“Um, excuse me.” He steps back and waves his arms in mock affront. “You act as if my quite natural admiration for your ears is somehow dirty, which, you know, is a clear indicator that you yourself are thinking something way perv-ier than me. It’s a classic case of psychological transference. But that aside, I wasn’t even talking about your ears’ physical perfection. I was talking about your ears’ ability to hear and appreciate music. Mark is tone-deaf. And his dance moves—well.” He grimaces. “Yours, on the other hand…”
Whisking me into his arms, Charlie slow-dances with me in the parking lot. A car near us backs out and putters by, but he doesn’t stop swaying with me. “Thank you for my birthday present,” he whispers. “So, it’s a date?”
I go light-headed from the nearness of his arms, his chest, that boy-smell that is warm and musky and a tiny bit sweet, like an overripe peach. “It’s a date,” I say and nestle into his chest.
Heart of Darkness
Our grief is our signature, with everyone dotting the i in their own special way.
You might think one moment that all is lovely, that you’re done with the emptiness, the anger, the tears, that you never needed them in the first place. You might think one curve curls into another, which curls into another—life spiraling forward in the corkscrew of destiny.
But then the pain returns, more certain than before. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t ask for your permission.
Here’s a nickel of truth for you: It’s sometimes painful to be in Charlie’s presence. Usually not. Usually, he’s sunshine on my back, the sweet surprise of wind in my face. But then rain patters down, and the cloud descends, dark and swirling.
When Charlie stood before me by the river and told me what a mess he was, he was really saying something else. The words under his words. Even when I’m distant, don’t leave.
And yeah, he’s not ignoring me this time, for which I’m grateful, but he’s not exactly here either. Sometimes he stares out with grim, glassy eyes, and I can only guess what he’s thinking.
I don’t have to guess, though, on Wednesday afternoon when the subpoena for Kyle’s sentencing hearing arrives at my front door. Charlie and I are upstairs in my room, supposedly prepping for Mr. Campbell’s Heart of Darkness test. In reality, we’re prepping for the Bax Wilcox concert this Friday—lying side by side on my floor, one earbud in his right ear, the other in my left.
Charlie waits upstairs when my mom calls me down. Apparently, since I’m a legal adult, the guy from the court has to give the subpoena directly to me.
“Here ya go!” the guy says as he places the envelope in my hand. “Have a lovely day!” In his pink-striped oxford and two-toned dress shoes, he seems awfully chipper for a Messenger Boy of Doom.
“So, the date’s been set,” I say as I flop on my bed, open envelope in hand. “Two weeks from today. November twentieth.” And then, in case he doesn’t understand. “Kyle’s hearing.”
“I know,” Charlie says, his voice small, like something on a faraway shelf.
“You know?” I ask.
“Yeah, Daniel got his yesterday. For the impact statement.”
It takes me a second before I remember who Daniel is—Jamie’s older brother. The whole idea seems messed up, if you ask me. Her brother is supposed to stand up there in front of Kyle and talk about how he’s been impacted by Jamie’s death? I mean, of course, Jamie’s death must have screwed him up, but—and I’m not trying to be cold here—why does that make a difference in Kyle’s punishment?
Would Jamie’s life be worth less if fewer people were “impacted”? I don’t have a brother like Jamie, so would Kyle have been better off killing me? I don’t get the math of it.
I’ve heard people say, when they find out about some violent thing done to a woman, “What if that happened to your mother or your sister?” And I always want to ask them, “But what if that happened to some ugly old bag-woman who drooled when she talked? What if no one loved her? Would that make it somehow okay? Does she only matter if she’s someone else’s sister or wife? What about her, just herself? Isn’t that enough?”
For my part, the lawyer said we’re there to show Kyle’s state of mind prior to Jamie’s murder. Lindsey and Taylor and me. I’m not sure if they’re calling in Blair Mattern from Los Angeles or not. What are all of us supposed to prove, anyway? That Kyle was willing to kill whoever was most convenient? Joy.
After Jamie’s murder, the school administration sent out an email to the entire student body with a link to a web article called “Tragedy in Your Community.” They listed Stages of Community Healing. I forget what the actual stages are, but I’m pretty sure for me so far it’s gone something like this:
Stage 1: Freezing Out Friends
Stage 2: Drinking & Associated Acts of Stupidity
Stage 3: Hating Kyle
Stage 4: Pissed That I’m Not Over It Already
Stage 5: Guilty Because I’m Pissed
Stage 6: Pissed About Feeling Guilty
Stage 7: Seeking—?
That’s as far as I’ve gotten.
Seeking—?
Question mark and all, because I’m not sure what it is I’m seeking. Justice? Safety? Maybe just to breathe without this weight. I don’t know how else to describe it. Even in my happiest moments, there’s something heavy in my chest. I hate what Kyle did, and I hate him for doing it. I hate that I don’t get to skip out into the world with some misguided, carefree notion that people are good at heart and my own girl-ness is not a liability.
I’m not sure what the weight’s made of, but if I had to guess, I’d bet it’s one part anger, one part guilt, one part “horror,” like that bonehead says in Heart of Darkness. Whatever, it just sits there, invisible, unspoken, between me and what might come.
There’s a part in the novel where the main guy says, “Your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.” In the book, he’s talking about the way people have screwed over other people simply because they can. But that’s not why I remember it. I remember it because I want to be strong.
It makes me wonder about what Kyle did. I mean, obviously he was stronger than Jamie. He took his physical strength and—his word—bashed her. But wasn’t it really his weakness that was lashing out? He couldn’t handle his life. He couldn’t get out of town. He couldn’t live with his own smallness and unimportance. He wanted to be famous, he wanted to rub his sad little brute self against the crust of the world and listen for the echo.
So if what I’m seeking is my own strength, is it possible—is it possible that in Kyle’s wretched, vile, disgusting weakness, I might find, even by accident, some sort of strength?
Bird Outside
When Charlie picks me up for the Bax Wilcox concert, a jazzed-up version of Jared Hilley is riding shotgun. Since the car is a two-door coupe, Jared first has to climb out of the car and then squeeze into the back while I wait at the curb.
“Hope I’m not butting in,” he says as he flops the passenger seat forward and pokes his literal butt in the direction of my face. “Charlie was kind enough to let me bum a ride. Bax Wilcox—DUDE! I’m amped!”
His long legs are folded way too tight in the back seat now and one knee is bopping up and down like it’s on a spring. “This is okay with you, right?”
“What? Yeah! Of course,” I lie, climbing in front and scooching up my seat to make more room for Jared.
I avoid eye contact with Charlie because I don’t want him to see how disappointed I am. I’d been hoping this date might let me forget for a night about the upcoming trial and Kyle and It’s not your fault and everything else that is sucky and scary and confusing in the world. I was hoping it might be, I don’t know, fun.
“You got enough room back there?” I ask Jared. My knees are pressed against the glove box and there’s really nowhere for me to go, so I’m hoping the answer is yes.
“Yes. Plenty of space back here for me and Mark.”
“Mark?” I ask. I can’t help it
; I’m pretty sure I’m bug-eyed when I crane around to face Jared. I get no answer, so I ask again, turning to Charlie. “Mark?”
“Yeah.” Charlie has the good grace at least to look uncomfortable. “You remember you met Ned, Mark’s cousin? From the science museum? It ends up he won a ticket to the concert, but then he had to work, and he gave the ticket to Mark, and so we’re carpooling. We’re picking him up before we head out of town.”
“Oh! Uh, cool!” I fake enthusiasm—but it’s a genuine fake. I’m not trying to be sarcastic, though I’m afraid it might come off that way. And really, if it does, who could blame me?
It’s not that I don’t want Charlie to have time with his friends, I do. And already he seems less grim than he has for days, so that’s a plus, right? But it doesn’t mean I want to be stuffed into a car with the guy I kiss, a guy I kissed, and a guy who pretty much hates my guts.
I’m surprised when Charlie starts heading through the sketchy part of town on the way to Mark’s house. At twilight, the river neighborhoods look old and cramped and quirky, but not in the good way. The house Charlie drives up to is small, with dingy lime-green siding and a dead bush beside the stoop. The porch light gives a weakish glow to the door, which looks like it was once a peach color, but is now chipped and blistery.
Mark has always seemed so polished, so perfectly creased. I can’t imagine him walking out of that ramshackle door, but he does, looking as neat as ever. He’s almost to the car when a short, thick woman appears on the stoop and calls him back to her. He turns, shoulders slumping in the way of the oppressed, and walks quickly back to the woman, who takes something from an apron pocket and presses it into his hands. He nods, puts it in his pocket. She reaches up to fiddle with his collar, but he pulls away and power-walks to the car.
I hop out and fold over the front seat, expecting him to climb into the back next to Jared, who has scooted to make room, but Mark just glares into space, irritated and clearly anxious to leave. The woman—his mother?—is still on the porch. I think about telling him to get in; I mean, really, why should I be the one in the back with Jared? But Mark’s shoulders won’t let me do it. The tense way they’re curving in on themselves, like he’s hiding some prickly thing under his shirt—he never stands like that at school.
Even if he isn’t my favorite person, he maybe is Charlie’s, and I don’t have the heart to pick a fight with him in front of the woman, who is still standing on the porch, watching. So I keep my mouth shut and climb in next to Jared.
“I brought tunes,” Jared says as Charlie starts to drive. He passes his phone up to Charlie, who hooks it into the car’s speakers. Bax Wilcox’s gravelly voice wails:
I see your reflection
When I first look through the window
Bird outside, bird in
“That guy’s a freaking genius!” Jared fan-boys. There’s not enough room for his knees to fit behind Charlie, so he’s squeezed himself sideways in the car.
“Do you want to switch?” I ask him.
“What?”
I don’t know if he didn’t hear or if he’s so into the music that he can’t process a relatively simple question.
“There’s more room over here,” I try again, gesturing. “We should switch.”
He bops his legs awkwardly, as if attempting to understand how we could possibly switch places in a space that’s already so cramped.
“You scoot over here,” I say, patting the middle part of the seat, “and I’ll scoot over you.”
Jared darts a look at the back of Charlie’s head, then fixes his eyes on me. He gnaws his bottom lip, eyes my hips, and nods. He scoots over to the middle of the seat and his hand, by necessity, edges up against my thigh. I notice a slight tremor in the hand, and I regret saying anything. What does he think I’m offering? I should have just stayed put, but it’s too late now.
I lift one leg over Jared’s knees and put it down on the far side of the seat, then half standing, I chuck myself over him. It’s pretty awkward, and yeah, for a second my butt jostles against his chest, but it’s not even vaguely sexual. For the heat on Jared’s face, though, you’d think it was.
Geez. Boys. What is wrong with their brains?
I try to play it off by talking about whatever random thing comes to mind.
“So I wonder how Bax Wilcox comes up with his lyrics,” I say. “I mean, how does someone just come up with a song out of nothing? It seems impossible. How do you do it, Jared?” As the words are already spluttering out of my mouth, I realize how immensely stupid they are. The one song I know for sure Jared has written is about me. And what if that’s it? What if he hasn’t written anything else? So is it possible I’ve just asked him to tell me about what inspired that song? Oh no, please, no. “I mean—” I rush on in a classic attempt to cover awkward talk with more awkward talk. “—anyone. How does anyone do that? I mean, hypothetically speaking.”
Jared grins, giving me a cocky come-hither look, like his hand never trembles and his face never blushes and he’s certain I’m mouth-vomiting because I’m turned on by his mere presence. Ugh.
Why again am I not in the front seat? Charlie and Mark are up there having their own little boy-conference, which is impossible to hear over the music, and I’m stuck back here with the Hormone.
“Hey!” I poke my head in the space between the front seats. “What’s the name of this song?” I half shout over the music, interrupting whatever Charlie and Mark were talking about.
“Um…” Charlie glances at Jared’s phone, as he turns onto the highway on-ramp. “Infinity.”
“Thanks,” I say. How appropriate. Infinity. The length of this ride.
I look out the car window. It’s just darkening into night, and the lights in town have that special glow. Beautiful, but we pass too quickly to take them in. Each one is gone in a blink, replaced by another, that is in turn replaced by another, until we hit the gap of mountains between towns and it’s all dark hills against a not-yet-black sky.
If we’re stuck here forever, I suppose we have to do something to pass the time.
“What’s your favorite stupid joke?” I ask Jared.
“Um… huh?”
“It’s a long ride, JJ,” I say. “Tell me a stupid joke.”
“Uh, okay.” He strokes his chin-hair, considering. “You said stupid, right?”
I nod.
“Okay, then,” he continues. “You asked for it. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Oswald,” he says.
“Oswald who?”
“Oswald my chewing gum.”
I laugh, probably more than the joke deserves, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? “Knock, knock,” I say.
“Who’s there?” Jared answers.
“Sherwood,” I say.
“Sherwood who?”
“Sherwood like to have another piece.”
He looks at me blank.
“Of gum,” I explain. “Since you swallowed it. Another piece of chewing gum.”
We both snicker. Thankfully, nothing kills misguided sexual tension like a bad knock-knock joke.
“Oh, oh,” I say, remembering. “I got one. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow.”
“Interrupting cow—”
“Moooooo!” I interrupt. I can tell the moment it clicks in his head, and we crack up.
The Awesomeness of Music
By the time we get to Virginia Tech, Jared and I are giggling like ten-year-olds over pretty much anything—drunk on bad jokes and loud music. Because even though Jared sometimes wears the air of Sleazy Country Boy, it’s just air. Like a crappy cologne he doesn’t have the sense to wash off. Underneath all that bravado and nonsense, I believe he’s basically a smart and decent human being. There’s goodness in him. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.
“What have you guys been up to back there?” Mark asks as we spill from the car. “Sniffing glue?”
Apparently, references to glue sniffing are also funny, because Jared and I just keep giggling.
“Okaaaaay,” Charlie says, taking my hand. “The concert’s in Burruss, right? It’s this way.”
He leads us across the parking lot, between some buildings and across part of a vast lawn to the entrance of a huge, castle-like stone building. Inside the auditorium, the seats are assigned. Charlie and I are supposed to sit about halfway back in the middle section, Mark near the front, and Jared on the left side near the back. The opening act, a folk rock band, has already started. The seats are pretty packed, so instead of making people move to get to our seats, we find a few empty seats near one another toward the back on the left side. Two in front, which Jared and Mark take, and two behind for Charlie and me.
The warm-up band, which Jared tells us comes out of Floyd County, is good. Lots of adrenaline-pumping banjo and electric guitar and a little blond girl who couldn’t be older than twelve playing the kind of fiddle you’d expect from a bearded coal miner. When Bax Wilcox walks out on stage, though, the real party starts. Everyone stands and whoops and holds up their cell phones to take pictures.
Before long, the music shifts something in me, breaks it loose. Even though there isn’t room to dance, I’m dancing. Charlie’s dancing. Jared, in front and slightly to our right, is dancing. Even Mark is flailing about in a jerky kind of way. We’re all singing along, though the loudness of the speakers makes it seem like Bax’s voice is coming out of our mouths.
The sound, heat, lights, our bodies—everything is about being. It’s all life and breath and making noise. All sweat and sensation. All love for humankind. The college girl on my other side bumps hips with me, but I don’t mind. We’re in this together. I’m almost too alive. When Bax howls out about the baby his girlfriend lost, I howl, too, like I was the lost baby. When he shouts about the fire of love, I feel it ignite in my chest.
Charlie leans down and kisses me and I want to drown in it right here and now. Because it’s so passionate and so perfect, and I know what waits on the other side of that kiss.
How She Died, How I Lived Page 20