Say You'll Remember Me

by Katie McGarry

  The old reporter has a deep voice and calming way about him. He earned my respect when he walked beside me in my neighborhood without batting an eye. The cameraman followed us, and seeing how they edited our journey to show my real story freaks me out but, at the same time, moves my heart.

  “Oh my God,” Holiday says, and pats Dominic’s leg multiple times as if he’s not also watching with rapt attention. “That’s our house. Our house is on national news!”

  The reporter is telling the real story—he’s telling the truth—and he doesn’t mind getting dirty in order to get to the heart of the matter.

  Sitting here in this living room, the reporter looks point-blank at me and asks the tough question. “What do you think should happen to the Second Chance Program?”

  “I think the politicians who were elected to help the people of our state should stop focusing on party politics, on what gives them more power, and start funding programs that work. The fact the judicial system does not work in favor of those in poverty is an issue, but that issue has nothing to do with Governor Monroe’s Second Chance Program. I was wrongly convicted of a crime because I couldn’t afford decent representation, but that program saved my life.”

  The reporter does a voice-over as it shows him shaking hands with Marcus and the other people who went through the program with me. All meeting here in my backyard. The reporter talks about how the political party against Elle’s father is holding the funding for the program hostage in hopes it will elect their candidate in November.

  It’s bull. It’s all bull and it’s bull I intend to clean up.

  Marcus pumps his fist, and we all clap when he comes on-screen. He talks about how the program saved his life, how he did commit his crime, but echoes the same issues that me and the other teens faced...that people with limited resources don’t stand a chance within the judicial system, especially teens without advocates. He also emphasizes the school-to-prison pipeline, and that because of the Second Chance Program, he’s redirected the path of his life.

  We return to the single interview between me and the reporter. “I know you hate this question. It has to be asked, though, but I’ll ask it in a different way. Can you tell me about Ellison Monroe?”

  On-screen, the right side of my mouth tips up at her name, and in appreciation that he didn’t try to dig for info on my relationship with her. When I agreed to the interview, he promised the piece would focus on the Second Chance Program.

  “Elle is a force of nature and the smartest, most articulate and compassionate person I know. Beyond my family, she’s one of the few people who fought for my future, and she’s honestly the only person who truly fought for my innocence. Ellison Monroe saved my life.”

  A kiss on my cheek from her, and I choke down the emotion building up in my throat. There’s a chorus of overly dramatic “ahhs” in the room that leads me to tell them to shut up, and the laughter helps soothe out the moment.

  Pictures of me and Elle appear on the screen. Us together with me driving and Elle in the passenger seat of Axle’s truck, us eating lunch together at the mall, and my favorite, us holding hands walking down the midway of the State Fair. The snake she won me from Whack-A-Mole is wrapped around my shoulders.

  But this reporter doesn’t speculate, only talks about how we’ve been seen together, and about how with one press release we explained to social media and the press that we would never discuss our relationship in public.

  He also goes on to explain how Elle was the one who proved to her father I was innocent, but there’s no discussion on the fighting that happened between them. I owe much to Governor Monroe and the Second Chance Program, and Elle knows that. Any infighting between her and her parents has stayed completely out of the media.

  A few snapshots of Elle by herself, but then of her at a coding competition a few weeks back. The reporter talks about how Elle has stepped back from campaigning for her father and politics in order to pursue interests in her own life.

  Then there’s video of me in a suit, and I’m talking to the state legislature, of me talking to crowds of people at various events and not one of those was scheduled by the campaign. That’s been of my own doing, with a little help from Elle and Cynthia.

  “You started out trying to save the Second Chance Program on your own, correct?” the reporter asks.

  I nod. “With help from a few people, but, yeah, I decided that one voice can make a change for a whole lot of others.”

  “Hendrix Pierce has not only made change, but he’s inspired others to believe in change, as well,” comes the voice-over, and there’s video of Marcus and other people from the program meeting with their state legislators, talking at smaller events in their towns and of Marcus speaking in front of a packed congregation at a church.

  That church, once learning of his story and of how he’s relied on Axle for shelter and support, has decided to help Marcus financially and emotionally.

  “Hendrix Pierce’s one-man campaign quickly struck a chord with the other nine members of the initial Second Chance Program. Their enthusiasm has caught fire in the state and in the nation. Their passion for this program has sparked discussions about the school-to-prison pipeline, the broken judicial system, and the lack of funding for public defenders.”

  Back to the interview. “There are many who are saying that you’ve become the deciding factor in this state’s upcoming election. That who will be the next senator is because of the outstanding man you’ve become out of the Second Chance Program.”

  “I can’t decide any election. That’s in the hands of the people. The voters need to do their job, learn about the candidates without being influenced by the media and social media’s opinions, and vote. Doing so can save lives.”

  The piece ends there, the clicking stopwatch comes into view, and the entire room breaks out into applause. When I meet Elle’s eyes she kisses me. Full-on, not caring there are easily ten other people in the small and cramped room. I kiss her in return, hands in her hair, and when she pulls back, there’s a light in her eyes that makes my heart lift.

  We made it, even when the world was falling apart, Elle and I still made it out on the other side alive.

  Ellison

  Emotionally exhausted from watching Drix’s interview, I park my car around back and sit in the driver’s seat for a few extra minutes. I glance up at the towering house and think of all the years my heart leaped when I headed down this driveway. This used to be home to me. It meant comfort and safety and a place to heal. Now I’m overcome with a feeling of dread each and every second I’m trapped in this house.

  Blackmailing my parents came with a price—we no longer have a relationship. We decided it was best all the way around for us to pretend through the election that we’re still as close as ever, but we don’t even talk anymore. We’re like lost ghosts roaming past each other in the dark of night.

  They, at least, didn’t kick me out like they did Henry, and they are still paying my tuition for my senior year of high school. For that, I find the grace to be grateful. It’s a lot more than other parents do for their children and a million percent more than they did for Henry.

  A buzz of my cell and it’s like Henry read my mind. Saw the interview. Maybe this guy isn’t so bad. Maybe he’ll live.

  I snort. Henry and Drix have yet to meet, but this will happen once Henry is in Kentucky again. He’s texting so that must mean he’s stateside, but whatever the army is having him do isn’t in my home state. Do him wrong and you’ll have to deal with me.

  Henry: So scared...

  Done putting off the inevitable, I leave the comfort of my car and enter the house through the kitchen. I head for my room, and as I’m about to turn the corner for the staircase, my stomach cramps at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Elle.”

  I pause and consider still walking.

  “Please, Elle,” she says. “I m
iss you.”

  Those three words hurt, and I turn without thinking how any interaction with her typically wounds more. There’s always this small shred of stupid hope that this time we’ll figure out how to be a family again.

  I blink because Mom’s dressed down. Cotton shirt, yoga pants, hair in a ponytail, and she looks younger and more vulnerable than normal. She must be getting ready to work out.

  We stare at each other, and I wait for her to speak. I did try to talk to Mom and Dad a few weeks after I forced their hand, but they shut me down. As far as I’m concerned this relationship is their responsibility to repair. When the silence between us stretches, I go to move again, and Mom steps forward. “Wait.”

  I breathe through my nose to keep myself from getting angry. If she’s truly trying, losing my temper won’t help. “What do you need?”

  “Your father still might pull off the election,” she says. “People are responding well to Hendrix’s interview tonight, and that’s causing your father’s approval rating to bounce.”

  The muscles in my back tighten. “He didn’t do it for Dad. Drix did it to save the program. I’m really tired, so is there anything else you need?”

  “Your father would like to speak to you. We both would. We’ve made mistakes, and we’d like the opportunity to make that up to you.”

  There’s a knot in my chest, and that knot is the representation of all the emotion that’s wrenched inside me due to my parents. Do I want to move forward with them? Yes, but I’m still angry. So angry at both of them.

  “Come with me to your father’s office. Give him a chance to talk with you.”

  I shake my head because I’m not the one giving again. “If he wants to talk to me, then he finds me. I’m not playing on his turf anymore.”

  With that, I climb the stairs and head to my room. We’ve played this game twice since the press conference that ended all press conferences for us. Both times Dad tried to rule me from behind his desk, and both times I walked out. I’m done being ruled. It’s time they start figuring me out and try speaking to me on my terms.

  Once in my room, I kick off my shoes, go to text Drix, and the pattering of feet causes me to spin on my toes. It’s an odd sound in my house, one I recognize, but can’t quite place, and I blink twice when a ball of fur bounds into my room.

  It’s a dog, a big dog, not huge, but not a puppy, and he stops short when he sees me. His fur is all black, he’s matted in several places, and my heart aches when I spot his ribs. He begins to pant, a sign he’s anxious, so I drop to my knees and hold out my hand. The dog stretches forward to sniff. In seconds, he steps closer. One paw at a time until he’s near enough that I can scratch him behind his ears. “You are definitely lost.”

  “He is,” Dad says, and my head snaps up. “I saw him outside of the capitol building this week searching through the trash. I thought of you the moment I saw him.”

  “Because I’m a lost scrawny mutt in your eyes who needs to be saved by you?”

  “Because hundreds, if not thousands, of people passed by this dog this week, and not one person tried to help him, and I was one of them. I heard what Hendrix said about you on the interview tonight, and he made me realize something.”

  I sit back on my bottom, and the dog lays his head in my lap. I continue to pet him and brace myself for what could be a ripping off of carefully placed bandages on my soul. “Did it make you realize you should have never fought me on Drix?”

  “That and that he knew you better than I did. Instead of trying to mold you into something else, Drix saw your strengths in who you are, and that faith in you saved his life.”

  I stay silent as I honestly don’t know what to say. Dad continues, “You would have been the one person to stop and help this dog. No matter how many times I yelled at you, no matter how many times your mother yelled at you, no matter how many times you were punished for your actions, you still would have stopped and saved this dog.”

  This is true.

  “You told me once that every life is valuable. With what happened that night, the lives hurt and lost, that’s weighed heavily on me. I don’t claim to know all the answers, and I don’t know how to fix what I broke, but I do know you would have saved this dog, and now I need your help because I don’t know what it entails to save this life.”

  My heart throbs with each beat. “Bringing this dog home doesn’t fix anything between us. It doesn’t even start to heal all that’s been done.”

  Dad leans his shoulder against my door frame and shoves his hands into his pockets. It hurts how incredibly sad he appears. “I know, but it’s the only way I know how to start trying with you. I love you, and I wanted only the best for you, but I’m realizing I never stopped to figure out that what I considered the best might not have been a match for you.”

  I’m terrified to forgive him, terrified to hope that maybe my family can be repaired, but here’s the thing about forgiveness—I can allow it to take time. I don’t have to fake words and actions or offer him a hug or accept all sorts of blatant lies of bygones being bygones. This isn’t a made-for-TV movie. This is real life, and sometimes in real life, we take a million baby steps until a wound is healed.

  Tonight, Dad is trying, and because of that, I will, too. “Have you fed him?”

  “Found some leftovers in the kitchen earlier.”

  “He needs dog food and he needs a bath. There’s some dog food in the laundry room in the bottom cabinet.”

  Dad pushes off the door frame. “I’ll get the food.”

  I stand and shake my head. “I’ll get the food. You’ll do the bath. In your bathroom.”

  He raises both of his eyebrows, and I stare at him to see if he’s going to accept being ordered around. To my shock, Dad gives and calls the dog with a whistle. “Let’s go get a bath.”

  They start down the hallway to their bedroom, and I follow. Dad glances at me from over his shoulder. “I thought you were getting the dog food.”

  “I will, but I want to make sure the dog doesn’t eat your face off.”

  “You don’t think I deserve it?”

  I half chuckle, and I spot a ghost of a smile on his face. “Maybe.”

  “At least you’re honest, Elle. At least you’re honest.”

  Hendrix

  Elle laughs and the sound drifts over my skin. Above us, the night is filled with a million stars, and the cool autumn air nips at my skin. Elle is in a sleeveless gown. Dark blue silk and it’s been my pleasure to escort her to my school’s fall dance. Without a doubt, she was the most beautiful girl there, and I’m the lucky bastard who got to slow dance with her all night.

  I pull off my suit coat and wrap it around her shoulders as we walk across the grass of her backyard toward the gazebo where I held her this summer. Elle pulls it tight, appears to breathe in my scent and then smiles up at me.

  Her real smile, the one that owns my heart, the one still reserved only for me.

  Elle’s parents are gone for the weekend, and tonight, we’re alone. I squint as we come closer to the gazebo. Small lights flicker, and I glance over at Elle for an explanation. “Holiday and Kellen may have been helpful tonight.”

  “Helpful?” My mind tries to figure out what helpful might mean as Elle twines her fingers with mine and pulls me forward.

  “Tonight is what I have wanted for so long. For there to be music and laughter and dancing and singing, and I knew I wouldn’t want it to end, so Holiday and Kellen helped me, so it doesn’t have to end quite yet.”

  Two steps up into the gazebo and there are lit candles creating a circle. Elle leads me into the middle. On the bench is a basket full of food, a blanket and an iPod with speakers. With a few swipes of her fingers, music begins to play. Soft and low and seductive, and I can’t help but smile at the smooth jazz tones.

  Jazz, as I’m discovering at my new school, is wha
t I have been born to play. Jazz, as Elle has discovered, is her least favorite music to listen to, but listen she does. To each and every song I play, and she does it all with that amazing smile on her face.

  When a public high school in our county heard how I had been offered the spot at the private youth performing arts school and then how that offer was rescinded due to the parents’ and board’s concerns, they contacted me. They told me about their fledgling music magnet and asked me to be part of the charter class. I agreed, but only with the condition they took Marcus, as well. They did, and so far, it’s been one of the best experiences of my life.

  “We can dance to something else,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “We’re only dancing to what you have created.”

  My head whips in the direction of the iPod, and Elle slips her arms around me in a hug. “I might have called the school this week, and for once, might have used my semi-celebrity status to ask for an early copy, and they might have said yes with the promise I wouldn’t release it in public.”

  My mind is spinning as I listen to the notes, to the chords, to the steady beat, and there’s a building in my chest. That’s my song. I wrote it from scratch, from my heart, from my soul, and each and every instrument is played by me, as well. This is my song, belongs to me, and I thought it would be weeks before I heard it all together, but Elle has given me a gift. So many gifts and this one nearly brings me to my knees.

  Elle beams up at me. “Shall we dance?”

  Dance. I don’t know how to dance, because I don’t know how to thank her, how to let her know how much she means to me. I touch her. My hands along her back, and I lean down and I kiss her. Gently. Lovingly. Reverently.

  Her lips move against mine, her hands begin to wander along my back, and tease the hair along my neckline. She presses her body closer to mine, and the flame of desire grows. It burns warmer in my blood, causing me to deepen our kiss.