A Million Miles Away

by Lara Avery

  Sam is from Iowa. They call him Rooster because of his red hair. He’s short and raises beagles and loves death metal. We joke about how dumb the cows are and how the interpreter Alex (Alex isn’t his actual name, but that’s what he calls himself when he speaks English) has seen more American TV than I have.

  Sam says I need to shut up about you already. He’s looking over my shoulder right now and says if I don’t cross out the part about him being short he’ll roundhouse me. Tough luck, Sam.

  I have to admit that I didn’t expect to miss you as much as I do. I miss you next to me, but we didn’t have all that much time in the same room, anyway, so I miss talking to you most of all. In that little time, I told you things I’ve told no one else. Not secrets, just parts of the way I see the world that I didn’t know could be said aloud. So what I’m saying is, you hold all these parts of me, these parts I dug up, and you hold them inside your beautiful hands and brain and skin, so far away. And I have your hidden parts, too. I promise I’m keeping them safe. They’re still here, under all this body armor. I remember everything.

  One guy lost it this week. His name is Joel and he has all these moles on the back of his head and he didn’t go to high school and he loves Disney movies. Someone got ahold of a bottle of vodka and we passed it around and it seemed to affect him most. He was laughing a little too hard at nothing and then he wandered off somewhere and no one knew where he went until we heard screaming from the med tent. He was crying and kicking over gurneys and shelves, yelling about wanting to go home. The sergeant didn’t let him, of course. Now he doesn’t say a word to anybody.

  Soldiers sometimes ask each other what their reasons for fighting are, so we don’t end up like Joel, you know? Then, once we’ve got them, we’re supposed to let these reasons lie, never draw them out while we clean our guns or go on missions. But sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night—and the nights are so dark here, darker than even country nights in Kansas—and I have to hang on to the bed because I feel like I’m falling. Even if I’m supposed to have reasons for being here, I have no idea where I am or who I am or what the hell I’m doing.

  I’m starting to do this in the daytime, too, which is even worse. I wake up while I’m polishing my boots or something and everything feels and looks wrong and sort of spins and aches like I’m sick.

  But then I feel the parts of you that you gave me, and I see you on my last night before I left, the lamplight on you while you sat on the bed, and I can feel you keeping me. You may not know it but everywhere you go parts of me go with you. I snap to and know you’re happy somewhere, or at least you’re something somewhere, not here, and I know there are parts of me that are safe inside you, that will always be safe inside you, and I can breathe and go on without losing it.

  Write me back. It doesn’t have to be as crazy as what I just said, but I tried to tell you about normal things like the goat meat and the little kids who ask for chocolate and it didn’t come. I’m reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. What are you reading? Send me a book if you want. Tell me about the art you’re making. Write me back. Even if we move bases, they will forward your letter to me.

  Thinking of you,

  Peter

  By the end of the letter, tears were running down Kelsey’s cheeks, catching in her mouth, dampening the collar of her sweater. Michelle’s room was still full, but so desperately abandoned. No reading would happen here, no art would be made. There was nothing.

  She wondered what happened to the parts of Peter that Michelle was supposed to keep safe. Where did those parts go now that her body was gone? Who would hold him together?

  Kelsey realized she had stopped breathing. If there was no letter back, Peter would know something was wrong. He would become like her, and break apart. But Peter wasn’t just going to slip his grades or ignore his friends or toss perfectly good trees on the pavement. Peter was in the mountains of Afghanistan. If he felt as weak as she did, he’d wake up one day in the middle of gunfire.

  Before she could question herself, she slipped from her door to inside Michelle’s room. She prayed her mother hadn’t thrown away the stationery the two of them had received for their birthday a few years back—one set with Kelsey’s initials, one with Michelle’s. If she had already written letters to Peter while they were apart, she would have written them on the crisp cream-colored paper.

  In the top drawer, Kelsey found the stack. She sat at her sister’s desk, wiped a makeup-smeared face with the back of her hand, and began to compose a response. She spent the rest of the afternoon there. She dug for the parts of Michelle that Kelsey herself had kept. She searched her memories and Michelle’s books and stared at her paintings. She imitated the wide loops and unfinished rises and falls of her sister’s handwriting.

  She sat, and she searched for the words that would bring her back to life.

  MITCH TO PETER (FIRST ATTEMPT)

  12/20

  Dear Peter,

  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write to you for such a long time. I just received your first letter. As for the email, well, I was grounded from using my computer. I’m still grounded. Don’t ask why. My parents are seriously off their rockers. I can’t wait to get out of Lawrence and go to college.

  Otherwise, life here is quiet. I am trying hard not to eat meat. I take walks to the river to draw it, and then I use highlighters to fill in the colors. Finals were easy for me. My sister is probably angry with me, because I told her again that she is better than her boyfriend, even though they have been dating for three years.

  I would also like to say—

  I just want to tell you that—

  I miss you every day. Don’t worry, I am not dating anyone else. I am so full of admiration for your courage. It must be difficult to be away from everything and everyone you know. You are a good person for your service and so are your friends. Trust me, I know how it feels to doubt where you are and why you are even there. Not as much as you but I know a little bit and I promise things will—

  I don’t know what I’m saying—

  —use bigger words

  —find a book that she would read

  —this is crazy

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The narrow streets up Mount Oread filled with carefully coiffed couples who met outside their brick mansions and traveled in packs to the party at the top of the hill. Mount Oread was the area of KU’s campus where the fraternities and sororities had settled. Kelsey stood at the picture window of the Delta Sigma house, watching her future counterparts in heels and crimson and blue beads step on the sweeping lawn toward the white columns, holding drinks.

  Inside, a pair of ESPN announcers loomed over the dining hall on a flat screen. Girls and guys who had begun the day looking like they walked off the cover of a J. Crew catalog had dissolved into a red-faced gaggle of haphazard warriors, ties around heads, Oxfords unbuttoned, screaming obscenities at a shot of the Missouri student section.

  Davis was among them. A T-shirt that he had made himself read HOW DO YOU GET A MISSOURI GRADUATE OFF YOUR PORCH? PAY FOR THE PIZZA. The guys slapped their arms around him and the girls kissed him on the cheek. His plan to crash at the fraternity seemed to have been sidelined by actually enjoying the fraternity. He couldn’t help it, Kelsey knew. The only thing Davis liked better than making people laugh was making people laugh at parties, and there seemed to be a new one every other day.

  As a whistle blew and the announcer shouted, the college students jumped together in a line, a soup of crimson and blue T-shirts with Greek letters.

  “Lawrence, Kansas, and Columbia, Missouri. Two college towns, sweet and small, nice downtowns, just a few hours’ drive from one another across the Kansas River. Peaceful, right? Heck, I’ve heard this area called Flyover Country. But boy, if you could be here in Kemper Arena tonight, you’d never know it. The energy is practically visible in the hatred between these crowds, folks. Crimson and blue, black and gold, clashing in the air, and it is deafening. The Kansas Jay
hawks and the Missouri Tigers meet in the middle for their Border Showdown, and this has gone beyond basketball. This is war.”

  War. Kelsey was thinking of Peter. This was such a small, silly version of “war.” She took a large sip of her rum and Coke.

  Kelsey was wearing a Jayhawks jersey she had belted into a dress. She joined in the fight song, clapping at the right parts.

  A girl all in blue, her black hair in a bundle of braids, set her drink next to Kelsey’s. At a second glance, Kelsey noticed the words emblazoned on her warm-up jacket.

  “Excuse me,” Kelsey said, raising her voice above the din.

  The girl turned, revealing brown eyes and polished lips.

  “Are you a Rock Chalk Dancer?” It made sense a few of them would be partying; not every dancer traveled with the team.

  Though she was shorter than Kelsey, she had a way of appearing taller. Perfect posture. “I am.”

  Kelsey stuck out her hand. “I’m Kelsey. I’ll be trying out in the spring.”

  The girl cocked her head. “Are you? Then what’s that in your hand?”

  Kelsey looked down at her rum and Coke, feeling her face turn hot. “I’m not drinking—I’m just here to watch the game. My boyfriend is—”

  The students joined in with the blare of the Rock Chalk Chant through the TV, gaining volume with each verse.

  The girl got closer, yelling into her ear. “Did I ask who your boyfriend is?”

  “No, but—” Kelsey’s mouth fell slack, unable to form words.

  The girl’s face broke into a smile, and then a full-on laugh. “I’m messing with you.”

  “Oh.” Kelsey’s heart was still beating out of her chest, though she wasn’t quite sure why. She allowed herself a smile, and joined in another round of the fight song. Clap, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap. She and the girl paused conversation and dutifully yelled, “Go, Hawks!”

  “I’m Nicki.” She grabbed Kelsey’s hand and shook it. “Hey!” She gestured to another pair of girls in blue warm-up jackets. A redhead and a blonde approached them, holding drinks, filling the surrounding air with different perfumes. Their solid thighs filled their jeans and their lower abs were visible under their cropped shirts. And I thought I was in shape, Kelsey mused.

  Nicki pointed at them one by one. “This is Missy, sprained ankle, this is Jen, pulled hamstring. Everybody, this is Kelsey. Cheers!”

  The girls lifted their red cups. Kelsey felt the stares of surrounding partygoers and gulped the rest of her drink down.

  Nicki nodded toward her. “Kelsey’s trying out.”

  The redhead, Missy, gave a whoop. “Good for you! Are you ready?”

  Before Kelsey could answer, Jen, the blonde, leaned toward her and touched her hair in its bun. “Whatever you do, make sure you do your hair.”

  “Totally,” Missy said. “I got a blowout last year. Completely ruined by sweat the first routine. It was worth it, though. The girls wearing plain ponytails might as well have not even been there. The captains, like, barely looked up from their clipboards during their dances.”

  Kelsey found her voice, feeling the hot rum travel to her belly. “What else do I need to know?”

  A flood of voices came at once, bouncing back and forth around her.

  “Everything’s intense.”

  “You can’t just coast by on looks.”

  “But it’s a big part of it.”

  “We’re the distraction, you know? We’re the eye candy.”

  “If you have a decent pair of splits, you’ll be fine.”

  “You look the part.”

  “You just need to smile a little more.”

  “Yeah, smile!”

  Kelsey smiled.

  Nicki cupped Kelsey’s chin. “There you go.”

  Missy and Jen gave her hugs from either side. Their smiles were wide and real, and Kelsey worked hard to match them.

  Soon, the girls were joined by more Rock Chalk Dancers, who took it upon themselves to climb on the Delta Sigma pool table and perform pom-pom routines during commercial breaks.

  After a while, Kelsey was sweating. She couldn’t keep up with all the names they shouted, the places she didn’t know, the inside jokes.

  When the fight song started up again, she had to move away. She found Davis among a sea of sorority sisters, refilling his drink.

  “It’s my baby,” he sang in a made-up song. “My baby gi-i-i-rl.”

  She straightened his collar as he swayed in front of her, not sure if he was actually moving back and forth or if her vision was wonky. “Hi,” Kelsey replied, her tongue heavy.

  He bent close to her ear. “Are you having fun?”

  “You are. That’s for sure.”

  “I love these guys.” He said it again, shouting at his brothers. “I love these guys!” They shouted and pointed back. “And I love you.”

  He kissed her, warm and wet, and bundled her in his arms.

  “I love you, too,” Kelsey said. The sight of him bobbing through all these people, electrified and red-cheeked like a little boy, made her happy. But Kelsey was feeling hot and dizzy. She needed air and silence.

  “I’m tired, baby,” she found herself saying into the folds of his shirt.

  He brought her out, holding her by her shoulders. “But we’re winning!”

  “I know!” Kelsey used her last bit of party energy to high-five two sorority sisters on either side of Davis. They looked so tiny and perfect, like My Size Barbie dolls.

  “And everyone’s here!”

  “I know,” she continued, and finally, Davis paused, looking into her eyes.

  He put his arm around her. “Let me drive you home.”

  “Ha!” Kelsey let out. “No way. You’ve been drinking.”

  “I can give you a piggyback ride? Or maybe call a taxicab? Does Lawrence even have cabs?”

  Kelsey laughed at his confusion.

  After convincing him that the well-lit, friendly streets would be fine to walk, and a long, kiss-filled good-bye, Kelsey zipped up her coat and started down the hill and into town. Streetlights pulsed in her tipsy vision, and the cold wrapped her exposed skin. Soon, she was on Massachusetts Street, weaving between the celebrators, hearing cheers erupt from inside the bars as she passed. She felt a pang of envy. She wondered if she should have stayed. When she realized she couldn’t feel her fingers or toes, she slipped into La Prima Tazza. Michelle used to practically live in the coffee shop, especially during finals.

  The place was dim and a little busted, with cherry-brown counters and mismatching lamps at every table, empty except for two middle schoolers playing a fantasy card game in a corner and the barista, a skinny college-aged man. When she got closer, Kelsey couldn’t help but notice how big and luminous the barista’s eyes were compared to his face. He was singing along to an indie song on the radio as he worked. His T-shirt, which was too small for him, had a Campbell’s soup can on it.

  “We don’t sell beer,” he intoned from behind the rows of flavored syrups, cleaning a cup.

  Kelsey realized he must be referring to her KU gear. The place was probably mistaken for a bar because it was open late. “Good,” she said. “Because I want the opposite of beer.”

  “Oh.” He stopped cleaning and looked up. Then he narrowed his eyes at her. “Stop,” she heard him say. Kelsey met his gaze. He was biting his lip in serious thought. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “Just a second.”

  He glided around the counter and pulled her into a hug.

  Kelsey didn’t move her arms inside of his skinny ones, wrapping her tight. Then he returned to his position, smacking his hands on the counter. “You look just like Michelle.”

  “Yeah—” Kelsey started.

  He put up a hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “No. It’s freaky. There are twins, and there are twins.”

  Kelsey nodded. “We were twins,” she said, because that was all she could think to say.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. I�
��m being dramatic. I’ve had a long day. Espresso?”

  “Lay it on me,” Kelsey said, rubbing her numb hands together.

  While he pressed the grounds, his eyes kept flickering in her direction, searching for something. He set a tiny cup on the counter with a flourish.

  Kelsey shuffled in her purse for her wallet. She put out a five to pay for the drink, but he pushed it away. She looked up at him, his large eyes blinking.

  “Honey, please,” he said. “Your money’s no good here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and inside, she felt a trace of the first real laugh she’d had all night. She giggled and took a sip of her espresso. “You are dramatic.”

  “So?” He leaned on the counter, watching her. “What’s the point of experiencing life if no one else takes notice?”

  “Like, ‘if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, did it really fall’ type of thing?”

  “Exactly. I’m Ian, by the way.”

  “Kelsey. So you knew Mitch?”

  “Yes. She came in here to draw late at night. Sometimes we went to parties together.”

  Kelsey searched her memory, but she couldn’t remember him among Michelle’s boyfriends. “I wonder why she never brought you home to meet us.”

  “Not together together.” He smiled wryly. “Michelle’s not really my type.”