Tracy and I planned the service, as if nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t lost Jasper. It was like our endorphins had kicked in, and we were on autopilot. Tracy asked me to write the obituary, so I did. I managed to write it. Managed being the operative word. Operative means, functioning, having effect. I’m not really sure what I wrote, but I sent it to Goble’s Mortuary—the only mortuary in town, family-owned since before Christ and down the street from Belle’s Hollow High. I’m sure they did what mortuaries do to fix shitty obituaries.
Is there a class you can take on shitty obituary writing?
Shitty Obituary Writing 101 with Dr. Shitty.
Some emergency personnel from Los Angeles showed up in our sleepy little town. The responding police departments and several members of the FBI showed, too. I think the hardest part of the whole situation was making eye contact with one of the first responders as we followed Jasper’s casket up to the front of the church that day. She made the face that people did when something awful happened. Her face contorted, her tears fell, and she reached for my hand. She spoke with brokenness. Though she tried to prove her conviction, she couldn’t hold it together. And her look altogether made my insides turn shaky. Cold even.
Was what she saw on scene that awful?
Simon and Whitney showed. And that was really awkward. By the time of the service, we’d slept together only once. But it was hard, looking Whitney in the eye. And Simon was a mess. He hugged me and wouldn’t let go. And I don’t think it was out of love for me, but more for the emptiness my brother used to fill.
Before the funeral and after we got Jasper’s body back from the FBI, he asked if he could see him, so I took him to the mortuary.
I’d never seen a boy cry so hard as he sat with Jasper. I stood back and let him have his time with his best friend. Watched as he shook because the tears didn’t fill the need of his loss.
When his sobs became louder, I walked to him, placed my hand on his shoulder, sat, and rested my cheek on his back.
All I could muster was, “Same.”
And all Simon could choke out was, “He’s so cold, Liv.”
I pull up to Cao’s house, the crunch under my tires bringing me to the present moment.
She’s bounding to the car as her mom, Beth, calls after her, “There’s rice in your lunch, Cao. I packed you the chopsticks that you like, too. Love you.” Beth pauses. “Hey, Liv.” Her tone changes, becoming softer. She walks over to my window, reaches in, and pulls me into her.
She doesn’t have to say anything that hasn’t already been said. Beth has been at the house several times since Jasper’s passing. She organized the biggest meal drop-off in Belle’s Hollow history. Tracy and I were grateful—don’t get me wrong—but I don’t know how I’ll ever eat chicken again.
Chicken and dumplings.
Stuffed chicken breast.
Chicken casserole.
Chicken roll-ups.
Garlic chicken.
Lemon chicken.
Baked chicken.
Chicken cordon bleu.
Chicken.
Puke.
It was as if Belle’s Hollow had gotten together and said, Let’s make the Stones chicken for every meal.
Chicken. Chicken. Chicken.
Over half of it is still in the freezer and will probably remain there for the next forty years.
Beth taps the hood of the Civic, and we drive back toward the Gulch.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Liv,” Cao says while digging in her backpack. She pulls out her lunch, opens her rice container, rolls down her window, and dumps it out the window.
“I don’t think that’s good for the birds.”
“It’s a rumor. I Googled it.” She shoves the empty container back in her lunch bag. “Birds actually love rice and eat it until migration. And”—Cao holds her phone to my face until the blue bird becomes blurry and the white is almost blinding—“Ed Sheeran liked my tweet!”
Cao has had a fascination with Ed since we were eleven. Last year, we went to one of his concerts in Sacramento, and I think she cried the entire time.
“When’s the wedding?” I say, begging myself to return to the old me. But I feel like I’m inside out and upside down. Nothing feels right. And everything feels wrong.
“I’ll let you know,” she says, typing into her phone, her eyes blazing. “There. Now, it’s on my Instagram page and retweeted, tagging him in it.” Her tambourine earrings swing from side to side.
Cao leans down and reaches into her backpack again. She takes a set of chopsticks out, slides them out of the paper, and chucks them out the window.
That’s littering, and there’s a fine associated with that, I want to say but don’t.
We’re reaching the crest of the Gulch, and I notice a red jacket. And, by the height of the walker, I can tell he’s male. Most girls our age aren’t that tall.
“You know what my mom did? She bought the mondo pack of chopsticks at Costco, Liv. The mondo pack,” she says, rolling her eyes. “She’s never going to get it. I even told her that, if she stopped being so stereotypical with her attempts to have me embrace my culture, I’d never smoke another cigarette again.”
I slow down.
Who walks the Gulch?
I peer through my windshield at the suicidal maniac. Not a local, but perhaps a local with a death wish?
Weaverton Gulch is a notorious life-taker—from car accidents to pedestrians being struck and killed by logging trucks. Locals all know this. So, I’ve narrowed it down to he’s male, and he’s not from our area.
Cao squeals and claps her hands to herself. “There he is! The infamous new British kid that Blog Heiress has been talking about. Slow down. Slow down.” Her fingertips graze my arm. “Let’s ask him if he needs a ride.”
Dark red hair escapes through the back part of his beanie. His school bag rests at his side as he turns to face my car.
I slow to a crawl, so slow, I hear the rocks twist, turn, and pop underneath my tires. We follow him on the side of the road like creepers.
He stops.
I stop.
“Hey. You’re the new kid, right? The one from the UK?” she asks.
“Kingston upon Hull actually.” He’s slow with his words. “It’s like asking, Are you from the United States? But the United States is vast. Gigantic, right?” He pauses again, as if having a deep need to get the facts straight distracts him from the conversation at hand.
Cao’s eyes slowly make their way from her phone and back to him. “Actually, the UK is roughly the same size as Oregon and half the size of California, so comparing the US to the UK is laughable when referring to dimensions.” Cao takes a breath. “Oh, do you need a ride?”
His eyes grow wide. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”
His light freckles, like stars making their debut at dusk, pepper the bridge of his nose. And he pronounces ask as if it starts with an O instead of an A, which gives my stomach a nervous feeling. It makes me feel like the time I was fourteen and watched Sixteen Candles, the part where Jake kisses Sam while sitting on the dining room table.
Un-fucking-believable.
“Oh, I’m Cao, and this is Livia.”
“Daniel,” he says, reaching in the car to shake our hands. His eyes get stuck on mine, as if I just appeared out of nowhere. “You know what? I really appreciate the offer, but I think I’m all right.”
The rain has subsided, but the clouds are angry. I look up toward the sky through my front windshield.
“How do you know I’m not some psychopathic serial killer?” His eyes are still sizing me up.
I almost grin for two reasons. One, Jasper and I used to watch Dateline all the time. And, oftentimes, I’d end up on the floor of his bedroom because the creaks in our house got so loud, I was convinced someone was coming to murder us. Hence, psychopathic serial killer. Two, my face wants to smile at the way he tilts his head at me, a more concerned look on his face no
w, as if to say, You shouldn’t have stopped the car.
“Psychopathic killers don’t have red hair. Research suggests that their hair color usually varies between brown or black,” Cao says, clearly bored with the conversation.
Daniel bites his lip. A small grin displays the dimples on either side of his mouth. “How do you know that?” He looks from me to Cao and back to Cao.
“I read an article in Newsweek.” Cao stares down at her phone for a moment.
He finds my eyes again, and I pretend not to be staring at his cheek structure. His face is long and lean, more vertical than horizontal. I pretend not to stare at his eyes that look like two perfectly shaped blue topaz stones that God intended Daniel to have.
Daniel taps Cao’s window. “See you at school.”
I slowly accelerate back on the highway to head toward Belle’s Hollow High.
Cao squeals. “I wonder if he knows Ed Sheeran.” She grabs my arm. “I should ask him.”
We take the freeway to Twelfth Street and pull into the high school.
Our phones chime at the same time.
“Update from Blog Heiress,” Cao says, staring down at her screen. “She’s been ruthless lately.”
Blog Heiress
Well, Belle’s Bitches, it’s senior Livia Stone’s first day back after a long hiatus from the loss of her brother and our classmate, Jasper Stone. That’s all I’ll say about that. Hopefully, someone can mend that broken heart. Wink, wink.
I feel my lungs constrict. Does Heiress know about Simon and me? My entire body grows clammy.
Okay, now to the juicy gossip. Mr. Lowery, tenured Chemistry teacher, is going through a divorce because of his undoubted drinking problem. We shall see how this plays out. I don’t know; if I was married to a fat cow, I’d probably drink, too.
P.S. The Chemistry questions for the final are accessible at www.k12.hschemistytest.questions. It seems Mr. Lowery can’t be bothered with test questions for the final, as it interferes with cows and Jose Cuervo.
Next, and TOTALLY juicy! Mark Pattison, senior class slut, and—wait for it—Leah Moran—YES!—were caught having sex in the boys’ locker room two nights ago after football practice. And, apparently, Mr. Pattison still had his football pads on, so says the night janitor. SAY WHAT? I know; I’m totally trippin’ about that one, too.
If you need help studying for your AP English exam, have no worries because rumor has it that the hot new ginger boy from the UK has signed up to tutor you pitiful human beings who have nothing better to do with your time than take smart-kid classes. I’ll bet the list of tutees will increase 100%, and they’ll all be girls. Trust me, ladies, if you see him, you’ll definitely want to get on that list. In fact, I’m not even taking the AP class, and I’ve signed up to be tutored in French, if you know what I mean. :)
That’s it for now. Happy first day of November!
Later, bitches.
BeLHo
Cao and I take our seats closest to the door, front row, in Mr. Joe’s AP English.
Mr. Joe, Joe Foreman, prefers that we call him Joe or Mr. Joe. Not Mr. Foreman.
“Absolutely, under no circumstances, do you call me Mr. Foreman. He was an asshole; I’m not.” Mr. Joe’s words, not mine.
He’s new to Belle’s Hollow High and new to Belle’s Hollow. Fresh meat is what Cao calls him—or rather, dead meat because most of the faculty at Belle’s has been teaching here since circa 1800. Baby boomers not willing to let go, I guess. Joe’s maybe twenty-four. His approach is different, unique. Some of the faculty got bent out of shape when they heard us call him Joe.
My classroom, my rules, was his response when Blog Heiress interviewed him toward the beginning of the year. He uses phrases like brah, yo, sames, killin’ it, hashtag, and mad—as in very—all in the correct context. And he uses contemporary music to convey his approach to critical thinking. He’s kinda cool.
“Livia.” Mr. Joe approaches me.
Smile, Liv.
I know my face probably looks awkward. Pained even. A forced smile and an eerie feeling in my stomach, I look up at Mr. Joe.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. I’d like to talk to you after class.” His horn-rimmed glasses, almost metallic in color, pick up the glare of the fluorescent lights above.
I muffle a noise of acknowledgment.
Students trickle in. Kids who have gone to school with Jasper and me since we were five. Many attended the funeral. Hell, most of Belle’s Hollow attended the funeral. Stores shut down to attend.
But I get it. Some don’t know what to say. Some make eye contact as they come in and give a nod.
Please just ignore me, I beg silently.
Some put their heads down and walk by. Some are lost in their electronic world of fake facades.
I’m the sister of a dead twin. Who wants to acknowledge that?
They don’t know me as Livia Stone. They know me as Livia and Jasper Stone, half of a set of twins. Yet I’m the new Liv, the one who sleeps with a boy who has a girlfriend and hides it from her best friend.
The vacant space between my liver and large intestine, also known as my stomach, grows the preexisting knot that’s been there for a month. The lonely one.
The knot I can’t shake. I can’t take enough pills to make it go away.
The knot that aches when I see a picture of Jasper.
The knot that aches when I walk past his room in the morning, waiting for him to say, “Knuckles”—another charming nickname my brother gave me—“get in the shower.”
I guess, when I realize he’s not coming back, the knot grows, twists, and contorts, pissing off my stomach and my heart.
Benny Jacobs, Landry Pendleton, and Alicia Abbott make it down my row and touch my shoulder. Alicia murmurs something under her breath. I’m sure they’re words of condolence. Words I’ve heard before. Standard words when someone dies.
Why do people even say these words? Because they feel the need to say something to ease their minds? Like it’s their unspoken duty?
Livia Stone, brother died. Wish her well. Done. Check mark.
And then Miranda Stein enters the room. No, no, she sashays into the room, as if she’s expecting “Hail to the Chief” to play over the loudspeaker. Her nose is turned slightly up though still buried in her phone. Really, I think it takes a special skill to do that. Her all-seeing tentacles take snapshots of her surroundings, the ones buried under her perfectly pink tracksuit.
Also, Cao and I agree that, when God created Miranda Stein, he said, Here, do something with this.
Resident mean girl.
Devil in a pink tracksuit.
“Miranda, phone away, or it’s mine,” Mr. Joe says, his light-brown corduroy pants pressing against his desk as he leans.
Miranda turns on her right heel, a look of bewilderment on her face. “Mr. Foreman—I mean, Mr. Joe, I was just finishing a text to my mother—”
Mr. Joe’s expression is cool. He knows what she’s doing as he comes around his desk and sits on the front part. “Graveyard.” He nods toward the box by the classroom door.
The Graveyard is where our phones go when we’ve abused the privilege to use them between the four tiny walls known as our classroom. A place they die for fifty minutes when we can’t seem to keep from sliding our fingers across the screen. A habitual rule-follower, I’ve never had to put my phone in the Graveyard, but since I’m changing my ways apparently—sleeping with another girl’s boyfriend—I imagine my time will be coming soon.
Miranda with her perfect lips in a perfect O that match her perfectly pink top and flats in a coordinating lipstick and eye shadow turns to devilish red as her face contorts to a demonic stare. Nobody, except for Mr. Joe, has ever stepped up to the plate like this.
Everybody knows that Mr. Stein, Miranda’s dad, is the biggest pot grower in Humboldt County. He’s built our gymnasium and revamped our football field that includes stadium seating and a rain cover. Though Miranda will take it to the grave that he does c
onstruction in southern Humboldt. That’s code for locals in the green game.
And absolutely nobody stands up to Miranda because they don’t want to deal with her shit or feel her wrath. Including me.
But I will admit, she stopped by when Jasper died—not out of the goodness of her heart. Because people who do that must require a heart. Hers is gone. Left the building. Vacated the premises. She pulled up in a black stretch limo—weren’t those a thing in the ’90s?—and Tracy thought it might be the President. Again.
Tracy might have thought this because the President of the United States had shown up at our house, unannounced. The Feds had arranged for the President to meet those of us affected by what had happened a month ago at an undisclosed location somewhere in LA. So, Tracy and I had stayed home.
The President doesn’t take, Thanks, but no, thanks, very well. So, lo and behold, he had shown up at our doorstep with what looked like an entire police brigade. According to Ester Williams, self-appointed news/gossip guru, Secret Service shut down half of Belle’s Hollow. It really wasn’t necessary—not the shutting down of the town, but the showing up part. Before the President had entered our home, Secret Service had done a sweep of the house while Tracy and I stood there, staring, hands up. Why we’d held our hands up, I’ll never know. I guess it’s the natural thing to do when you see men and women in black suits entering your home. Jasper would have enjoyed it. Asked the Secret Service questions about their jobs, classified information, what they thought about WikiLeaks, Area 51, America’s Stonehenge.
And, if having a surprise visit from the President wasn’t bad enough, Miranda showed up, unannounced, at our house in her cheesy presidential limo after Jasper passed with a freaking chicken.
A chicken revolution. Viva la chicken! Taking over homes across the world. Please, God, no more chicken.
Tracy thanked her and sent her on her way. And, like everyone else, it was considered kind, but from her, it was not nice enough to be trusted. Miranda Stein always has ulterior motives.
P.S. Miranda is the CEO of the Virgin Club—as known to us students, but better known to teachers and staff as the Healthy Choices Club. But everyone knows it’s a joke. I bet, now, they’d burn my application on the spot. Or God would. Not that I want to join because I don’t. Though Miranda’s prim and proper ways—manners, brains, words—suggest one thing, her attire suggests another. With her skirts just shy of the fingertip rule and her tiny butt-hugging shorts that slide up her crack during track practice, her provocativeness is so passive-aggressive, and it proves to be evil. She’s just one decision shy of falling from her throne leadership with the rumors we hear via Blog Heiress about her and boyfriend, Anthony, a boy who attends Eureka High School, thirty minutes north of here.
Standing Sideways Page 3