Even on the Darkest Night

by Allie Martin

  “It’s not nothing. What do you want to say?” My fingers lightly tap along my collarbone against the bulging ICD, the hunk of metal pushing its way out from the inside. I already sense that’s what she wants to talk about. The sounds of our favorite band pulses through the thickening air, clothes are strewn all over the overpriced hotel room, the TV is on mute, playing reruns of some vampire drama on MTV, and my best friend is falling into weirdness. My best friend who doesn’t often do weirdness.

  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own things that I completely forget about her guarded soul. Behind the sarcasm and giggles, Nat is a raw heart, feeling so much more than she lets on, thinking about so much more than boys and fun.

  “Are you really up for this?” The words are rushed; the doubt that creeps into her voice makes my heart beat a little faster.

  “Of course I am.”

  “But you keep touching it. Does it hurt?”

  I consider lying. Saying I’m totally fine. “A little. But I’ve been through worse.”

  We sit quietly for a few minutes more before she sighs.

  “This isn’t going to fix you, is it?” She says it quietly. I shake my head.

  “I still going to need a new heart, Nattie. You know that.” I want to sound brave because bravery is for other people. I learned that right away. I don’t act brave for me; I act brave for her.

  “I know. It’s just...” She spins the ring on her finger more furiously until I reach forward and grab her hands. “What if something happens?”

  “The whole reason I let my dad convince me to get this stupid thing is because it’s supposed to make me less afraid. Not more. It can sense if my heart is stopping. I have my own personal EMT implanted in my chest that goes CLEAR and zaps me anytime my heart tries to trick my body into dying. I will still need a new heart, but this is supposed to buy me some time. So let’s use that time.”

  Natalie thinks it over. “I never thought I’d see the day that you would be advocating sneaking out.”

  “You and me both. But nothing is keeping me from this concert.”

  “I worry about you.”

  “Don’t, okay?” I say, patting her hand. “Only worry about the band. I mean, what would they think if they met you, and you were wearing Yoga pants...?” I snap the fabric of her sweats at her knee. She smacks my hand and rolls off the bed, crawling over to her overflowing suitcase.

  Subject successfully avoided.

  5:07 PM

  Nat and I wander into the hotel restaurant almost ten minutes late, and I can see the annoyance on Mom’s features. Robbie, the beef-cake boyfriend, on the other hand, smiles and stands to greet us.

  “Hi, girls,” he says with his bleached teeth and chiseled jaw.

  Robbie holds my chair out for me, and I reluctantly thank him. I hate him... but I wish it was easier to hate him. He tries so hard to get me to like him it’s almost pathetic, but I can see it in his face that the effort is genuine, and I question my convictions, hating him even more. I think he’s awkward because of my condition, because of Dad, well, because of a lot of things. We’ve only ever breached the homewrecker conversation once, and when I accused him of destroying my family, he responded by saying, “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone Evan, but when you fall in love, nothing else seems to matter.” If that’s true, then love is synonymous with betrayal, and I want nothing to do with it.

  I snap back to attention when Mom tilts her head in annoyance.

  “Sorry we’re late. Nat couldn’t decide what pants to wear.” I throw Nat under the bus because Mom never stays mad when it’s Nat.

  “You couldn’t decide on pants for dinner?" Robbie scrunches his eyebrows, and Nat kicks me under the table. I heft the menu up and set it on the table as a shield against my smile and make a face at Nat. She snorts as she tries to hold in a giggle, and I do, too. There’s a huge clock hanging over the fireplace at the restaurant and my eyes are drawn there every couple seconds. All I can think is two more hours. I nod toward the clock, and Nat bites on her lip.

  “I know, right?” she whispers, practically vibrating. Why did we have to come for dinner with Mom anyway? I should have gotten out of it. Faked sick or something.

  “What has gotten into you girls?” Mom sips her wine and leans in, like she wants in on our gossip.

  “Nothing.” I settle my face into a neutral stare, lowering my menu, and Mom sighs a very small sigh. Because it’s my fault that we can’t get along. Apparently.

  No one else speaks until we have drinks and have given our food orders.

  5:17 PM

  “So, Evan, you heading off to space camp this year?” Robbie breaks the silence, drinking his beer and leaning into me like he is really interested in what I have to say.

  “I go every year.” My voice is stale, and I don’t look away from the clock. This time, I think it’s Mom who kicks me under the table, so I continue. “Yeah, there’s supposed to be this huge solar storm in July. It should be cool.”

  There. I tried.

  “That does sound cool. What exactly is a solar storm?”

  Nat groans and mumbles in Spanish next to me, but I get this bubbling in my stomach that I get whenever anyone asks about the sky. I turn into this super nerd, know-it-all.

  “Mostly solar flares, but this one is supposed to be a huge Coronal Mass Ejection, which should be awesome because the camp has a white light coronograph—”

  “English, Jordans,” Nat interjects, and Robbie is already leaning back in his seat, his solid blue eyes shadowed in disinterest.

  My fingers go to my collarbone, and I gently feel the outline of the ICD pacemaker. Mom glares at me, and I drop my hand to my lap.

  “Fine, seeing as neither of you paid attention in Sixth Grade science...” I start, and Robbie laughs, the muscles in his neck flexing all gross-like.

  “That was a long time ago, kiddo.”

  I immediately exchange glances with Nat who struggles to keep her features neutral. My eyes shift to Mom, whose features have all scrunched up into an angry knot. The smile is forced off my face before I even get a chance to silently mock Robbie for being so much younger than Mom.

  “Right. Anyway. Coronal Mass Ejections are particles, protons and ions and such, that get shot out into space by the sun. Either by flares or windstorms. They mess with the magnetic fields of the earth. Cause geomagnetic storms in the earth’s atmosphere. That kind of stuff.”

  Natalie lets her elbow slip off the table dramatically and jolts her body like she was falling asleep, and I shove her arm. She makes fun of me for Space Camp, but she’s always asking me about constellations. She loves the drama and romance of the stories, though, not the science.

  Robbie is still smiling but it’s stale, like he doesn’t care anymore. I glance at the clock and tap my fingernails on the wood table.

  5:23 PM

  “Geomagnetic storms cause the Northern Lights. It’s the reaction of solar particles hitting the magnetic fields around the earth. Which are stronger at the poles, hence, the Northern Lights...”

  Recognition comes back into Robbie’s eyes, but all I notice is Mom’s bored expression searching the restaurant, as if frantically trying to get the attention of our waiter so she doesn’t have to listen to me.

  “Northern Lights are super cool.” Robbie gets points for at least listening.

  “Yeah, super cool.” I glance to the clock that I am now starting to think is taunting me.

  5:25 PM

  “What about you Natalie?” Mom apparently gives up on the waiter and goes for the straight up subject change. Natalie is drumming her fingers on the table to the tune of her favorite Lemming Garden song, and she jumps at Mom’s voice.

  “Sorry, what?” Nat glances at me, and we fight back our excitement. Dinner with Mom was a bad idea.

  “Are you still with that boy you were seeing?”

  Natalie puts her hands on the table in a manner that is so painfully obvious to me, spinning the little ring on her f
inger.

  “Aaron and I are still together, yeah.” She feigns indifference to the question, but she loves talking about Aaron. I would know. I’ve been listening to it for three years.

  “That’s wonderful, dear. How is he enjoying college?” Now it’s mine and Robbie’s turn to wonder where our waiter is. Maybe I have more in common with him than I thought. I scan the restaurant and get stuck at the clock.

  5:27 PM

  “Aaron says it’s pretty tough. Finals are right now so I don’t talk to him very much at all.” Nat’s smile falters for only a second, but I’ve known Nat for far too long to miss the small nuances of her expressive face.

  “You never told me that,” I cut in, and Nat’s gaze flickers to my chest.

  “It’s no big deal. He’s really busy. College is way harder than high school.” She says it like she has experienced it firsthand. “So what ballet are you going to?” Nat changes the subject as the waiter brings us our food.

  5:28 PM

  Nat throws me a small eyebrow twitch while Mom is distracted, saying we’re done with the awkward attempts at conversation and moving on to more important things. Like finding out the exact details of their night so we can plan our escape accordingly. Nat talks to Mom.

  I pick at my food and watch the clock.

  5:32 PM

  5:36 PM

  5:37 PM

  5:38 PM

  Six o’clock cannot come fast enough...

  Friday, April 19 • 6:00 PM

  Jordan

  “I’m starving, dude.” Rick shoves his hands in his jean pockets and pulls out a fist full of stray bills and change, scattering it across my coffee table. “Order pizza or go out?”

  I put my t-shirt on and shake out my damp hair, and then flatten it with a thick grey beanie.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Are you going to be like this all night?” Rick slides quarters around the wood surface of the table, like claws scraping across my skull. I cringe as I replace the thin leather band that hangs around my neck, hooking a point-tipped black Sharpie marker to the necklace and letting the pen rest against my chest. Where it should be.

  “Be like what?”

  “Mopey and pathetic.” He turns his head and gives me a quick glance over, like all of me is mopey and pathetic.

  “I’m not moping. I’m pining. There’s a difference in definition,” I say, flopping back onto the couch.

  “You and your words.” Rick shakes his head and then studies me.

  I wrap my hand around the sharpie marker. Me and my words. Nothing else.

  “Okay, that’s it, dude. Get up.”

  “I just sat down,” I protest, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to yank me to my feet by my shirt. I’m tall, but I’m not massive like he is.

  “I’m gunna make you a deal. No, a bet.” He pokes me in the chest, and I shove his hand.

  “I’m not a gamblin’ man”

  Rick scoops his money off the table and points to the door. “You take more risks with your head and your heart than anyone I’ve ever known, Jordie. Gambling isn’t just done with money. Now go.”

  I stumble, and not only with my feet. Words stutter across my tongue, unable to argue, and Rick’s thick black-as-night eyebrows go up in self-satisfaction. He has me there.

  “Fine, you win. What’s the bet?” I throw a hoodie on and follow him out the door, double checking for my keys and wallet by patting the back pockets of my jeans.

  The hallway creaks and cracks as we jog down the winding flights of stairs.

  “A ball game. First to twenty-one. If you win, I’ll put up with your whining about Annie all night. If I win, you go to that concert with all your angsty charm and score yourself a new lady. Of my choosing.”

  We both stop with a thump of feet on stairs.

  “Why your choosing?”

  “Because you choosing your own women hasn’t exactly worked out.”

  “No way.” I shake my head, and he laughs. It’s not a normal Rick laugh—this is the one he uses on the court during basketball season. That taunting, mocking sound that makes me feel like less of a man. I hate that laugh.

  “Why, Jordie? You scared you can’t beat me at a little one on one?” He grins over his shoulder before jumping down the last four stairs to the second floor landing, bracing himself on the walls with his long arms.

  Even though Rick’s methods are a tad barbaric, there’s this part of me that’s buried so deep under thoughts of Annie that I think maybe it could help. A random girl. A random night. A possible small reprieve from the torture that is living inside my head.

  “Okay, asshole. You’re on.” I finally move again, chasing him down the rest of the stairs. His laugh echoes up the shredded stairwell.

  “Atta boy!”

  7:06 PM

  The unusually warm April air sticks to me as we walk to The Aftershock, and I don’t feel any better about going, but a bet is a bet, and I don’t back down on my word. Rick has been trying for four blocks to convince me that hooking up with some random girl is the best way to get back at Annie. After all, I just turned eighteen, as if I’m one step away from dead, and sex is all that will keep me alive. What I don’t tell him is that I don’t want to get back at her. I want to get her back. Whatever random girl he hooks me up with tonight isn’t going to change that.

  We pass an old coffee shop that’s more like a hole in the wall, and as the door rushes open, flooding the sidewalk with the smell of caffeine, I curse sensory memories.

  Annie and I met at this coffee shop. She worked here before Freshman year, the year I moved in with my brother. She was listening to her headphones while she made espresso shots that smelled as smooth and rich as she was. I wrote her a poem on the cup... and every time after that until she agreed to go out with me. Eight cups of coffee to say yes. But I didn’t stop there. Words flowed over me, poured out of me, to get to her. She was my muse. My poetic goddess. I loved her from the moment she tucked a strand of thick black hair from her perfect face and gazed up at me through thick dark lashes. One look. That was Annie's power.

  The first time she took me to her house, she refused to meet my eye. Her nerves dug up my curiosity. I didn’t know that she had cut all the cups and framed them in clusters of four.

  Four poems, four poems, four poems.

  More poems.

  Every word I wrote from that moment forward was for her, and every time she shuts down on me she takes them with her. I haven’t written anything proper in months. I want to, but it comes out disjointed. I put pen to paper almost every night, but I can’t think on paper. I think best on metal, or plastic, or wax coated cups turned upside down, containing my heart like a spider–waiting in the dark to die.

  Rick shoves my shoulder, which is his way of letting me know I zoned out and need to come back from whatever universe I'm hiding in. By his expression, he was talking, and I didn't hear him.

  "Sorry, man." I shrug, and Rick shoves his hands in his pockets, watching his feet. The free spirited fun of our basketball bet is gone. My heart sputters because Rick only says important things while staring at his moving feet.

  "It's really better this way. I think you should find a girl that’s fun. They’re not all like Annie. I sort of wish she was going out of state to college. Leave you alone or somethin'." Rick tilts his chin to the amber sky, meaning his comment requires no response, but I really want to tell him that college isn’t my worry...Monday at school is much more immediate. I see the judgmental look on all the guys’ faces already.

  I grab at the black permanent marker around my neck and uncap it as we pass an old chipped rail. I stop to pick at the blue flakes pulling from the metal like peeling skin. It’s neglected and uncared for.

  The first time I ever wrote on a metal rail was with Annie, in the park we used to walk through when we first started dating. It was nothing like this one. It was new, fresh, young. It was shiny and silver. It felt cool in my hand on that hot summer day. The
first time I kissed her, the small of her back pressed into the metal of that rail. She had tugged on the waist of my shorts, glancing through lashes, licking her lips, making me crazy even then. I’d never been more nervous for anything in my life as I was for that kiss.

  I shake the memory from my head, but the crushing pressure in my chest refuses to leave. Gripping the chipped railing with one hand, I lean over and put the pen to the metal. I write. I force it out, and it feels good.

  The sweat of a thousand palms.

  Eating, peeling, dissolving flesh.

  The frightened smiles of a thousand nervous lips.

  In the heat of a summer night I shed my skin and choke out a whisper...

  Just kiss her already...

  Rick looks over my shoulder and yanks the beanie on my head down over my eyes. “I don’t know how I’m friends with you.”

  I clip the pen back into its lid and adjust my hat. “We play basketball together, and our dads went to prison at the same time. We’re kindred.” I sarcastically link my fingers together showing how connected we are and keep walking to the small basement club that plays all ages shows. He shoves me sideways into a wall. Gripping the Sharpie, I twirl the base of the pen around until the little leather rope cuts into my skin. I let go, and it spins wildly until it returns to its resting place against my chest. I wonder if I’ll ever stop spinning. If there will ever be a place for me to rest.

  “How do you even think up that stuff, anyway?” Rick ignores my statement. For how much I like words I don’t really like to talk and neither does he. Especially about my father going to a fancy prison for greedy bastards. At least Rick’s dad went to prison for his family, not to make himself richer. Our dads leaving is a 'Head Down' conversation we don't like to have often.

  “I don’t make it up. I don’t think about what I write. I just put the pen to it.”

  “And bleed onto the page...” Rick lowers his voice to sound like he's agonizing over his words. I laugh, knowing he has no clue who he’s quoting.

  “Basically.”

  “Loser.”

  “Uh...How many girls have you taken to see my writing?” I raise an eyebrow, shoving my hands in my pockets, so I don’t get the urge to uncap the pen again. Rick’s eyes get wide. He doesn’t answer me. I know he’s shown girls the things I write on lampposts, bathroom stalls, and backs of stop signs. Most of what I write is about the world’s obsession with love. My obsession. “That’s right, so shut up.”