by Kim Purcell
“And?” I burst out. “What did he say?”
Josh gulps and shakes his head. “Nothing.” He doesn’t look at me. “You know how his dad said I’ve been a good friend?” His voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have gone to that meet on Friday.” He lets out a heavy breath. “He didn’t look good. You know how he gets?”
I don’t say anything. But yes, I know. Lots of times, you just get quiet. You stare out the window when you’re driving. Even a bad test or a bad practice can do it to you. But sometimes you get this funny look on your face. I’ve only seen it a few times, but it makes me wonder if you’re okay.
“The whole drive to Seattle with my dad, I kept thinking about how he almost got hit by that rig and how, you know, how his face looked. I kept thinking I should’ve stayed home with him. But then I called him before my race, and he wished me good luck and he sounded real upbeat. So I didn’t come home. But in the hotel? I couldn’t barely sleep. Then, I got that call.” He gulps. “Worst call of my life.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I keep thinking if I wasn’t out of town, I don’t know, maybe he’d be here now.” He digs his nail in the old leather on his steering wheel.
“Are you saying you think he jumped?”
“I don’t know,” he says miserably. He hangs his head down and his shoulders start to shake.
10:35 PM Monday, your driveway
Did you jump? Those three words poke at me, internally, repeating again and again, until they are permanently there, tattooed on the inside of my skin. It’s funny how words can do that.
I stop at your house and stare at your duplex from the street, like a creepo. Lights are shining from your living room. I feel this weird urge to touch your truck.
I should have told you that you were my first. It was wrong to keep that from you. If I’d told you, maybe you wouldn’t think I’d go with anyone. My mind has been circling around this thought like a wolf. It won’t leave me alone. You’d be here if I told you that one little thing. Right?
The streetlight shines above me, casts my shadow alongside the truck’s shadow, like we’re friends. I think of all the times you leaned me against this truck and kissed me at night, in the school parking lot, in front of my house, out in Bear Lake. We’ve had so many firsts with your truck. First date. First kiss. First time you saved me. First time you said, “I love you.”
You said it too early. Maybe the first month? Before our first time. My whole heart stopped. It was like you’d said, “I hate you.” It wasn’t normal for me to hear this or to say it back—I don’t remember my mom or dad ever saying it to me. The only person who ever did was Steph. And she’s like a sister. I was physically incapable of saying the words back to you, but not because I didn’t feel it. Instead, I said I love your dimple, and you said, “It’s okay if you don’t say it. I’m going to keep saying it to you.” And you did. You said it right after we “made love”—you said, “I love you so much. You’re my everything.”
It’s a lot of pressure to be someone’s everything.
Finally, after Christmas, I said it. You made such a big deal of it. You yelled, “Yes!” and pumped your fist in the air. I was nervous to say it again. But I did. You don’t know what a goddamn act of courage it was every time I said it. Then you told me you were leaving for college, that you got the scholarship, that they might be starting you, that pro teams wanted to draft you too. I could see your future, a future without me. Baby, I’m sorry. I got scared.
I think of all the times I stuffed those words back inside of myself over the last few months, how everything would have been different if I hadn’t.
I stuffed another word inside myself too. I should have called you the day after our fight and said I was a jerk. But I was ashamed about that word I’d called you. I couldn’t face it. It made me sick. And I thought if I apologized about it, and you didn’t even think anything, then it would be worse. So I think that’s why I avoided you. Isn’t that shitty? If I’d just said sorry, we’d be together right now.
Your screen door opens. Raffa is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she demands.
She steps forward. The screen door bangs shut behind her. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks sick, like when she had pneumonia. Her eyes are dark with anger.
“Raffa—”
She marches across the grass in her bare feet and glares at me. Looks like she wants to hit me.
“You broke up with him and then you were dancing with that guy at the mall. People told me all about it. And he was crying, did you know that? I came out to help him clean his truck, and he told me to go away. He said he wanted to be alone, but he was crying. And it was your fault!”
I can’t even speak. I think of all the times you and I were cuddled up on the sofa, watching a ball game, eating popcorn, and she’d come over and plunk right between us, wiggling her body to spread us apart, and how we’d both laugh because we didn’t mind. It’s true. I didn’t mind. Seriously, I liked including her in our cuddle. I always wanted a little sister.
“Why are you even here?” she demands.
“I just want to be close to him.”
She wraps her arms around herself. Her hair is glistening in the light.
“And I wanted to see you,” I say.
She stares down at her bare feet with the chipped pink nail polish and then looks up at me, says, softly, “Why would you do that to him?”
“That other guy is a friend. I swear. He’s gay—he’s out, he likes guys, Chris knows this. I don’t know why he acted like that. He was bummed out.”
“He wasn’t just bummed out.”
“He didn’t do anything to himself. He would never.”
She won’t look at me.
“Someone has his phone, Raffa. They’ve been calling me.”
“I saw the news,” she says. “I saw what you told them.”
“Yeah?”
Her face flushes and her nostrils flare. “Chris told me he fell.”
“He didn’t fall, Raffa.”
“He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“I—He—” What can I say to that? Yes, he would lie. Yes, he did lie.
Raffa’s glaring at me again. “You didn’t even love him.” Didn’t? Sweet Raffa, with the beautiful tinkling laughter, your little bird, she’s given up.
“I do love him,” I say.
The screen door opens and your mom is standing there, illuminated by the light coming from the hall. “Raffa, honey, come on inside.”
Raffa turns away from me and marches past your mom. Your mom walks toward me in her brown slippers. “Did you tell her about those boys?”
My heart beats faster. “I’m sorry, I—She heard about it on the news.” Is your mom going to tell me to stay away from Raffa? It would kill me. Seriously.
She stops a few feet away, takes a long, slow breath in and out. “This isn’t easy for her,” she says.
“I know.”
“How you holding up?” she asks. I swear, your mom is the kindest person I’ve ever met.
“I’m okay.”
“I heard you were searching for Chris all day in the rain.”
I nod.
“Thank you,” she says.
What does she expect? “Yeah,” I fumble, “of course.”
“You must be tired.”
My lip quivers and my eyes fill up. Baby, I’m trying to keep it together. The last thing your mom needs is to try to make me feel better.
“Give yourself a break, Jessie. If he’s meant to come home,” she says, “he’ll come home. You try to get some sleep now, okay?”
“Okay.” I’m being dismissed, so I say good-bye and turn away from her, and Raffa, and the truck and the house, and you. And I walk the three blocks to my house pushing good old Ella. With each step, I think of Raffa’s words: You didn’t even love him. It’s a drumbeat moving to the rhythm of my feet. You didn’t even love him, you didn’t even love him, you didn’t even love him.
/> Maybe she’s right, maybe I don’t love you enough, maybe I don’t know how to love, maybe there’s some defect inside me that keeps me from loving like other people love.
I should have written you a love letter. It would have made you so happy.
11 PM Monday, the local news
“Today, the search continued for Chris Kirk, but police have found no sign of the high school senior who disappeared while going for a run on Friday night. Meanwhile, there are troubling signs that there may be more to this case than meets the eye. Channel Five spoke to the father of the boy who allegedly attacked Chris Kirk three weeks ago. On Friday night, the family’s Honda dealership was vandalized and witnesses report that Chris Kirk was spotted near the scene.”
What?!
The anchor stares out vacantly; her perfect blond hair and her makeup pasted on and her empty eyes. Like it doesn’t matter that she’s just thrown dirt all over you.
Then Mr. White Teeth himself is on the screen. “A number of our cars were vandalized on Friday night. I was in the office. I saw a girl and a tall black boy running away, and I think it could have been the Kirk boy.”
The screen goes to a shot of cars sprayed with blue paint—looks like words, but they’re blurred out. I guess they’re swearwords.
Why would they put that on the news in connection with you? Now people are going to think you spray-painted the cars. Why would Johnson’s dad say he saw a black kid? You’d never do that. Why would he discredit you like that? Just because he can?
My anger is like a wave crashing. I’m holding a soda can, half-full, and I’m filled with an urge to throw it at the goddamn television. I would, except then our TV would be ruined.
Johnson’s dad looks like a white supremacist if I ever saw one.
The reporter says, “Did your son attack Chris Kirk on Friday night?”
“No, my son was with his friends.” He gives the camera an arrogant smile. “They account for him the entire time. He had nothing to do with this boy taking off.”
I swear at the television.
Back to the reporter: “Meanwhile, at the news conference today, Detective McFerson said they had no new leads on this missing person case. There are many people in town who are now wondering if this is in fact a missing person case, or rather, a case of a young man who got himself into some trouble.”
How can she say that?
I see the flash of blue paint on Tamara’s arm. The blue paint on the cars. Tamara did this. Were you with her?
I run out of the house, grab my bike, and ride fast to her house.
11:25 PM Monday, Tamara’s house
I ring Tamara’s doorbell. She knows something. Even if she does live in a big fancy house with a ding-dongy doorbell, and a brass knocker on a giant door.
The door yawns open.
It’s Becky in striped pajamas. Behind her, a sparkling chandelier dangles from the ceiling. Wait—why is Becky opening the door? Isn’t this Tamara’s house?
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Shh.” Becky steps out onto the porch. “I’m sleeping over.”
“Where’s Tamara?”
“Asleep.” She slides the door half shut, like she’s a goddamn guard, protecting Tamara’s beauty sleep.
I’m ready to wake the whole house up if necessary. But maybe Becky will tell me what I need to know. “Did you watch the news tonight?” I say.
She nods. The light streams through the door, shining on half of her face. She looks afraid. She should be. I’m ready to reach up, grab her hair, and drag her down the road if I have to.
“Did you see how Johnson’s dad basically said Chris is a criminal?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why he said that.” Her voice is water dribbling down a dry creek bed.
“I know Tamara spray-painted the dealership. Was Chris with her?”
She glances back, like she’s afraid Tamara’s parents will hear, or maybe it’s Tamara she’s afraid of. “It was me,” she whispers. “I was with her.”
“What?” I say, surprised now. “Why did they think you were Chris?”
“I was wearing his hoodie. It was dark. I’m tall?”
And white. “Why would she spray-paint the dealership?”
“Dave had a temper. And he, like”—she laughs uncomfortably—“he had trouble, you know, getting it up sometimes. I think Tamara laughed at him one time? And he punched her hard, like, in her stomach, so no one could see.”
I gasp. “No way.” For once, I actually feel bad for Tamara.
“She broke up with him after that. This was kind of, like, her revenge.”
“Why didn’t you say something to the cops?” I ask.
Tamara steps out from behind the door. “I didn’t want Becky to get in trouble. She didn’t do anything.”
Becky gives her a nervous look. “I would’ve been happy to tell the cops.”
“It wouldn’t help Chris,” Tamara barks.
“Yes, it would,” I say. “Right now, they think he’s a criminal. They’re going to stop looking for him.”
She gulps. A black-and-white cat squeezes out past her and walks to me, winds its body around my ankles, rubs itself against me. We all stare down at it. I bend down and pick up the cat, hand it to her. She holds it, strokes its fur.
“Okay, fine,” she says. “I’ll call the detective.”
“Tonight?”
She nods.
And then, I’ve got to ask. “Did Chris ever ask you out?” Not that it matters, but I heard you did, and I want to know once and for all if it’s true. It just seems like she’s been hung up on you ever since we’ve been going out.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I said no.”
“Why?”
She gives me a small, sad shrug. “I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t. Maybe he’d still be here now.”
1:55 AM Tuesday, garbage
It’s the middle of the night and I’m putting stuff in garbage bags, making all kinds of noise, and dragging the bags out to the curb—the garbage pickup is in the morning. Mom is going to be mad, and you know what? I don’t care.
I grab a bunch of cords and rope, tangled together. We never use these things. I shove them in a white kitchen garbage bag. Mom would say we should donate them. Or recycle them. But that never happens. Ten bags of garbage. It’s still a disaster. And our house would still be condemned.
So Tamara thinks if you’d gone out with her, you’d be here….Oh god, that thought? It kills me. Because she’s probably right.
Everything got screwed up in the last couple months, and it’s all because of how I reacted after that scout came in March. I got scared, that’s all. But it was wrong, how I acted.
I’m sorry you had to fall for me. I’m sorry I’m a messed-up person from messed-up people. You say everyone is messed up, but some people are more messed up. Like, I’m more messed up than you.
I hear you laughing now, saying, “Wanna bet?”
I would bet my right hand on it. There. I’m challenging the gods. If he’s more messed up than me and he jumped in the river, cut off my hand!!
It’s still there. Fingers are wiggling. I’m all good. Told you.
The Ball Game, the Beginning of the End
That day in March, when the scout was coming, you asked me to watch your game. You said it would help if I was there, cheering you on. I wasn’t one of those girlfriends who automatically showed up for every game. I’d only gone to one game before then, and I nearly died of boredom. Most of the time, the players were just standing around. You didn’t even play half the time, since you’re a pitcher. I felt like I was just watching people I didn’t know.
But I said, “Sure, I’ll scream my face off.”
“I’m counting on it,” you said.
It was a clear day and the field was dry, perfect for baseball. I sat in the clangy metal bleachers next to the moms and dads.
I knew from the beginning of the game you were going to be chosen. You were mesmerizin
g, like a ballerina, all grace and flow. The whole game, I cheered and whooped and waved my arms in the air; maybe I went a little overboard to show how supportive I was, even though I was actually hoping you’d screw up. But you smiled at me and pitched like that ball was on fire.
At the end of the game, I threw my arms around you and you said my bazongas were distracting when I was jumping up and down in the stands, and I said, bazongas? And you laughed and said thanks for cheering. You said the scout told your coach he was impressed and he’d be in touch, and I said, “I’m so proud of you.” And then we kissed.
But inside, my heart was already shriveling up like a prune.
You were too good for me. Nearly straight As. Superstar athlete. Everyone loved you. And now you were going to be famous. What kind of place would I have in this new world? No kind of place, that’s what. So I pulled away. I guess that’s what I’m good at.
Loving isn’t so easy for all of us.
That night, I stood in the shower for a really long time, and I cried. But I never told you how upset I was. I just packaged my heart in bubble wrap. And pretended that everything was just the same.
3:45 AM Tuesday, the phone call
My eyes blur. I’m so tired, baby. I’ve never been so tired in my whole life.
I drop down on the sofa next to Steph and let my eyes close. Just a little sleep. If I can.
When I wake up, my head is resting on Steph’s hip. The laptop is still on my lap, amazingly. I’m momentarily confused. Where am I? Why am I sleeping on her hip? And then I think, Chris is missing!
This is what happens every time I fall asleep and wake up, a forgetting and then a remembering. It’s like getting sucker punched in the head.
There’s movement near one of the piles. It’s a tail. A rat’s tail. It disappears around the pile. Before I can stop myself, I gasp.
Steph squints up at me with sleepy eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Go to sleep.”
She puts her hand on her hip. It’s wet. “Did you drool on my butt?”