his clothes. The warmth of his touch, which didn’t make me shut down like it did with other people. This touch made my body buzz.
He slowed my swing to a stop and leaned in. His eyes slowly closed, but mine stayed open. I didn’t want to miss a second of it. I was inexperienced, but I knew what was coming. He inched closer until his lips were on mine. They were a little chapped and dry. Still, I liked that roughness on my own mouth. Then, as easy as that, we were kissing.
It was sublime.
He tried using his tongue, which I didn’t understand at the time, and I tried to follow along. To say the kiss was clumsy and sloppy would be generous.
It was in that moment that I experienced what it was really like to be my sister. And what I was missing. Not a comforting feeling to know you’re being completely ripped off in life. No, it was much better before I knew. Before I got a taste of something better.
Brit had given me that taste, and instead of being grateful, I hated her for it.
Just like I hated her in that waiting room.
For the next three hours, Brit fought for her life in surgery. We sat in that room and tried to pretend none of this was happening. Julie brought us snacks and kept us updated, but time was almost at a standstill. Mom stared into space and drank her coffee. Dad pretended to watch TV. I paced.
After all, there was more than just Brit’s life on the line in the O.R.
Welcome to Hush
The website chimes and it’s beginning to feel like a comfort. My brain must get an endorphin rush when I come here to confess. The musical chiming probably triggers it.
So what to type today? I guess I’ve never really told the whole story—the actual event. Yes, I think it’s time. But where to start?
When all else fails, I guess it makes the most sense to start at the beginning. So here goes.
Responsible:
It started because I couldn’t get out of my own head.
I felt powerless, like I was drowning. I was losing my edge with everything and I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted things to be like they were. I wanted to be safe again. I wanted to take back control of my life. I also wanted someone to pay.
In situations like this, I’ve learned, it helps to make a plan. So that’s what I set out to do. One of my teachers even helped. She gave me a little trick to help reach my goals. The SMART method. Goals should be:
S: Specific (or Significant)
M: Measurable (or Meaningful)
A: Attainable (or Action-Oriented)
R: Relevant (or Rewarding)
T: Time-bound (or Trackable)
Smart.
So I have the Detroit public school system to thank for that.
Of course, even after I set the goals, nothing went as planned. People got in the way and they got hurt, but that’s how it all started.
9
Johnny
Becca picks me up at eight o’clock on the nuts. She had two hours to kill after dinner, and I know immediately what she’s been doing. Her white Grand Prix sits in my driveway—immaculate. It’s been Armor Alled inside and out. I can see my reflection in the hubcaps, and the lemony scent fills my nostrils as I fall into the bucket seat.
“Did you get it?” she asks without a hello.
I nod and reach back to grab it when a knock on the window stops me.
Cass.
Becca rolls down the window from her side, because she has the window locks turned on.
“What’s up?” I ask Cassie.
“Just wanted to say hi to Becca.” She leans in and smiles, but it’s not her usual smile. It’s weird, and so is she. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Becca says.
“You sure?” Cass pushes. “I mean, today is terrible, obviously. But I’m here if you guys need me.”
Now, most people would think that maybe Cass needs some comfort as well. But this is her way of digging in. She’s in just as much pain as me over our mom, but I can never seem to give her the opportunity to talk about it. And she doesn’t try.
I flush and strain for words. There are none. My sister’s heart is in the right place, but this is just so awkward, it hurts.
“We just thought we’d mark the day quietly,” Becca says, once again showing how oblivious she can be. “We’re okay. Really.”
I shuffle Cassie off, a sick sensation blooming in my chest, and we head out to mark what’s left of the day quietly. Where does Bec come up with this shit?
“She knows something’s up,” Becca says once we start driving.
“No,” I say. “She’s just worried we’re breaking up. She’s just playing mom again.”
“You need to keep her far away from this, Johnny. She can’t find out.”
“I know. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
We drive a mile or so before Bec pulls to the side of the road so we can change. We slip into our disguises just like we discussed. I put on a skull cap and glasses and Becca’s wearing a blonde wig and makeup. She looks … well, hot. I can’t take my eyes off her. And that’s freaking demented considering what we’re doing.
I wait a few minutes before I talk. Becca likes the quiet, especially when she’s upset. And knowing her parents, and the fact it’s the anniversary of Brit’s death too, I’m sure her evening was rough. Though I have to admit, I didn’t like her tone about Cass. It was almost threatening.
We sit there in silence until her body releases its rigid hold.
“How are your parents doing?” I ask once she seems more relaxed.
“They’re more somber than usual—as to be expected,” she answers.
She doesn’t think to ask about my family. But I don’t fault her for it. What she does think to do is usually better.
“Were they upset that you were leaving tonight?” I ask.
“Upset? No. Disappointed? Maybe. Though I did indulge
them by joining in for a special dinner—all of Brit’s favorites.”
“You actually sat at the table with them?”
“Well, it is the anniversary,” she says, turning on the blinker.
“And you ate it all? Even the peas?”
Peas were Brit’s favorite, but Becca can’t stand them. Her parents seem to forget that, so now Becca toughs it out. She can be surprisingly accommodating when she wants to be.
“I had to.” She rolls her tongue around in her mouth, like she’s still trying to get rid of the taste. “And with the right amount of milk they go down like ibuprofen.”
“Nice.”
Becca drives, keeping to the speed limit perfectly. “So where’s the gun?” she asks.
“Waistband,” I reply.
She removes one hand from the wheel and snakes it along my belt before landing on the weapon that rests on my lower back. She takes her focus off the road and blinks in my direction. Just for a second, her eyes dance with excitement.
My heart swells with pride. It was my idea to get a gun—a back-up to give us more leverage. Becca was thrilled I came up with it. “That’s smart, Johnny,” she said. “So smart.”
What would she say if she knew I had no bullets to go inside my smart gun?
In exactly seven and a half minutes, we’re behind the mini-mall. Just like Becca planned. It’s the strip that houses the high-tech arcade called “For the Love of the Game.”
They’re the host of tonight’s gaming tournament. The finals start in about twenty minutes, and Travis should be in it—statistically speaking. I recorded all of his recent scores on Zombie Nation and Becca figured out the probability of Travis Kent making it to the finals. It was pretty damn good.
Becca takes her phone out to monitor the tournament; @GameJoy is live-tweeting the event.
“Just a few minutes left in this round,” Becca reports to me like she’s a sports announcer. “@InsomniacGames (aka Travis Kent), @RockstarGamer, @Xplaya, and @NaughtyDog are in the lead.”
She continues with the play-by-play and I roll my eyes. Until we get the news we’re waiting for.
Travis is one of the finalists. Becca’s not surprised. The girl should get into gambling; she could make a killing with her statistics and prediction capabilities.
The tournament schedule calls for a fifteen-minute break between rounds, so now we need to hang tight until it’s over. We sit in the car with everything turned off, our eyes on the building. I reach out and grab Becca’s hands to warm them in mine. She smiles and leans over the console to rest her head on my shoulder. Then she slides her hand inside her jacket.
“Here.” She hands me a black-cushioned folder that looks like a diploma or something.
I pull back and arch an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“A memento for the anniversary,” she says, not meeting my eyes.
I open the folder. On one side is a photo—a night sky filled with stars. One cluster, in particular, is outlined in a white square. On the other side is a certificate … with my mother’s name on it.
“She has a star now,” Becca says simply.
“What do you mean?” I study the certificate.
“I had a star named after her. Of course, you can’t really name a star, but this is as close as you can get.”
“You bought my mom a star?”
“I did.”
I swallow the tears threatening to fall. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable crying in front of Becca—I’ve cried in front of her before, a few times. When you go through deep shit at a young age, you either let it out or bottle it up. I choose to let it out. But tears of joy, or appreciation, or happiness? Well, for Becca, those don’t compute. So those are the tears I hold in.
“Did you know that the most massive stars are the shortest-lived?” she asks.
“No.” My voice wavers. “I don’t think I did.”
“It’s true. I chose the largest one I could find for your mom. It seemed appropriate—a short life, but a big life.”
She leans up toward the dash, looking outside. “Let me show you,” she says, not taking her eyes off the sky. “I should be able to see the closest constellation to give you an idea of where the star is located.”
I follow, leaning forward in my seat. I slow my breath so I don’t start bawling. But man, sometimes she brings me to my knees.
“That’s the general area.” She points. “Near the Ursa Major constellation. Right in there. That’s where you’ll find Anna’s Star.”
Anna’s Star.
I clear my throat.
“It’s the easiest constellation to spot. I thought it’d be good for you to be able to see it a lot—and have it close.”
Have Mom close. I like that.
“It’s beautiful, Becca.” I reach out and pull her into my lap. “And so are you.”
She comes over easily and straddles my legs. It’s so not the right time to be doing this; I need to keep my head in the game. Yet I can’t help it. She’s like the most addictive drug—the more I have, the more I want. Maybe she’s right, maybe it’s all just a chemical reaction. It feels like so much more, though. With Becca, I feel alive.
I slide my hands under her shirt and feel the delicate muscles in her back tighten as she squirms from side to side on top of me. Then I pull her in and kiss her with everything I feel in the moment. I trail my tongue along the seam of her lips, my way of asking permission. She grants it and opens, allowing me to kiss her long, hard, and deep. I kiss her because despite her cold edge, she’s thoughtful and sweet and kind and loving.
And mine.
It’s hard not to get lost in her when we’re this close, but we have a job to do, so I slowly pull back and she slides off my lap. We just need to get through the next sixteen hours—that’s the average length of time it takes someone to confess. Obviously, we went into this plan with a whole shitpot of research. Once we get the confession, Becca will finally have closure. Hell, I’ll have closure, and justice will be done.
I keep my eyes on Travis’s car—a rusted-out Jeep. It’s about twenty feet in front of us. Becca keeps her eyes on the live-gaming tweets.
“Okay, they’re starting now,” she says, pulling on her gloves. “Let’s do it.”
We open our car doors and quietly shut them without allowing them to close all the way. I reach my gloved hand for hers and squeeze it. But really, I’m the one who needs the encouragement. The connection.
Reaching into the grill of Travis’s Jeep, just above the front bumper, I find the latch and release the hood so we can do the dirty work. I open it and take the socket wrench out of my bag while Becca holds a flashlight.
I move it to my destination: the negative connector to the battery. But as I get ready to loosen the nut, there’s a huge crash on the side of the building.
Becca clicks off the light and I jump.
She immediately ducks down by the side of the Jeep and brings me down with her, but the goddamn hood is still open.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Then a metallic rattling rings across the lot.
And then quiet again.
Shit, someone’s out here. We’re not ready; we’re going to get caught. My hands are hot and clammy inside my gloves and I feel like there’s not enough oxygen going to my brain. I sway in my crouched position.
Becca puts her hand on my thigh, trying to calm me down. There’s a soft thumping sound in the distance. And soon, a lighter pattering noise. It closes in on us and I hold my breath. Until I hear a whiny meow.
Jesus Christ. Just a fucking cat out by the garbage.
Becca pops back up. “It was only a cat. Come on, let’s finish this.”
I pull out the wrench, and once her light is shining on the battery connector, I try again. It doesn’t work, my hand is shaking too bad and I’m fumbling
all over the damn place.
“Here.” Becca holds out her hand. “Let me.”
“Just give me a minute,” I say, feeling like a tool. I can’t let her take on everything all the time. I’m starting to lose what little sense of male pride I have left.
“Let me handle it,” she says. Just like she did the first time I met her.
10
Becca
We waited in the special room for five hours, with Nurse Julie checking in every now and then. Dad continued to watch TV and Mom stood at the window drinking coffee. She had the pot gone in the first sixty minutes. I made her another pot and then drank juice boxes and played solitaire on my phone.
My head raced and I went over every possible scenario of what could’ve gone wrong. Or was it just an accident? Possible; not likely. I thought about phoning him, but decided against it. It was too risky.
Mom and Dad released frequent sighs and odd moans, but otherwise, it was silent. We were scared to talk, to move. It was becoming unbearable, trapped in this small room with my parents.
Just when we thought we couldn’t last another minute, Julie came in with the news that Brit was out of surgery. She lead us to her room; my family practically tiptoeing the entire way. We moved slow, cautious, none of us really wanting to see what was going to happen next.
In a small, white, and far-too-bright room, my sister was on the hospital bed propped on a pillow, tubes taking over the upper half of her body. It was difficult to comprehend. Brit’s head was bandaged, and from the looks of it, most of her hair had been shaved off. Her head was tiny wrapped up that way, like the end of a Q-tip.
We moved around her bed and just stared. Tears fell from my parent’s eyes, dotting Brit’s sheet in wet, misshapen spots. My sister—my vibrant, loud, crazy sister—was so quiet. So still. The scents of antiseptic and death filled the air, and I just wanted to leave.