More Than We Can Tell

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “Good night.”

  With that, he pulls the door closed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  NINETEEN

  Emma

  Dad: Emma, I don’t like how things ended last night. I would appreciate a chance to talk to you. How about brunch? Just you and me? I can pick you up at 11.

  I look at the clock.

  It’s 10:00 a.m.

  I turn off my phone.

  I roll over.

  When they knock at 11, I ignore them.

  I don’t get out of bed all day.

  TWENTY

  Rev

  Sunday, March 18 1:26:16 p.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Void

  I’m beginning to think I’m sending e-mails into the void. Are you on the other end?

  Answer me.

  I don’t want to.

  I turn off my phone.

  I roll over in bed and pull the pillow over my head.

  I don’t get out of bed all day.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Emma

  Ethan_717: It might be too late to send you a message, but I just wanted to check on you.

  The message hits my screen after midnight. I have to be up for school in the morning, but sleep is a long way off. I don’t even feel tired.

  That might have something to do with lying in bed all day, but I don’t think so.

  Divorce.

  We’ll have to put the house on the market.

  Where will we go? What does that mean?

  I don’t want to think about it. Messaging is a good distraction.

  Azure M: I’m alive.

  Ethan_717: I’m glad to hear it. Are you OK?

  Azure M: I have not left my room all day.

  Ethan_717: I haven’t either. Any more messages from the Nightmare guy?

  Azure M: No. And I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s crazy. What’s up with you?

  Ethan_717: The usual.

  Then he sends me a gif of a crazy woman pulling her hair out, with the caption NO WIRE HANGERS!

  It’s from an old movie about Joan Crawford, who couldn’t deal with the stress of Hollywood and took it out on her children. Mom loves it.

  I know, I know. I can see the irony.

  Azure M: Is your mom like that?

  Ethan_717: She can be.

  Azure M: Are all mothers like this? I don’t even get it.

  Ethan_717: Yes. All mothers are crazy.

  Azure M: Then again, my father might have made her this way. I don’t know.

  Ethan_717: I’m sorry you’re going through this.

  Azure M: Thanks.

  Ethan_717: Are your parents still living in the same house right now?

  Azure M: I don’t want to talk about it.

  Ethan_717: OK.

  Azure M: OK.

  Ethan_717: I’m assuming you don’t want to run a mission?

  Azure M: Not right now.

  Ethan_717: I wish I could help.

  Azure M: You are. Thanks, Ethan.

  Then I blink at the screen. I quickly type another line.

  Azure M: I just realized that I don’t even know if that’s your real name.

  Ethan_717: It is. I’m Ethan. The 717 is my birthday. July 17. I know it’s not a gamer name, but I started using Ethan_717 when I was 9 and now I can’t seem to give it up.

  Azure M: I’m Emma.

  Ethan_717: EMMA! Now I get it. All this time I’ve been guessing M names. I was torn between Melissa and Melanie.

  My eyebrows go up.

  Azure M: Dude. You could have just asked.

  Ethan_717: No, it was more fun to try to figure it out.

  Azure M: Now you know everything about me.

  Ethan_717: I’m writing a biography entry for Wikipedia right now.

  I almost laugh, but it’s like my sense of humor is broken.

  The thought makes me want to burst into tears again.

  Ethan_717: Can I tell you something?

  Azure M: Sure.

  Ethan_717: It might be better. The divorce.

  Okay. I do burst into tears. I’m so glad we’re typing instead of on the headset, or he’d think I was this total weepy mess all the time.

  Azure M: We have to move. Mom said we have to sell the house.

  Ethan_717: It’s just a house. You’ll see. It’s just a house.

  Azure M: Did you have to move when your parents got divorced?

  Ethan_717: Of course.

  Azure M: And it wasn’t bad?

  Ethan_717: No. It was the end of life as I knew it. It was awful.

  Azure M: Gee. Thanks.

  Ethan_717: But I survived.

  I swipe at my face with the sheet again. My cheeks are raw.

  After a moment, he sends me another message.

  Ethan_717: Hey, I don’t want to be too forward, but here’s my number. In case you ever want to talk outside the game. I know what it’s like.

  And then he sends me his number. It chases some of my tears away.

  I immediately add him as a contact in iMessage, which will add him on my phone, too. I quickly send him a text.

  Emma: Thanks, Ethan.

  Ethan: You’re welcome, Emma.

  I roll over in bed and pull the blankets over my head.

  And for the first time all day, I smile.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rev

  Monday, March 19 5:26:32 a.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Answer me

  I told you to answer me.

  Answer me, Son.

  I will not wait forever.

  I will not wait forever.

  The e-mail is still sitting in my in-box, unanswered. But the words poke at me with unsettling frequency. Every time I move. Every time I inhale. Every time my heart beats.

  It feels like a threat.

  “You look like crap,” says Declan when I climb into his car at 7:00 on Monday morning.

  “I look the same as I always do.” I’m in jeans and a black hoodie. You know. For a change. I didn’t bother to shave because I don’t want a lot of questions about the bruise on my jaw.

  Declan’s hand is on the gearshift. “Am I waiting for Matthew?”

  “No. Just go.”

  The car rocks and shifts as he works the clutch to accelerate down the street. “I feel like I’ve missed something.”

  “Do we have time to stop for coffee?” I would have had a cup at home, but Matthew was in the kitchen with Geoff and Kristin. I haven’t spoken to him since Saturday night.

  I haven’t spoken to anyone since Saturday night.

  “I guess.” Declan makes the right at the end of my street, toward the Dunkin’ Donuts.

  His radio is tuned to alternative music, which I don’t mind, but right now the angsty suggestive lyrics rub me the wrong way. I reach out and twist the silver dial all the way to the left.

  Now it’s silent.

  “You going to talk or what?” says Declan.

  I keep my eyes on the windshield. Clouds darken the sky, and rain spits at the glass. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Why didn’t Matthew ride with us?”

  “Because I almost killed him.”

  Declan glances over. “What? Wait.” He does a double take, then studies me a little more closely before turning back to the road. “Did someone hit you?”

  “He tried to run away again. Saturday night. I went after him. He wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Wow.” He stretches the word into three syllables.

  Dunkin’ Donuts is packed, with at least ten people waiting for the drive-through. Declan pulls into the line anyway.

  “I can just run in,” I say.

  “No way. I want to hear this.”

  I shrug and bury my hands in the front pocket of the hoodie. “There’s
not a whole lot to say.”

  Declan sighs and runs his hand down his face. “Am I awake? This feels like our conversation the other night. I’m sure you didn’t almost kill him—”

  “I did. I thought about it. I could have done it.”

  “Rev.” His voice is quiet. He must hear the turmoil in my own. “You should have come over.”

  “I almost did. I thought Geoff and Kristin were going to make me leave.”

  His eyebrows go up. “You’re calling them Geoff and Kristin now?”

  “Shut up.”

  The car revs hard as he pulls forward with the line. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

  “I’m not safe, Dec! I’ve been telling you that for months.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Rev.”

  “Don’t do that,” I snap.

  Declan isn’t easy to intimidate. He meets my attitude head-on. “You’re not safe? Is he alive or isn’t he?”

  I grit my teeth. “He’s alive.”

  “Did he hit you first, or did you hit him?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It’s totally important!”

  “He hit me,” I grind out.

  “So you just hit him back?”

  “No. I didn’t hit him at all.”

  “Wow. Sounds like you’re incredibly unsafe. Maybe you should get out of the car.”

  I glare at him. “Stop. Mocking. Me.”

  We pull up to the speaker, and a woman squawks at us to order. Declan orders coffee for each of us, then glances at me. “Food?”

  “No.”

  He orders two breakfast sandwiches anyway, because he knows me better than that.

  When we’re in the space between speaker and window, he looks over again. “I’m not mocking you. I’m trying to understand what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying I had him in a choke hold and I thought about breaking his neck.”

  “So what. I think about doing the same thing to Alan at least once a month, and that’s without having him in a choke hold.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “It’s exactly the same, Rev. Exactly. You think it’s a crime to think about harming someone? You could walk up to any kid at school and I guarantee they’ve had a violent thought in the last twenty-four hours. Hell, most of them have probably had a violent thought in the last twenty-four minutes.”

  His words are so simple, but for me, they take a little more examination. This feels different.

  “You spend too much time inside your own head,” he says then, which shocks me into silence.

  We get to the window, and he pays. He doesn’t ask me for money, and I wonder if he’s feeling guilty about some of his comments.

  I don’t offer to pay him back, because I’m still irritated.

  We drive the few miles to school in silence, but we can blame the food this time. Declan pulls into a parking space just as his girlfriend is getting out of her car. Juliet waits for him to open the door.

  “Quick,” Declan says to her. “When’s the last time you had a violent thought about someone?”

  “Three seconds ago,” she says. “When I saw you stopped for coffee but didn’t bring me one.”

  He holds out the cup. “Wrong. This is for you.”

  Her expression lights up, and she kisses him, then takes a sip.

  He’s such a liar. Probably.

  But then she hands it to him and says, “We can share,” and I wonder if this was his plan all along. He smiles and takes the coffee, then takes her hand.

  He makes it look so easy. I’m irritated again.

  Once we enter the school, the hallway splits. Normally, I’d walk with Declan and Juliet to the cafeteria until school starts, but I don’t want to continue our conversation in front of her. I barely want to have it with him. They head left and I veer right.

  “Hey,” Declan calls after me.

  I don’t turn. “I need to grab a book before class.”

  My locker takes three tries to open. The combination doesn’t want to work right. My fingers are too rough, too aggressive. I’m not familiar with this feeling.

  Once it’s open, I realize I don’t really need a book. I didn’t even need to open my locker.

  I slam it shut. Metal on metal. The sound echoes down the hallway. Students nearby turn to stare at me, just for a moment, before moving on with their own day.

  “Looks like someone pissed off the Grim Reaper.”

  I whirl, one hand clenched on the strap of my backpack, but whoever spoke is long gone.

  The hallway is crowded with the typical crush of students who need to get to class, but auburn hair catches my eye. Emma. I’ve never seen her in this hallway before—but I’ve never been looking. Her hair hangs loose and shining, but her eyes are dark and shadowed. Her skin is pale, the freckles standing out like she drew them on.

  I think about the altercation with Matthew and wish I could duck into my locker.

  But my gaze stops on her shadowed eyes again. Something happened.

  I step into her path. “Emma.”

  She looks up in surprise. “Oh.” She sounds like she’s speaking through a fog. “Hey.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “You look …” I hesitate.

  She nods.

  Then her face crumples.

  Then she presses her face into my sweatshirt.

  I barely know how to react. I would be less surprised if Declan did this.

  “Emma.” I duck my head and keep my voice low. “Emma, what happened?”

  She shakes against me. Students continue to swirl around us, but I ignore them. My hands find her shoulders, and I wonder if it’s okay to touch her. At the same time, I can’t let go.

  And then, all at once, she jerks back and swipes at her cheeks. My hands are suddenly empty. There’s a foot of space between us.

  “I’m so stupid.” Her voice is full of emotion. “Please pretend this didn’t just happen.”

  “Emma—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  She uses a sleeve to scrub at her eyes. “You were the first person to talk to me, and I wasn’t ready.” Her eyes are locked on my chest. “I made a wet mark on your shirt.”

  Like I care. “Is it Nightmare?” I ask. “Did you get another e-mail?”

  “I wish.” Her voice breaks. “I wish it was him.”

  And then she bursts into tears again.

  The first bell rings. We have three minutes to be in class.

  I have never been late to class.

  Right now, I don’t care. I take her hand. “Come on.”

  Declan is around the corner, standing by his locker with Juliet. Their voices are low and serious. Juliet spots me first, and I watch her eyes shift to the clearly distraught girl at the end of my arm.

  She taps Declan, then nods in my direction.

  “Great,” mutters Emma. She swipes at her eyes again and almost ducks behind me.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  Juliet is fishing in her backpack, and she comes up with a pack of tissues. “Here,” she says, holding them out to Emma. “Are you okay?”

  Emma sniffs and blinks in surprise. “Oh. Thanks.” She takes some tissues and moves to hand them back, but Juliet shakes her head.

  “Keep them. I have plenty.”

  Declan glances at the clock at the end of the hallway. He doesn’t care about his own schedule—much—but he knows I’m supposed to be on the other side of the school right now. “What’s up?”

  “Can I have your keys?”

  “Sure.” He digs them out of the front of his backpack and tosses them to me. “You all right?”

  The hallways are already thinning. If we’re going to get out of the school, we have to do it right now, before we’re questioned in the hallway.

  “Yes. Thanks.” Then I lead Emma toward the side exit.

  She doesn’t resist at all. Not even when I push through the d
oor and lead her into the rain.

  “You don’t care about missing class?” I say.

  “Right now I don’t care about anything at all.”

  The door slams behind us. We’re alone in the student parking lot, though I’m sure it won’t last. There are always late stragglers. The rain has kept everyone else indoors, and we’re able to slip into Declan’s car without being seen.

  Emma slides into the front seat and pushes her backpack down onto the floorboards. “This isn’t what I expected. Is this a classic car or something?”

  “Yes. A Charger. His pride and joy. He rebuilt it himself.” And he handed over the keys like it was nothing.

  Guilt pricks at me. Declan would never keep a secret like this from me.

  “Your friend?”

  “Declan.” I turn the key to start the engine and get some heat going. The rain has locked a chill into the air. Our breaths fog the glass.

  “And that girl … his girlfriend?”

  “Juliet. Yes.”

  She pulls another tissue from the pack, then drops the visor. She was probably expecting a mirror, but there isn’t one. She snaps it back up and turns on the camera on her phone so she can see herself. She makes a face at the reflection and turns it off. “You said they met by exchanging letters?”

  “Sort of.” This feels like a deliberate avoidance of the whole crying-on-my-sweatshirt thing, but I can play along. “Dec got in some trouble last year,” I say. “He had to work community service at a cemetery. Juliet was writing letters to her dead mother, and he started writing back.”

  She turns to me with eyes wide. “Like, pretending to be her mother?”

  “No! No, nothing like that. Just … writing back and talking about losing someone.” I hesitate. “His sister died when we were thirteen. His dad was drunk and crashed the car.”

  “Whoa.” Emma crushes the tissue in her fist and stares out the windshield. “Every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I realize someone else has something bigger. And then I feel like a real ass.” Another tear slips down her cheek. “And then I feel resentful, and then I feel like more of an ass for feeling resentful.”

  “Life isn’t a competition.”

  “My parents are getting a divorce. They’re not dead. There’s no competition.”

  I swing my head around. After all the tears, she drops this like it’s nothing. “They’re what?”