Mom stood. “James...” Her voice waned, but her face said it all.
I stepped backward to avoid my mother’s advance. “Dad?” I asked. “Where is she?”
Mom answered for him. “Honey... Mara’s gone.”
I shook my head. “We have a date tonight.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield picked her up this morning. They’re adopting her, James.”
“Adopting?” My mind grappled with the news. “But school starts next week.”
“Mara’s enrolled in a private school near the Greenfields,” Mom said. “She gets a brand new start, James.”
My chest heaved and I dropped the glass. It clamored on the tile but didn’t break. Tea splattered everywhere.
“Honey–” Mom stepped closer but I held out my palms and she stopped.
“How long did she know?”
Mom sighed.
“How long!”
“She knew for... a while. She wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“Well she didn’t!” I screamed, then backed against the wall, slid to the floor, and cried.
* * *
I knew better than anybody what was best for Mara. Although it took days to admit it to myself, Mom was right, she was safer with the Greenfields.
Mara Lynn could never live within biking distance of Grand Harbor. Her biggest obsessors were years from the legal driving age. Forty miles was enough distance to sever all ties with the boys who lived to love her.
Why was I spared Mara’s wrath? With Mara gone, the answer was obvious: I wasn’t spared. The kiss was my punishment. The kiss had sealed our bond. I belonged to Mara Lynn and now she was gone.
Ryan Brosh was a testimony to the power of Mara’s lips; without ever hearing her sing, a silly kiss propelled him to destroy my sister, to lie to my family, and to perform Shakespearean monologues in public. Now, the desire was in me too–more potent than love, lust, or infatuation–and it could never be satisfied.
* * *
Life carried on in spite of my loss.
The carnival deaths made the front page of the tribune for nine straight days and appeared on CNN twice.
Dad took up marksmanship as his new hobby. Friday nights were spent at a firing range, and he even purchased an automatic skeet shooter from Mr. Greenfield’s store.
Mom was scheduled to pick up Fantasia on my first day of school. She changed the sheets in the crib, bought a new pack of onesies, and vacuumed the entire house in anticipation of the baby’s arrival. But the night before Fantasia’s return, Mr. Anderson called and explained to my mother that her foster license had been temporarily revoked. Her stability had been called into question thanks to Mara’s involvement in the carnival carnage.
A thorough investigation lasted through November. In the end, the charges were unsubstantiated and Mom’s foster license was reinstated, but she had already lost the devotion necessary for foster care. Mara Lynn was our last temporary blessing.
Junior high began without incident. My teachers knew my situation and offered me exemption from class to deal with the anxiety that comes with witnessing death. I declined their offer and attended the first day of school with Whit at my side. It was my only distraction from the sickness.
I rarely slept in those first few weeks, spending my nights editing the movie, losing myself in Mara’s fuzzy image, yearning to hear her sing just one more time.
I finished Fairytale during the second week of school and dedicated the movie to Dorothy with a handmade title card. Mom promised me we’d visit the Greenfields when Mara was ready for approved guests. I could even bring a copy of the movie to show the whole family.
I reached my goal weight of one-twenty-five in anticipation of my reunion with Mara, but excuses were made and the date was rescheduled.
I tried to call her house, but the Greenfields were diligent in picking up the phone first. “She’s not ready, James...” they told me. “But if you have a message, I’ll be sure to deliver it for you!”
It would be Christmas before I saw her again.
* * *
It was my idea to visit Ryan Brosh at his home. Maybe I thought Ryan was the key to my unanswered questions. Maybe I longed to connect with the only living boy who understood the sickness caught between my ribs and my spine. Maybe I wanted to witness my enemy’s pain.
Rumors had been flying like spit wads through the hallways of junior high; jokes about the jock who turned retarded because of a crush on a girl.
“I heard his parents lock his door from the outside so he can never come out,” said Jeffery Spitler as Whit and I eavesdropped from a nearby lunch table.
“That’s not half of it!” said his friend. “Jodi’s sister Tori brings him homework after school. Said he’s strapped to his bed and his parents slip food through a special crack in his door.”
“If he’s strapped to the bed, how does he eat?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe they hire somebody to feed him.”
For the first time in the history of seventh grade, the rumors weren’t far from reality. Ryan’s mother greeted me at the front door with a hug and a shower of gratitude. “You’re the first person to visit Ryan since... the incident,” she said. Her face reminded me of warm wax. Eyeliner was the only makeup she wore, giving her face a distorted, top-heavy quality, and drawing attention to her pink eyes. “I know you and Ryan had a falling out after the incident with your sister. But Don and I... we really appreciate your effort to rekindle a friendship.”
Friendship was hardly my goal. “It’s not a problem, Ma’am.”
“Does blood bother you?” she asked as she led me through a corridor of black-and-white family photos in uniform frames. “Ryan refuses to wear a bandage on his neck. The nurse comes every two days to dress the wound, but the gauze is off before she leaves the room. Do you know how to play Mad Libs?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“He likes filling out Mad Libs. Connect Four is another favorite. It’s on the bookshelf if you want to play.” She knocked lightly on the last door on the left. “Ryan? Sweetheart? You have company.”
At the foot of Ryan’s bed, a television balanced on a glass coffee table that matched the living-room set I passed only moments ago. On the screen, an operator was explaining the benefits of ordering The Disney Channel. Then a burst of static, followed by a political advertisement condemning Clinton’s healthcare plan. More static, another commercial.
Ryan’s eyes were blue without the charm. His summer tan had dissolved weeks ago into the off-white hue of kindergarten paste. His bangs hung past his eyes, but he was too enthralled by the TV to care.
A vanity was partially obstructed by an open closet door. Its mirror was missing, leaving an empty, oval frame. A stack of textbooks sat on the floor with crisp covers and unbroken spines. Heaps of magazines littered the nightstand forcing a lamp to the edge. The pages were crinkled and torn. The top magazine was an issue of TIME with a close-up of a woman’s face. The eyes and lips had been meticulously removed. The carpet was vacuumed with checker-board precision and I felt rude for not removing my sneakers at the front door.
Mrs. Brosh stepped inside just long enough to remove the remote from her son’s meager grip. She flipped off the TV and said, “Why don’t you two talk for a bit?” Remote in hand, she left us alone in the room.
Ryan’s head rolled to face me and it smiled. “They keep me from sleepwalking,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The straps.” He nodded to a velcro loop at the top bed post. “Not ‘cause I’m crazy, just ‘cause I dream.”
I nodded.
“Didja bring the movie, James?”
“What movie?” I asked, scrambling to remember the reasons I came.
“The fairytale, Jaaames.”
“I didn’t bring it this time, but I can make you a copy tonight.”
“You’re here to talk about her, aren’t ya James?” The hole in Ryan’s neck watched me as he spoke. “You’re miss
in’ her too, aren’t ya?”
“I just came to say hi.”
“You came to pry!” he said. “You came to find out what Mara showed me.” The hole mimicked his words like a second mouth. When Ryan smiled, the hole smiled too. “I’ll never say, little dude. It’s for me. It’s locked away and I’ll never tell a soul!”
“I don’t care about that.”
“It was a gift, James. I don’t know what changed, but in that moment, I know she loved me.”
“What do you mean you don’t know what changed?”
“In Mara. The monologue? I was desperate. I never expected it to work. She turned me down so many times before–”
“Turned you down?”
“Jaaames, you’re so out of touch with reality!”
“When did she turn you down?”
“The first time? The day we met.”
“On the roof?”
“I wanted you to ask her if she liked me.”
“But I didn’t.”
“I know. So I grew some balls and did it myself.”
“But Mara did like you.”
“Ha!”
“She did! She said so in her diary! You read it yourself!”
“Jamesie, Jamesie, Jamesie... you should be the one strapped to the bed. Mara never mentioned me in her diary. I read it that night but it only confirmed what I already knew: Mara liked you, and she liked Whit.”
“Whit?” My eyes burned as I repeated his name. The pieces began to drop into place like a rapid game of Connect Four.
It was Whit from the very beginning.
He broke his own VCR to keep us at the castle.
He gave me candy to sabotage my diet.
He abandoned me so I couldn’t finish the film.
He told me about Ryan’s comment about my sister because, thanks to me, he also thought the jock was in the mix.
He staged the fight with A.J. to make himself look like a hero... but how did he convince Age to go along with it?
The new candy! Of course. Whit was the richest kid in the seventh grade. If A.J. accepted twenty bucks to rig a game of Truth or Dare, Whit could certainly pay him to take a hit.
Ryan fingered the hole in his neck while my mind digressed into an alternate reality where my arch nemesis was an innocent lunatic and my best friend was my sworn enemy.
The modem! Whit knew about the adoption and ordered the modem that the Greenfields found on their front step! Now Mara had email. Whit had email. And I was stuck making phone calls to a girl who wasn’t allowed to answer the phone!
The final revelation struck me so hard that I stumbled backwards in Ryan’s room. The boys with bleach... the ferrets in my trees... they were Whit’s friends from computer camp. Somehow, he rallied them together. They were boys he could trust and control, pawns in a game I didn’t even know we were playing, deployed by the mastermind as a diversion from his real plan!
Whit had it all figured out, but his schemes unraveled at the carnival. A.J. got mad and fought back for real. The pawns–sick of waiting in trees for Mara to sing–accepted her invitation and armed themselves for war.
“She makes you blind,” Ryan said. “She has that ability.”
I finally understood Mara’s despondent reaction to Ryan and Livy’s relationship. She wasn’t spiteful because Ryan loved another girl, but angry because she knew Ryan’s plan! The moment he showed interest in Mara, she knew the trajectory of her relationship with Livy. And it made her sad.
I realized too my part in Ryan’s fate: my slip of the tongue during his driveway apology. “Mara doesn’t like you anymore,” I had blurted. “Anymore?” he asked. And two days later, he staged his grand proposal.
“Jaaames,” Ryan groaned. “I want that movie, Jaaames.” His eyes snapped shut, then opened wide.
I shook my head and walked to the door.
“You owe me that movie, Jaaames,” he said again. “Bring me the movie, James! BRING ME THE MOVIE, JAMES!”
I twisted the knob and dashed from the room and ignored Mrs. Brosh on my way out the front door. I leapt on my bike and peddled like mad, but Ryan’s psychotic plea followed me home.
* * *
Whitney Conrad scanned the faces of our junior high classmates as they bickered over the fairness of "Chinese cuts" in the lunch line.
"Scared?" I asked.
He scoffed. "No. I’m preparing my introductions." He unzipped his infamous red bag to reveal organized rows of candy.
I pointed to a cluster of kids we knew from elementary. "What about Chris and the gang? They’re always good for a Heath bar."
"I’m stepping it up this year," Whit replied. "See those kids at the back of the lunch line? They’re carrying cold, hard cash. I just need to convince them that sugar tastes better than Meatloaf Surprise."
"Always thinkin’ ahead."
I expected Whit to muster his courage and approach the kids in line, but he remained still. "Danny and A.J...." he said.
"What about them?"
"I know how probability works." He paused. Even Whit was having trouble finding the words to express the impossible. "It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?"
"Why? Did you see something else that night?"
"No. Did you?"
"No."
Whit scratched his elbow and continued to face the dwindling line of kids.
"Have you and Mara been talking?" I asked.
"The Greenfields are strict about the phone–"
"Computer mail," I said. "You both have modems now."
Whit shook his head. "Naw. I don’t think Mr. G. knows how to work a computer."
I couldn’t tell Whit that I knew about his betrayal. Not yet.
But someday.
He unzipped another compartment on the outside of his backpack, then reached inside and plucked a baggie filled with white powder. "Candy?"
* * *
There’s a heading in my creative writing book titled “Understanding Theme: The Coming of Age Story.” In this section, the author pinpoints the protagonist’s transition into manhood at “the moment he accepts that there are forces of nature he cannot control or comprehend. Victory comes when he ultimately learns to smile.”
I’d like to say that my summer with Mara taught me a valuable lesson; that I grew up, learned to smile, forgot about my grade-school crush and moved on with my life. But this isn’t that kind of story. Mara wasn’t an after-school special or the catalyst for a textbook ascent into manhood. I belonged to her. I would love her for the rest of my life. If these persistent truths hampered my maturity, then so be it.
I could wait. I could be different.
And someday, I would succeed where the others had failed.
EPILOGUE: LOS ANGELES, NOVEMBER 2004
It’s six AM and my book is complete.
I’m drunk, probably high, and I can hear last night’s fling stirring in my bedroom.
Broken vertical blinds cast a row of orange bars across my keyboard. I part them with my hand and peer at the yellow-stucco apartment across the street. A light turns on in the second story window. I imagine what she’s wearing and ponder–again–her morning routine.
I’m not the only man who chased Mara’s perfection across the continent. How many other boys awoke in the City of Angels the same way one arrives at their destination but can’t remember the drive? How many of my childhood peers are walking the prickly shores of Venice Beach with a west-coast fling in the crook of their arm, pretending not to scour every inch of their peripherals for that body, that smile, that glance that once dragged them into manhood and left?
My office door opens. The woman yawns and scratches her thigh. “How’s the book?” she asks.
“Done,” I tell her.
“When do I get to read it?”
I ignore her question.
She shrugs. We kiss. Thirty seconds after she leaves my office, I hear the shower.
Outside my window, the red convertible is right on time. His usual parking spa
ce is taken, so he blocks traffic and waits beside the yellow-stucco apartment. Asshole. He honks once and I watch her emerge; the light of my waking dream, the muse of my prose. Down the steps she runs–smiling–dashing between a pair of lemon trees and a rusty blue gate, then into the car of a faceless man who will never understand that Mara Lynn can’t be bought, that she’ll ruin his life, or that I saw her first.
REQUEST AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the lovely person who just finished my book,
Writing novels is a horrible way to make money. I’ve been doing this for over four years, and I’m not even close to making a living off my work... which sucks, because writing is the only thing I’m good at.
I feel like I have a lot more to offer, and I’m confident my dreams can come true with the help of my readers. If you want to read more of my work in the future, please take a few seconds to rate and review this book on any of the following websites. It might seem like a silly request, but one review has the potential to launch my career.
Amazon
iTunes
Goodreads
I can’t wait to read your feedback!
Jake
______________________________
I hate my writing about 85% of the time. I doubt my characters, I write the same words over and over, and I wonder if my sentences will even make sense to readers. After six months of exploring the same themes, it becomes impossible to see the forest through the trees. Characters start to look the same, the concepts I once found exciting begin to feel dull, and I feel as if I’m merely transcribing a series of banal notes from my bulletin board. Self-doubt is a struggle for any artist, and it’s often the reason we fail.
Luckily we have family, friends, and dedicated readers for support.
At the time of this printing, I am engaged to the most loving and patient girl in the world. Allison listens to me bitch about my writing all day, every day, and reminds me constantly of the reasons I do what I do. It’s because of her feedback that I see the good in my work. Her encouragement is my biggest source of motivation.
My poor mother has put up with these creative ups and downs for years. Nobody knows more about my fear of failure than she does... and nobody has stuck with me for so long. If she didn’t believe in her son, I would have abandoned my creative aspirations with the piano, drums, painting, sculpting, filmmaking, or screenwriting. Thanks to her, I have courage to go on.
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