by Alexis Bass
“I’ve been around,” is what I tell her.
She says, “That’s lame-o,” a word she never added an excess letter to before, and goes on about her weekend of debauchery.
“Crazy, right?” she says, capping off a story about skinny-dipping. “You’ll see when you get here.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I can’t believe you won’t get your acceptance letter for another few months. You totally have to apply to the same dorm as me.”
“Mmm.”
“I know you’ll get in. I mean, your SAT scores alone were—” She’s yammering on about nothing to fill the silence. The distance feels like detachment—I didn’t think it would happen to us, but here we are. I can hardly find room to be sad about it, I’m so disappointed and bemused by what her life at UCSB has become.
“I don’t know, Dawn. I’m not sure I’ll be happy in Santa Barbara. I’m not sure it’s the kind of place I want to be next year. Or ever, for that matter.”
She takes this as the insult it was meant to be, as all I know of Santa Barbara and UCSB is what she’s told me, and she gasps. She surprises me by crying.
Dawn’s aware I’m applying to other schools, some in the city, some in Michigan, some on the East Coast. Mumsy didn’t give me an application-fee limit, and my hidden talent is writing personal essays, so why the hell not? Still, I didn’t actually think I’d look at any other acceptances as anything more than ego boosters and safety nets, and I’m sure Dawn didn’t either.
“You’ve never been to college.” She’s fast to continue because she knows this is the kind of obvious statement I don’t have the tolerance for in an argument. “And you’ve never been to California.” She sniffles. “Disneyland doesn’t count.”
Fair enough.
“You have no idea what it’s like here,” she says. “You don’t know what it’s like to be around all these new people, to have no one to answer to, to have the freedom of going to bed whenever you want and not having eight hours blocked off for school. Study hard, play hard—it’s what people do here. They balance their life, but they don’t close themselves off from new things, and they aren’t afraid of being crazy once in a while.”
My head started spinning at the word “balance.” I blow up the second there’s a break in her tirade. “I’ve always had freedom!” Doesn’t she see? I have that—no curfew, no bedtime, no one wagging their finger at me if I decided to go “crazy.” “I would never want to use my so-called freedom on keggers and karaoke bars!”
“Sorry I’m not spending all my time in my room on the phone with you, or shut up in the library!” The sadness fades from her voice and is replaced with fury. “Sorry every Friday night isn’t a movie night for me anymore. Sorry I’m actually talking to people at parties instead of sequestering myself in the corner, complaining that it’s too crowded.” She pauses for a second to catch her breath. “Not every night out ends in a tragedy, Amanda!” Her anger is so explosive, I think it must have been building inside of her for a long time.
I’m speechless. It’s true I’m depressing, uptight, closed off, like Jonathan said at the diner. Unnecessarily bitter, ridiculously cautious. But I have no idea how not to be those things.
“And not all frat guys are douche bags,” she says in a small voice.
My chest is aflutter; my feelings are warring between excitement, because obviously Dawn likes one of these frat boys, and irritation, because this proves more than anything else how much I really don’t know about her life there. But the desire to ask her about him is so strong, I almost forget that I’m hurt and furious.
“And I know about what really went down between you and Graham,” she says. “Or should I say, you and Henry.”
I sit there with my mouth open, no words coming out.
“You’re not the only one from home I talk to. And nothing in high school stays a secret.” She says this with the certainty of someone who really has left all of that behind her. It’s real jealousy I feel now.
“I’ve only been here fifty-eight days, Amanda,” she says. “I’m still getting the hang of it. I thought you of all people would understand.”
“Dawn, I . . .” But I don’t know what to say. I’m so used to apologizing; always, always, always having something to be sorry for. It’s not supposed to be like this with Dawn.
“Just forget it,” she says, hanging up.
By now, I know: people only ever say that about things that are impossible to really forget.
CHAPTER
FIFTY
At school there are Chicago Cares posters everywhere, T-shirts for sale, a giant pot in front of the auditorium for planting “the seeds of your wishes for the future”—the whole shebang. The assembly starts after second period, and everyone is buzzing with energy as we’re shuffled into the auditorium, too happy about missing class to realize what they’re here for. Ignorance is bliss.
I spot Henry farther down the same row I’m in. Since the seats curve in a half circle around the stage, I can see him perfectly. It’s the closest to comfort I’m going to get.
The same woman who spoke at the homecoming assembly enters the stage. She talks more about Grace, this time less about how she’s gone and more about how she was killed, divulging details of the accident. For shock value, I think. And then she introduces Jonathan.
I hate that Grace will always be remembered like this. For this. Associated with a car accident that should have been prevented. The words “died instantly.” My brother. Lifeline. Smokey the Bear. And now, this speech.
Jonathan comes to the stage. No one applauds, though I notice a few people looking around, like they aren’t used to silence after a speaker introduction. Jonathan’s in jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans are new, and they fit. The shirt is an old one, and too big, but it’s one of his favorites. Light blue—like his eyes—with The Rolling Stones written four times across the front. He raises the mic before he starts.
“My name is Jonathan Tart. I’m only here because my probation officer forced me to be here. And because this makes my baby sister nervous, and I still get great pleasure in annoying her.”
A joke. And people actually laugh, a little.
“But now that I’m standing here, I think I should have listened to her. This is uncomfortable as hell. I used to love a crowd. Now I want you all to have rocks, and I want you to throw them. Because honestly, that would hurt less.”
He looks away from us for the first time. But not for long.
“I’m not going to pretend you guys don’t know what I’m talking about . . . you knew her . . . some of you . . .”
Jonathan looks around at us all, not leaving anyone out.
“So I could tell you how much this sucks, how horrible prison is, how probation feels just as shitty, and waking up every day is even worse. But this is a ride you’ve got to try for yourself.”
His scanning eyes stop right on me.
“So do it.”
Someone in the crowd gasps. It would go unnoticed if it weren’t so completely silent otherwise. Gary stands up from where he was sitting beside the Chicago Cares woman. I didn’t even notice him before.
“Get wasted. Whiskey is what I’d recommend. And you’ll know you’ve had enough of it when you’re having so much fun, you’d rather die than go home. That’s when you should pile all the people you love into a car and drive the way you think you always do.”
Jonathan’s cold eyes stay focused on me.
“Russian roulette—it’s just like that, just as thrilling. Pull the trigger, and let your trip begin.”
He leans in to the mic.
“And then one of you assholes can be up here instead of me.”
The room has gone perfectly still. I don’t think any of us is breathing.
“Thank you.”
He walks away, quickly stepping to the side of the stage, then down the short staircase leading to the auditorium. He walks out of the closest doors, Gary trailing after him, the Chicago Cares woman
standing there with her mouth hanging open.
Henry’s looking over at me; his hand is over his mouth. The crowd is a mash-up of so shocked they might laugh and so appalled they might cry. A lot of eyes are on me, a lot of them purposely looking away, some of them still searching the crowd. Graham’s a row behind me, a few seats down. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, leaning forward like he wants to rush over to me, even now. I try to look strong for him.
I shift my gaze back to Henry. He’s still staring, but now he uncovers his mouth, straightens up. Then he shrugs. He says something. Maybe, What was that? Or, That’s that. I think he might be trying for a smile.
There’s nothing for me to do but shrug back.
At least Jonathan was unforgettable.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
The day can’t be over fast enough, another one of those days where eyes seem to turn away from me, and in sixth period Henry rubs my shoulder, as if Jonathan’s speech affected me alone. He’s not surprised that I want to rush home the second sixth period is over.
Once I’m home, I try to find Jonathan. The house is empty. It’s barely two p.m., so maybe he went somewhere with Gary afterward. Maybe to lunch, and he’s still out.
I call him anyway, and he answers, but as soon as I hear his voice on the phone, I know what he’s been up to.
Celebrating.
It takes me three tries to understand through the background noise, and his heavy and distracted voice, that he’s at some Irish pub near the freeway.
“I’m coming to get you,” I say.
“To join me!” He’s cheering when I hang up.
I drive downtown, following the directions on my phone. I park in a Loading Only zone but figure it will be fine, since I’m just going to grab Jonathan and leave. There’s a big green four-leaf clover marking the bar—I’m parked on the opposite side of the street. I try to call Jonathan to tell him to come outside, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. I try again and again, as I walk down the sidewalk, until I’m directly across from the bar. Worst-case scenario, I’ll have to go inside. Maybe this will be possible, since they let Jonathan in and might be the type of establishment that doesn’t bother checking IDs.
I’m still across the street with my phone pressed to my ear when I see him stumble out of the bar with Wren and another girl tucked under his arms. His head is jutting forward like it’s too heavy to hold up straight. I start to call his name but stop myself in case he barrels toward me, crossing the street without looking.
He unlatches himself from the girls, and I worry he’s going to fall. He staggers slightly, catching himself by gripping the top of a bright-yellow Porsche parked on the street. I’m waiting for a small line of cars to pass before I can cross, but I keep my eyes on Jonathan. He’s rapping on the car with his open palm and frowning. I think he must be insulting the car. Wren is cracking up, leaning into her friend—for a second, they remind me of Sutton and Grace. Then Jonathan’s hands are no longer visible on the top of the car. He’s leaning back slightly, and his smile is relaxed. The girls are laughing harder now. It takes me a second to understand what’s going on—he’s peeing on the Porsche.
The street is clear, and I could make it to his side in a few seconds if I ran. But I’m mortified. I edge off the curb a little, readying myself to snatch him as soon as he’s finished. I glance around so I don’t have to watch him, but can still see him in my peripheral vision.
Just a few feet away, I see two police officers coming around the corner. They’re walking their bicycles, probably not expecting anything eventful to happen in the middle of the day. I think that maybe they’ll laugh when they see him. Jonathan seems to think this, too, because even though he’s quick to zip up his pants and step away from the car, he smiles at them, shrugs, says something to them, laughing—maybe even tells them a joke. They don’t laugh, though, as they park their bikes and move toward Jonathan.
Jonathan panics. He turns around, ready to run, but trips over his left foot in the process and bumps into Wren, taking down both her and her friend. By the time he gets back up, the officers are on him. They push him against the Porsche, bending him over the hood as they put handcuffs on him. Wren and her friend are talking fast, and loudly, though they’re arguing over each other so I can’t really make out what they’re saying. One officer stands between the girls and Jonathan, acting as a barricade, finally saying something that makes them go silent.
Jonathan’s lips are moving fast—he’s trying to talk his way out of this. When the officer holding him straightens him up and the other one starts talking into his radio, Jonathan begins to panic again. He’s still talking quickly, but now he’s shaking his head at them. His eyes squint shut, defeated, as the officer holding him reaches into Jonathan’s back pocket and digs out his wallet.
A police car with its lights off leisurely rounds the corner and pulls up at the curb in front of Jonathan. As his eyes follow the car, they find me.
“Amanda!” He shouts my name over and over again. His face is alight, full of hope. Like he really thinks I can help him.
“That’s my baby sister—she’s here to get me. She’ll take me home—” I can’t hear or decipher everything my brother is telling them. But all four cops, the two on the bikes and the two that have just arrived with the car, stare back at me. Waiting. Maybe I really can stroll across the street and take my drunk brother off their hands. Promise to put him to bed and keep him hydrated. Laugh with them about the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Maybe they’d be perfectly happy to send him home safely, save themselves the trouble of paperwork and a trip back to the station.
“Come here, Amanda, tell them!” Jonathan’s slurring, but his voice still carries.
I try to shout back, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about the gin rickey. The diffusion of responsibility. Henry’s face when he confessed he shouldn’t have been driving us. My father standing outside Newton’s. My mother, holding on tight to her no-curfew policy. All the trouble Graham goes through before he drinks. The lies Sutton tells herself.
And then I think of Grace.
Jonathan’s face is strained now, and the cops seem to have given up on me. They’re pulling him toward the cruiser. He resists, leaning away from them, practically making them drag him. He never stops screaming my name.
I turn around, start walking back to my car. And even though my brother is calling for me, louder by the second, I manage to get in my car and turn on the engine. My hands are steady, but my insides feel like they’re jumping, and all I want to do is put my head down and cry. As soon as the police car drives away with Jonathan securely in back, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. Tears stream fast down my cheeks, and I cover my mouth to keep the sobs in. But it doesn’t work. I can’t stop thinking that maybe I’ve failed him again. It’s hard to be alone with myself, with all of these thoughts.
And then I remember, I don’t have to be. I take out my phone, holding it close as I dial. I wipe away my tears as I listen to the phone ring three times before I get an answer.
“Dad.” I’m trying to make my voice sound normal, but it’s a wasted effort.
“Amanda?” He sounds immediately rattled. “What’s the matter?”
I tell him everything. And when I’m finished, he doesn’t hesitate, he just says, “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” He hangs up before I have the chance to protest or ask him what we’re going to do about Jonathan.
From: [email protected]
To: Dawn Horner [mailto:[email protected]]
Sent: Thursday, November, 20, 3:00 p.m.
Subject: Again
I do not blame you for not answering my phone calls, nor do I blame you for the reply text you sent—I don’t need this—when I texted you an apology with a “but.” I take back the but things have been really hard.
That’s no excuse. Because as Gary says, there are people in your life meant to push you and those who are meant
to match you (it’s true my brother’s probation officer is very wise; if only Jonathan would notice, he’d learn a lot). And I think you and I have always been matches; so when we were separated by distance and in different physical places as well as in different stages of our lives, we were so used to being in sync that we stopped trying to understand each other. I feel I know too well by now that understanding each other is not effortless, and I’m sorry our friendship had to be damaged in the process.
We can talk more about this (face-to-face!) when you’re home for Christmas next month. It’s a bummer you won’t be back for Thanksgiving, but I understand how expensive it is for plane tickets when you can only be here for a few days. Until then I’m around via email, text, and phone.
Oh, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Henry. I treated it like a shameful secret, because I’m so used to shameful secrets. But I’ll tell you more about that when you get here. Or maybe you can just see for yourself.
Also, Jonathan might be in jail when you get here. Earlier this week he was taken into protective custody for being drunk and disorderly. Oh, and for peeing on a Porsche. It’s a long story, but it seems all his get out of jail free cards have been used up. He’ll be headed back to the big house right before Christmas. Gary still isn’t convinced they’ll put him away for the rest of his probationary period, and wouldn’t you know it, our lawyers are at it again, though Gary and high-priced attorneys can do only so much. Jonathan’s got to do the rest.
I miss you and am counting down the days until I can see you.
Your very sorry best friend,
Amanda
CHAPTER