My Heart and Other Black Holes

by Jasmine Warga

  He squints at me like he knows that there’s something wrong with what I just said. The problem is that I can’t say what it is that I really want to say. I should tell him that I spent fifteen paychecks to buy him that comic book because I desperately want him to have something nice to remember me by. To think of me as kind, as cool, as caring. Not as the psycho offspring of a murderer who offed herself when he was ten.

  I want to be more to him than that. I know that might never happen, but I have this daydream where, a couple of years from now, when I’m gone and Mike misses me, he reaches for the comic book, and as he reads it, he feels better. He feels safe. He knows he can beat his demons in exactly the way I couldn’t.

  “Hey,” I hear a gruff voice call out.

  I let my arms drop from Mike’s waist and turn around. It’s one of Steve’s buddies. He has stringy brown hair that falls to his shoulders and he’s wearing a camouflage-print trucker hat.

  “Hey,” he repeats. “Those things are expensive.” He gestures toward the comic book with the beer that’s in his right hand. “I hope you obtained it legally.” He grins, revealing his crooked yellowed teeth. His stare lets me know exactly what he’s thinking about: my father.

  “No worries,” I say. “Obtained completely legally. I bought it with my own hard-earned cash.”

  The man turns his head to glance at my mother. “So she takes after you, Melda?”

  My mom nods stiffly and walks to the front of the room. She places her hand on the small of Mike’s back and turns to face me. “That was a very thoughtful present, Aysel. Thank you.”

  I swallow down the anger I feel thrashing around in my gut. I love my little brother. Of course I got him a nice present. Why do you have to act so surprised, Mom? I squeeze my jaw shut, afraid of what might come out if I open it.

  Mike is the only one of them who has never acted like it was strange when I moved in. The first day I arrived at Steve’s house, Mike was waiting for me on the front steps, his grin stretched so wide I thought his face might break. My heart swelled when I saw his gap-toothed smile, and remembering it now makes me ache. When I first moved in, I used to read to him before he went to sleep on nights when my mom worked late. And sometimes he would beg me to play with him in the backyard. We’d run around, kicking our mud-stained soccer ball back and forth. But recently, I don’t have the energy for any of that.

  My mom shuffles past me so she can stand behind the small table with the birthday cake. “Mike, come here and help me cut the cake.”

  Mike looks at her and then back at me. He gives me another tight hug and then bounds over to my mom. He’s all energy and smiles and love. Mikey has always been that way.

  My throat is dry as I walk back to my seat and watch my mom slice the chocolate cake. It has melted, droopy frosting. She encourages everyone to eat quickly since we are scheduled to play laser tag in twenty minutes.

  While devouring the cake, Mike’s friends take turns examining his presents. When one of them grabs for the comic book, his fingers coated with chocolate icing, Mike moves it away from his reach. “Don’t get it dirty!”

  He looks over at me and my heart seizes and I think that any second, it might explode. Sometimes I wonder if my heart is like a black hole—it’s so dense that there’s no room for light, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still suck me in. I’m going to miss Mike the most. I’m going to miss him so much, I almost can’t stand it.

  I stick my fork into my slice of cake and sigh. I stand up and head toward the door. Mom walks up behind me and places her hand on my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” Her heavy eyelids sag over her eyes, like any second they’re going to snap shut so she won’t have to see me anymore.

  “Just to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, be back soon. You won’t want to miss laser tag.” Her words are simple. Benign. But I know what she really means is I’m not allowed to act like a mopey loser here. This is Mike’s birthday party and I need to pull it together. And the thing is, she’s right. It wouldn’t be fair for me to go into the bathroom and sulk for hours.

  I want to scream at her. She never bothers to ask what’s wrong or what’s going on with me. She doesn’t want to know. Even though Mom never went through the Kentucky beauty pageant system, she’s still learned how to put on a show. She’s great at delivering a megawatt smile even when I know she wants to cry. Or speaking in a calm, measured voice even when I know she wants to scream. Sometimes I wish she would scream. Her always acting like everything’s okay only makes me feel even crazier than I already am.

  I wonder if her facade would finally crumble if I told her what I’m going to do. If she knew what FrozenRobot and I were planning. I shake that thought from my head. Telling her would do more harm than good. Nothing she has to say can save me. I need to remember that.

  I walk down the hallway, staring at the specks of dirt that are sprinkled all over the tiled floor. I push open the door and head outside. I close my eyes as the cold wind smacks against my face.

  I put my hands in the snow that hasn’t completely melted. My fingertips freeze.

  Seventeen days left.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 22

  16 days left

  “I can’t believe you’re ditching me tomorrow,” Roman says. He’s sitting on the mattress, bouncing up and down. Despite his height, he can sometimes look like a little kid. I think his outfit is throwing me off, too. He’s not in his standard hoodie and track pants. His mom must have made him put on the pressed dark slacks and a cream-colored button-up shirt for the occasion. He looks a bit uncomfortable in them, like he’s playing dress-up.

  “Ditching you?” I pace around his room. It’s simple, kind of what I pictured, not that I spend a lot of time imagining Roman’s room. With its beige walls, mandatory University of Kentucky Wildcats Basketball team poster, and maroon trim, it could just as easily be any other high school boy’s room.

  On his nightstand, I see a picture of a toothy little girl; her mouth is wide open in a smile and she’s sticking her tongue out at whoever was taking the photograph. She has the same color hair as Roman, same deep-set hazel eyes. The girl must be Madison.

  Roman’s mom is downstairs cooking dinner, her attempt at Turkish cuisine. Should be interesting. His dad’s still at work but supposedly is going to make it home in time for the Big Event. I’m kind of surprised Roman’s mom is cool with us being in his bedroom alone. It seemed like she thought something was brewing between Roman and me, but maybe she’s smarter than I give her credit for. Though she did tell him to leave the door open, so there’s that.

  “Hey.” I spin around to face him. “Why did you let your mom go through with this?”

  “This?”

  I shrug. “This fake dinner thing. Don’t you feel kind of bad that she’s slaving away down there?”

  He stops bouncing on the mattress and looks down at the ground. “Sort of, I guess. But it has to happen.”

  I scrunch my face together in confusion.

  “I need her to really believe that we’re getting close,” he explains slowly. “So she’ll let me be alone with you on April seventh. It’s not like she’s going to let me wander off with a complete stranger on the first anniversary of Maddie’s death. She’s too smart for that.”

  So I’m a pawn in your game. I guess I’d already figured that out. That’s why he needs a Suicide Partner, after all. And really, he’s a pawn to me, too. A means to an end. Or rather, the means to The End.

  I go back to snooping around Roman’s room. He has a signed baseball that’s been strategically placed inside a Cincinnati Reds cap. “My dad got that for me,” he says. “We went to a game when I was little.”

  I nod and keep fingering his things. I wonder if it bothers him. Me, searching for his secrets while he watches. I look over my shoulder at him and he’s flopped out on the bed, his chin tilted toward the ceiling. If he does mind, it doesn’t show. Maybe that’s a side effect of knowing you’re about to die: none
of your secrets matter anymore. After you’re gone, they’ll all be discovered anyway. Pored over by other people.

  I don’t like the idea of other people poring over my secrets. I don’t even know if I have any secrets. Besides FrozenRobot. And the secret I’m keeping from him: what my dad did.

  “So you’re going to the zoo tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” I say, flipping through his copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth. It’s almost cute that he seems to have a slight obsession with Jules Verne. I slide it back onto the shelf and pull out Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

  “I used to like those books when I was younger.”

  “Uh-huh.” I turn the page, staring at the black-and-white illustrations. It’s a nice copy of the book, like the kind you pay extra for. A collector’s edition or something like that. A creepy-looking sea creature stares back at me with its grapefruit-sized eyes. I slam the book shut. When I do, loose pages flutter out of it. I grab for one of them. It’s a pencil sketch of a small turtle. The picture is drawn so well, it looks three-dimensional. Even though it was sketched in charcoal pencil, you can still get a sense of the turtle’s leathery neck and his smooth shell. But there’s something different about it, too—it’s almost like staring at a turtle through a blurry lens. There’s a surrealist quality to the picture. The markings on the turtle’s shell are overly emphasized and his front paws are elongated and thinned.

  I flip through the other drawings; most of them are of the same turtle, but I find one that looks like it’s a rendering of Madison. Her eyes are wide and expertly shaded, and the sketch has captured her toothy smile. But even though Madison is smiling, there’s a sadness to the picture, like the artist knows her ultimate fate, even if she doesn’t. I can’t stop staring at the drawing. It’s haunting.

  FrozenRobot jerks up and scoots to the foot of the bed. “Those are stupid. Don’t look at them.”

  I thumb back to the first sketch of the turtle and take a step toward the glass aquarium that houses the famous Captain Nemo. Right now, the turtle is bobbing up and down in the shallow water, paddling with his leathery feet. “These aren’t stupid. They’re actually really good.” I compare the sketch with the real-life Captain Nemo. It’s almost dead-on, minus the fantastical quality of the sketch. The turtle Roman drew seems sad, almost like he’s in mourning. His beady eyes are dark and his back feet look too heavy and swollen to be used for swimming. “You drew these?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is quiet and I can hear him shifting on the bed, the mattress sighing beneath him. “Can you put them away? They’re embarrassing.”

  “Why are you embarrassed of them? I mean, you did make Captain Nemo seem a bit more emo than I think he is, but besides that, you nailed it.” I hold the drawing up against the tank. “It’s really pretty incredible.”

  Roman doesn’t say anything, but I hear him let out a light sigh in protest. I turn to face him. He’s pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

  “I didn’t know you drew. I sketch sometimes, but I can only draw stick figures.” I stare down at the drawing and run my fingers over the turtle’s smooth-looking shell, almost expecting it to feel real. “These are impressive.”

  “Whatever. I’m not like an artist or anything.” He shrugs. “It’s just something to do when I’m alone in here. Kills time.”

  I nod and tuck the papers back inside the flap of the collector’s edition of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Roman’s body visibly loosens once the drawings are put away. “So I’m guessing Captain Nemo was named after the Jules Verne character?”

  “I told you before, I didn’t name him.” Roman’s voice is suddenly cold.

  I shake off his harshness. “Maddie did?”

  “Yeah.”

  I drop the topic and stare at the real live turtle some more. I don’t know much about turtles, but this one looks exceptionally well cared for. He has a bowl of fresh fruit, red Ping-Pong balls to play with, and a large, smooth slate rock to sunbathe on. I wonder how Roman can bear the thought of leaving Captain Nemo behind and if he knows what will happen to the poor guy once Roman isn’t around to take care of him. I bite my lip—I’m not brave enough to ask. Or maybe I don’t want to know the answer.

  “So are you and that guy dating or something? The dude you’re going to the zoo with?” Roman asks out of nowhere.

  I try not to laugh and decide to ignore his stupid question. Roman obviously isn’t too concerned about Captain Nemo’s fate. Or if he is, he’s not letting himself think about it. I lean over so I can inspect his shelf of trophies. I read the inscriptions, lots of standard Little League stuff, but there’s a big silver plaque that stands out. Its inscription reads: WILLIS HIGH SCHOOL VARSITY BASKETBALL MVP. I pick it up to take a closer look at it. It’s heavy in my hand.

  “So your friends were right. You were really good at basketball. Why were you so modest about it?”

  He shrugs. “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “It’s not like I used to be good. I am good. And it’s weird to brag about things you’re still good at.”

  “But you don’t play anymore?”

  “Nope.” He flops back on the bed. “I don’t do anything anymore.”

  “Except hassle me about going to the zoo. It’s not like you and I had plans, FrozenRobot.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He tosses a pillow at me and it hits me in the side of the face.

  “Hey!” I say, rubbing my right cheek as if the pillow actually had the power to leave a mark.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to get your attention because I had a thought.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He slides off the bed and sits at the foot of it. He pats the ground beside him. I take a seat next to him. I guess he’s tired of me snooping out his secrets. I lean my head back against the edge of the mattress.

  “I realized I’m going to die with you and I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  I clap my hand over my mouth and shake my head. Way to make everything weird again, FrozenRobot. As I think about his question, I move my hand from my mouth and pick at the carpet. It’s cleaner than the carpet in my and Georgia’s room. There are no crushed potato chips or specks of lint hiding in the fibers.

  “What?” he says.

  “My favorite color isn’t going to tell you anything about me.”

  He scoots closer to me so his shoulder rests against mine. “Fine. Then tell me something about you. I want to know something about you. It doesn’t seem right that you’re a complete stranger.”

  “Complete stranger? You know things about me. Hell, your mom is cooking me dinner right now.” He gives me a blank stare, so I add, “Turkish food. She’s cooking Turkish food for me. Because I’m—”

  He waves his hand in the air and cuts me off. “You know what I mean. Not this fake stuff.” His eyes widen and he kind of looks like a puppy. A sad puppy. “I want to know something real. Something that not everyone in the world knows about you.” His puppy face deepens, his mouth sagging at the corners.

  “I can’t get to sleep when I have socks on, but my feet are always cold so it’s kind of a problem.”

  I watch his face pull back up into a crooked smile. He stares at my gray Converse sneakers. “Maddie hated to wear socks.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She always told me that wearing socks made it feel like her feet were suffocating.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “She was,” he says. And then he rests his head on my shoulder and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I think he’s looking for comfort, but I don’t have any to give. I awkwardly pin my hands at my sides and hum Mozart’s Symphony no. 24.

  He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He doesn’t move away and I can feel his shoulders rise and fall slowly with his breaths. Recently, I’ve become so much more aware of the things we do that keep us alive—our inhales, our
exhales, our heartbeats.

  “Can I ask you something without you getting mad?”

  “Anything,” he says.

  “I know you blame yourself for Maddie’s death, but do your parents?”

  His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn’t lift his head from my shoulder. If anything, he leans against me harder, like a slab of wood propped up against a wall. “They’re in denial. But I still hear my mom cry every night. She tries to put on such a good face, but I know she’s broken inside. And she’s broken because of me. So I guess they don’t blame me. At least not actively. But only because I think they’re terrified of losing me, too.”

  My heart constricts. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to forget what Roman just said, but images of his mom flash through my mind. I see her standing over his body—his clothes soaked with river water, his face blue and cold, his mouth open, his tongue swollen from lack of oxygen. Bile builds in the back of my throat and I slide away from him.

  His body jerks in response and he sits up. He pulls his knees to his chest, his camping chair pose. People are funny. The longer you are around them, the more you start to realize that everyone makes the same motions over and over again. We all want to believe that every day is different, that every day we change, but really, it seems that certain things are coded into us from the very beginning.

  I’m not sure if Roman was always a half-moon smiler and a camp chair sitter. Maybe that happened after Maddie’s death. But one thing is for sure: His body is always on alert, like he’s walking high above the ground on a trapeze wire. I think his potential energy is guarding him against the pain of his world, saying, Smile, it will be over soon, and Wrap yourself up and you won’t feel so much. Maybe even in death, his energy will live on, and make those gestures. I wonder if those are the things his mom will remember about him, too. Or if she’ll picture him on the basketball court, dribbling. Or maybe she’ll remember him sprawled out on the couch, sketching pictures, or with his nose in a Jules Verne novel.