Playlist for the Dead

by Michelle Falkoff

  Eric smiled. “Looking for some dish on Astrid? I’m all yours.”

  Not even close, but I saw no need to say that right away. I steered him to a table in the opposite corner, where the rest of their crew wouldn’t see us. Eric put his tray down but moved it aside a little; I almost felt bad that he seemed so excited to help me make things work with Astrid when there was a good chance I was going to ruin everything by opening my mouth. But I had to know.

  I wasn’t sure where to start, though. “Things have been really . . . complicated . . . for me since Hayden died,” I finally said. “There’s a lot going on, and I have a lot of questions. I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “I can try,” he said. “Although I didn’t really know Hayden. I knew Astrid wanted him to come hang out with us eventually, but she said he was shy, wasn’t ready yet.”

  “My questions aren’t really about Hayden. Not directly, anyway.”

  Eric gave me a quizzical look.

  “I know this is going to sound kind of random, but I was talking to Astrid, and she was telling me about the night Hayden died. How she was supposed to go to that party, but she didn’t. And I got the sense that maybe . . . maybe she didn’t go because of you.”

  Eric’s face fell. “I see,” he said.

  “I get that we don’t know each other that well, and it sounds like this is probably pretty personal,” I said. “But is there any chance you’d be willing to tell me what happened?”

  He looked down at the table for a minute, then looked back up at me. I could tell he’d made some sort of decision. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but not here. Can you come by my house this afternoon? After school?”

  “Sure,” I said. Whatever the story was, it sounded like it was going to be a big deal. I could barely wait.

  The minute the final bell rang I headed over to Eric’s house. I remembered he had a car, so I figured if I walked I could be sure he’d beat me there. The ground was damp from all that rain the other night, which I supposed was a good sign for the whole mudding thing, but I was wearing an old pair of Chuck Taylors and they squeaked as I walked, Hayden’s playlist, as always, on my iPod.

  He’d included two versions of the song “Hurt”—one was the original Nine Inch Nails version, which he loved. He had a thing for goth stuff; he went through a horrible Marilyn Manson phase that I wasn’t sure our friendship would survive. He was convinced in particular of Trent Reznor’s genius. I, on the other hand, didn’t think I was even capable of liking a Nine Inch Nails song until I heard Johnny Cash’s cover of “Hurt,” the second version Hayden had included. Johnny Cash had covered a whole bunch of songs you wouldn’t expect—Depeche Mode, Tom Petty, that sort of thing. I thought it was brilliant; Hayden thought it was a stunt he’d been talked into when he was getting ready to die. I’d softened my position on Trent Reznor eventually; I thought it was cool that he’d let Nine Inch Nails go for a while so he could score movies. Hayden had never wavered on the Johnny Cash covers, though, and the fact that he’d included both songs seemed like a sign to me, that he didn’t totally hate me. Although I knew I was in constant danger of reading too much into the playlist. I wished I could feel more sure about why Hayden had included what he did, what it all meant, what he thought I would eventually be able to understand.

  I finally got to Eric’s house; his mom must have been out with the kids because he was the one who answered the door when I knocked. “Come on up,” he said, and I followed him to the attic.

  “Want something to drink?” He walked over to a mini-fridge and pulled out two bottles of water. I nodded, and he handed me one. “Let’s get comfortable,” he said. “We might be a while.”

  The piles of cushions and blankets were still strewn all over the floor from our movie night. Eric claimed a beanbag chair and I tried to stack up some pillows so I wasn’t splayed out too awkwardly. I remembered how comfortable I’d felt the other day, curled up with Astrid; it was pretty much the opposite of how I felt right now.

  I wasn’t sure how to get him to start, so I figured I’d just start babbling and he could interrupt me. “I don’t know how much Astrid’s told you about me . . .”

  Eric smiled. “Enough, that’s for sure. She’s very into you, in case you can’t already tell.”

  I blushed. “Believe me, it’s mutual. But you know about Hayden too, right?”

  “I do,” he said.

  I appreciated that he didn’t try to say more, that he just acknowledged that I’d lost something. It didn’t make things better, but nothing would.

  “She told me she was trying to help him,” I said. “She was supposed to meet Jess at that party, but she didn’t go.”

  “And that’s where I come in,” he said.

  I was relieved that he understood. I waited for him to say more, but he seemed to be thinking. Then he took a long drink from his water bottle, like he was gearing up for something.

  “What the hell,” he said finally. “All my other friends know. And if you’re going to be hanging out with us you might as well know too. Come take a look.” He got up from the beanbag chair as gracefully as anyone can get out of a beanbag chair and walked over to the corner where he’d been painting the other day. I followed him and stared at the portrait, at those features that had looked so familiar, and then I realized why. I looked at Eric.

  He nodded.

  “That’s Jason,” I said.

  “We used to be a thing,” he said.

  Of course. The rumor about Jason, Astrid mentioning that Eric had been through a bad breakup. But how could I have known? Just because they were both gay didn’t mean they’d been a couple. They were such an unlikely pair.

  We went and sat back down, and Eric started talking. “We met in church—we went to the same Sunday school class for years. And I think we probably both reacted the same way when the minister would rant and rave about the evils of homosexuality and all that. We were both closeted, though he was way more scared of people finding out than I was. I just figured it was no one’s business but mine, and I wasn’t ready to talk to my family yet. But his family was super religious, and he figured they’d completely freak out if they knew about him. Not to mention that even though they live on the east side, they have, like, no money, and he was counting on this church scholarship to go to college. If they found out he was gay, there was no chance he’d get it.”

  So that’s what he’d meant the other day: Most people around here would rather stay closeted than run the risk of losing a scholarship because your church found out you were gay. I’d assumed he’d just been making an offhand comment, but he’d really been talking about Jason.

  Eric paused to take another sip of water, and I realized on some level he wanted to tell the story to someone, start to finish, the way he’d probably not been able to before.

  “That must have been really hard for both of you,” I said.

  “It was,” he said, sounding grateful. “I know he can be a real asshole, but he wasn’t like that when we were alone. He was different. It’s hard to explain. But we were happy. At least I thought we were.”

  “But something happened,” I said. “The night of Stephanie Caster’s party.” That must have been the night they broke up, but I didn’t want to say it out loud.

  “The very same,” he said. “I still don’t know all the details—Jason and I haven’t so much as looked at each other since. But I can guess. I think his friends found out, and they freaked. Told him if he wanted to hang out with them, he had to end it, and no one could ever find out. So he did. Via an extremely unpleasant text message.” He laughed, but it was a dark, ugly laugh.

  “And that’s why you called Astrid?”

  “No, I knew she had that party to go to, and it sounded like it was really important for her to be there—I didn’t know the details. But I guess Trevor and Ryan thought it wasn’t enough that Jason break up with me; they had to make sure to keep me busy enough not to try and get him back.”


  I wasn’t sure what he meant. “How?”

  “They outed me to my parents. That was when I snapped. I wanted to call Astrid, but I was hysterical. I could barely talk I was crying so hard.”

  Something about that made me almost jealous; I wondered if it was because I hadn’t yet been able to cry for Hayden.

  “I picked the girls up but I still couldn’t talk,” he said. “I think Astrid thought something had happened to me, like physically. When we got to the party she refused to get out of the car; she told Jess that it would be okay, that she’d be there soon, but she needed some time with me. I didn’t ask her to stay, but in a lot of ways I’m really grateful she did, even though I know it screwed everything up. I still feel guilty about that.”

  You and me both, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I didn’t know what to say, really. I thought about when I’d said something about Eric’s family accepting him, how Astrid had said, “They do now,” and Eric had basically shut her down. I’d stepped in it without realizing, and I didn’t want to do it again. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Thanks. It’s okay now—it’s not like I wasn’t going to tell them; I just wanted to do it on my own time, in my own way. They’re not homophobes or anything; they just haven’t been around gay people all that much, and it’s taking them some time to get used to the idea that their firstborn isn’t what they thought he was. But in some ways it’s made my life easier—now I don’t have to worry all the time about people finding out, and I can dress and act how I want.”

  Like Astrid, I thought. “I’m guessing you’re not thanking those guys for the opportunity, though.”

  “Hardly,” he said. “Like I told you the other day, I’m fine with them getting what they deserve. To a point.” It was an odd thing to say, and I wasn’t sure how to take it. “But that’s partly why I’m so excited about the race tomorrow. I’m going to destroy Ryan, even with him driving Trevor’s fancy new truck. He has no idea what he’s getting into.”

  That’s exactly what I was worried about. I wasn’t sure how to ask what I really wanted to know. I mean, I’d been looking for someone else who had a vendetta against the trifecta, and now I’d found him. Did that mean I had the answer to my question? Did that mean I finally knew who was behind the attacks?

  Except the way he talked about what happened—he sounded kind of like me. And if we both thought things had gone a little too far, did it make sense for either of us to be responsible? “You’re going to destroy him at the race,” I said, hoping he would understand.

  “Yes, at the race,” he said, and I thought maybe he did. “I can beat him, because he sucks, and he thinks Trevor’s truck is like, magical or something, but it isn’t, and this is the one place I can completely humiliate him on his own terms, and I’m going to do it. And that’s what I need to focus on right now.”

  He sounded like me again. We both wanted Ryan to get what he deserved, but in public. Where everyone would know exactly what happened. Still, I had to be sure.

  “Fair and square?” I said.

  “Fair and square,” he said. “I mean it. This kind of thing can be really dangerous if you screw around.” I remembered that stupid TV show that got canceled when a bunch of dudes got trapped in their truck.

  “I wasn’t sure how worried you were about things being dangerous,” I said.

  He gave me a look, and now I was sure he knew what I was talking about. “I worry,” he said quietly. “More than you think.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Good luck.” I still wasn’t as sure as I wanted to be—if it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Eric, I was at a loss to think of who was left, but I wanted to believe there could be someone else. And I really wanted to believe that the only bad thing that was going to happen to Ryan was that he was going to lose the race. I hoped it was true.

  And I was looking forward to being there to see it.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  RACHEL TOOK ONE LOOK AT ME as I came downstairs Saturday afternoon and sent me back upstairs to change. “Which part of ‘mudding’ did you not understand? You’re going to be covered. Find something crappier.”

  I wasn’t exactly dressed fancy, but when I saw Rachel and Jimmy I understood. They were both wearing all black, with raincoats and big clunky boots—Rachel’s were rubber, Jimmy’s were combat, duh—and while I wasn’t familiar enough with Jimmy’s wardrobe to tell, I knew Rachel’s clothes were really old; I recognized her leggings as ones she usually reserved for use as pajamas. I put on an old sweatshirt, my oldest jeans, and winter boots and got the nod from Rachel.

  “What exactly is happening here?” Mom asked. “You all look ridiculous.”

  I didn’t point out that, as far as I was concerned, Rachel and Jimmy tended to look kind of ridiculous all the time. Not to mention that Mom was wearing her work outfit; her scrubs today were covered with little ducks.

  She must have seen me looking at her. “Don’t say it,” she warned, and then turned to Jimmy. “Drive safe,” she said. “You’ve got my whole life in your car.”

  Jimmy gestured as if tipping his chauffeur hat. “I’m on it, Mrs. Goldsmith.”

  We still had a few days to go before Halloween, but the air was chilly, and Rachel’s hair tangled in the wind as we walked outside to Jimmy’s car. I wished I’d brought a coat, but I had a long-sleeved T-shirt on under my sweatshirt, and I hoped it would be enough. “You’re sure this is a good idea?” I asked as I got into the backseat, surprisingly clean given how much trash was in the front.

  “Don’t ask me,” Jimmy said. “This was all your sister’s idea.”

  “You need to get out more,” Rachel said. “And won’t your girlfriend be there?”

  “We haven’t exactly formalized our relationship,” I said, but I blushed anyway. So annoying.

  We passed the rest of the drive quietly, listening to Jimmy’s radio blaring out some whiny-voiced old singer wailing about Tom Sawyer over the insistent screeching of several guitars. I tried to block it out of my head by thinking about Hayden’s playlist; my favorite song on it was by Bon Iver, a band that was really just one guy, but he had this amazing high voice—not anxious and jangly like the guy singing now, but soft and throaty, almost feminine. Hayden had been pretty aggressively not into it when I’d made him listen, but he’d softened his stance over time, and I wasn’t surprised to hear a song about lost love on the mix, not after everything I’d learned.

  It took about twenty minutes to get to wherever it was we were going. I wasn’t sure whether to think of it as a party or a drag race or what, but regardless, we ended up deep in a field that I was guessing had recently been stripped of soybeans—it was too flat for corn. The rain from the other day had left it nice and muddy, more so than some of the other fields we’d passed.

  The real benefit of this area, though, was that the field bordered a large expanse of trees, which blocked the field from the road and provided some shelter in case it started to rain again. I could see that some people had started a bonfire in an expanse between two patches of trees, and there were a couple of kegs set up nearby. There were already at least thirty or forty kids milling around the area where the kegs were set up; I was relieved to see that Rachel was right, that there were people from all different social groups here, and everyone seemed to be getting along fine.

  Next to the kegs was a kind of makeshift parking lot with a bunch of cars in it, and then, of course, there were the trucks. At least ten of them, lined up on the side of the field, where a long piece of white tape marked what apparently was going to function as a starting line.

  “There’s a finishing line way out that way,” Rachel said, pointing. “Check out the middle, though—that’s where the action’s going to be.”

  I followed her finger to a spot I had to strain to see at first but that I could tell was the wettest part of the field
—the ground had sunk a bit, and the fading sun glistened on pools of oily water, making little rainbows like I used to love seeing in parking-lot puddles as a kid.

  I looked back over the row of trucks. It was easy to pick out Trevor’s, the red monstrosity covered with obnoxious bumper stickers. IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, MAYBE YOU’RE A LOSER, and LOST YOUR CAT? TRY LOOKING UNDER MY TIRES. Classy.

  A few trucks down was a more modest-looking pickup, one that I could picture actually hauling stuff on a farm, a faded blue Ford with patches of rust. Must have been Eric’s.

  “Looks like everyone’s over by the kegs,” Jimmy said.

  “Might as well drink up,” Rachel said. “It’s cold, and things won’t get going for another hour or so.”

  I remembered the party: the beers had helped, until I’d gotten too drunk. The trick for me seemed to be to nurse beer and stay away from the whiskey. I followed them past the trucks, looking for Astrid and her friends, but it took me a minute to find them; I saw Damian’s beard, then Jess standing next to him. Astrid and Eric were standing a few feet away; Astrid’s long platinum-blond hair was free of streaks and bundled into some kind of knot on the top of her head. She was whispering something to Eric, who looked angry, and grabbed her arm. She pulled away from him and stormed off, ducking behind the back of the row of trucks until it was hard to see her. “Actually, I’ll meet you guys over there, okay?” I said.

  I walked back to the row of trucks, where Astrid was kneeling behind Trevor’s, pulling things I couldn’t quite see out of that bronze backpack of hers and piling them on the ground. “Hey,” I said.

  She looked up, startled. “Sam! I didn’t expect to see you here yet.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips, almost as if to block my view of her backpack. But it was too late.

  “Apparently,” I said, and gestured to the pile. “What are the potatoes for, Astrid?”