by Elle Tyler
“The worst part about a person dying is all the destruction it leaves behind. I miss my mother, Julep, every day, but sometimes watching the aftermath of what it’s done to my father is worse. My mother’s pain left with her, but his pain is infinite. And if I am the flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, then his pain is also mine, isn’t it?”
I asked a question, and she answered despite my rhetorical intention.
“I would say yes. But I would also say that means the joy is yours, too. The pain comes from the joy. So there must have been so much joy that, once it’s gone, the world looks void.”
“Then there isn’t any hope for him… or me.” I exhaled in frustration. “Christ, what is it about you that makes me comfortable enough to fall apart, Everly Anne?”
She ignored my question. “Except looks are deceiving,” she added. “You know, the most beautiful thing I ever witnessed was a family releasing hundreds of red heart-shaped balloons the day their daughter was buried. They didn’t hide. Everyone asked them what they were doing and why they wore red. What the red was all about. Every person was given an answer. They wanted their daughter to live on in a story. They didn’t want to hide in black and cry in secret. They wanted her to live on in a way that couldn’t be denied. You can’t wipe someone out of a person’s memory or out of a day etched into the world. It’s impossible. But what you do with the memory… that is wholly up to you.”
SECRETS
4.
THERE WAS TOO much yelling, and my fist couldn’t knock. I wanted to speak to Brighton before class about changing some of my rotation hours, so I arrived thirty minutes too soon... at least, given my original mission.
Both voices were familiar. Both voices wanted very opposite things. Everly screamed that she wanted to go see someone named Truscott. Brighton yelled that she was supposed to have stayed home today and needed to rest. Also, that he was in charge, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, how juvenile she was acting, and a string of other fatherly things. Everly’s voice was more of a plea, begging with every protest.
I walked away from the classroom door, not wanting to hear or know anything else that happened inside of Everly’s world.
The taste of that lie burned as I tried to swallow it down.
I CRAVED TO WRITE
THIS DOWN
5.
I SPOTTED EVERLY at my sister’s café uptown one night before a group study session. I wasn’t sure if she’d talk to me outside of class, and I tried not to give it much thought as I spied her from my table. On a counter near the door rested a jar of tokens meant for free coffee—something kitschy Noelle promoted for the homeless or whatever. Basically, customers order a coffee but suspend the order and then she tosses a token in a jar for someone in need. None of this—much like the yellow dress and gray tights—would have been interesting except for the fact that Everly was rooting her hand around in that jar for a token. A girl whose father was a doctor who was both professionally and monetarily more prestigious than my own, and I had no trouble paying for coffee.
There was no other option for my curiosity than to watch her.
Everly handed my sister the token, and it wasn’t cool to ask questions about the use of one. She was given a free cup of coffee; she then asked for something else, something that troubled Noelle, and that something turned out to be a cup of ice. I wrote down what I witnessed as if it held some form of promise toward solving her differential. This should have been my first clue as to how utterly and disgustingly interested I was in Everly Anne Brighton—writing down such brilliant Eureka-like revelations such as, She drinks “iced” coffee.
But, stupidly... I watched her even more curiously, swearing it was all in the name of a good grade.
She dropped her backpack at a free table and then went to the sugar station. I followed like the curious little masochistic cat I had become.
From behind her I said, “You know this is New York, right?”
And to my surprise she only laughed and said, “Hey Callum,” her back still turned. When she was done stirring her coffee, she turned around and appraised me. Her eyes browsed my blue Polo and then trailed down to my khaki shorts and back up, finally resting on the sleeve of my shirt. She didn’t say anything, and I felt slightly awkward, so I expanded my first statement.
“Saving your seat isn’t worth having your belongings stolen.”
“There’s nothing valuable to steal,” she said. “I brought my most prized possession to the cream and sugar station.” She waved her hand along her body.
And, even though I thought she was funny, I argued, “You must have brought your book bag along because you value what’s inside it on some level.”
“Material items are replaceable, which makes them lack value. There must be ten stores on this block alone where I could repurchase every item in my bag.”
“I wish I could disregard my things so easily.”
“Well, what’s in your bag?” she asked, nodding to my table, and I wondered when she had spotted me. “Can I see?”
I glanced around to see if anyone from class had arrived before I slid over to my table. Everly followed and then, when we sat, dumped out the contents. She held up the copy of Peter Pan she’d gifted me.
“Study material?” she questioned with a smile.
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
Apparently my wallet was interesting. She held it up with her eyes narrowed.
“Most men keep them in their back pocket,” she insisted.
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m not most men.”
“Few doctors are. Which is odd, considering they all act alike, for the most part. The irony is interesting.”
“Also,” I continued as if she hadn’t jabbed me, “I live in a city where pick-pocketing is pretty easy. Some even make a living that way.”
She nodded and then opened my wallet to spy on the contents. To be honest, I didn’t give a shit. There wasn’t anything incriminating or embarrassing. It was in fact much less scandalous and much more comfortable than most conversations we’d had. Everly told me she liked the picture on my driver’s license, even though I told her I was sick the day it was taken. She counted the money in my wallet—a little over two hundred in cash—and I explained my father always told me to never carry enough money to make someone kill you for it, and never too little to make someone kill you for not having anything.
And while wallet snooping was fine, phone snooping was not.
“This is too personal?” she asked.
“It has some personal stuff on it, yeah.”
She grinned. And then we squared off. Brow-arched, tumbleweed-blowing, finger-twitching, hip-holstered-gun squared off.
“Text messages, Callum Andrew?”
But why must she be pretty and smart?
“May I have my phone back please?”
I reached for the phone, but Everly twisted away, her fingers desperately trying to unlock the screen as I tried to wrench it from her flailing arms.
“Why couldn’t I be a tech genius like the rest of my generation?” she cried. I finally grabbed the phone from her hand.
“Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought,” I joked, shoving the phone back into my bag. “It’s one clean swipe from left to right, Everly Anne.”
“I don’t have one.”
“A cell phone that locks? Don’t they all?”
“A phone,” she explained. “I don’t have a cell phone. Never have.”
I stared at her, feeling like she was fuckin’ with me. “It’s the twenty-first century, everyone has a cell phone. I saw a toddler on the E train talking on a cell phone last week. He even had an ear piece.”
She looked at her coffee. “My father is very strict about how and with whom I spend my time. Plus, I’ve spent much of my life in the hospital, so I don’t really have friends.”
My mouth stuck momentarily. “Doesn’t your dad want you to have one in case of emergency? Or, I don’t know… maybe to writ
e evasive, mysterious little updates infused with wittiness on your Face2Face page?”
She laughed. “I don’t have a Face2Face page, either. Not any kind of social media, actually.”
I zipped up my bag and stared, dubious. “My sister’s dog has its own Face2Face page. Over a thousand followers.”
“Then I sadly must report I am less popular than your sister’s dog.”
I smiled empathetically. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Everly didn’t seem offended, just curious. “What does your Face2Face page say?”
That made me laugh. “I’m not quite sure I can explain it fully before my study group arrives.”
“The deepness of your laugh makes me want to know,” she said. “CliffsNotes version?”
I brought up the page on my phone and showed Everly my last update.
@Amelia_Sweetkisses_Vanguard I showed the picture of you from last summer to a man on his death bed last night. You’ll be happy to know silicone is a cure for cancer. He didn’t die.
She tried not to laugh. “Isn’t your girlfriend gonna kill you?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said. “She sort of has a thing for doctors.”
Everly looked back to her coffee cup. “Do you have a thing for her... and silicone?”
I watched her hair, the way it roped along her shoulder and down her neck. She still didn’t look up, and I craved to write this eureka moment down, too, but then nervousness crept back inside of me, because this revelation (unlike “iced” coffee) meant more existed between us than class and a differential... And it wasn’t one-sided. She wanted to know if other girls held my interest, what kind of girls I liked, and if I had a girlfriend. And I wanted to stand on the table and shout, “No! There is no one I think of more than you and your quietness!”
But instead, I answered, “Your coffee is probably ice cold by now.”
She talked to the cup because I had dodged the question which, to a woman, actually meant I’d answered it. “That’s kind of what I was going for.”
I decided to lead us as far away from the topic as possible. “They’ll put that in a big cup with ice for you, you know. Otherwise known as an iced coffee, Miss ‘I Don’t Like Popular Things from This Generation.’”
Her high spirit fully plummeted. “I just wanted to cool it off a little. This is fine.”
“You haven’t even touched it,” I noted. She glanced up at me, and the same look she’d had in class shone through her eyes. I was looking at her like an object. I tried to divert my attention elsewhere by picking up the Peter Pan book.
“Wendy is like the prodigal Amelia Vanguard of Neverland,” I explained.
She nodded, but argued, “Except there aren’t any med students to seduce in Neverland.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but she’s got it bad for Peter strictly based on the fact he has his own magical playland, which, in fairy tales, is the equivalent of him having a doctorate. I mean, she’s straight throwing him the P in front of her little brothers.”
She laughed so freely, it drew me right back to where I was running away from.
“I like your laugh,” I admitted. “It’s always honest. There’s nothing worse than a girl with a fake laugh.”
Everly looked like she wanted to run away, too. She went back to our inconsequential conversation. “She is a little ruthless. Not even Tink matters to her, and Tink matters to freaking everyone. I mean, Tinker Bell was given her own franchise, for heaven’s sake.”
I traced the cover with my finger. “Who would you say you’re most like?”
“Tiger Lily—at least I hope so.”
I looked up at her. “Why?”
“She’d rather die honorably than betray her friends.”
“You’d give up your life for someone else?”
“If it was someone I loved, sure,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“For the right person, absolutely.”
“Who do you relate to the best?” she asked.
“These days? Definitely Smee.”
Another heart-seizing round of laughter made me wish for time to fast forward and group study to begin. I must have been staring too intently despite my urge to flee, because she glanced away, smiling shyly. Like a glutton for punishment, I was admiring the flush-pink hue of her cheeks when we were interrupted by Noelle and—more importantly—warm brownies.
“Thought I’d drop you off a brownie straight from the oven to share,” she announced.
“Thanks,” I said, expecting her to leave just as quickly as she’d come, but she didn’t move an inch. I glanced up, and she just looked at Everly.
“Um...” I started, “this is Everly. Everly, this is my sister Noelle.”
“Hi,” Everly said, eyes down, head down.
Noelle looked at me with her eyes narrowed, as if something made zero sense. I agreed with that idea, so I just squinted back at her.
“I’ve never seen you two hang out before,” she finally said. “Do you and Everly go to school together or something?”
“Or something, Noelle.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised. “Well, I was just a little confused, because I could have sworn I saw you messaging Amelia on Face2Face this morning.”
And then my rolling eyes understood. And I had to run back to the topic I’d wanted to avoid like the plague. “I’m not dating Amelia, and I’m not dating Everly, and you’re my sister not my keeper, so don’t bring me warm brownies unless you’re honestly just trying to be nice. If you taint the sanctity of warm brownies, I shall never forgive you.”
I had little effect on her—after all, she had the upper hand, what with the warm brownies and all. “Amelia is my friend. That’s all I’m saying, Callum.”
And it was. Noelle walked away without another word.
“Why do women like making things awkward?” I wondered aloud.
“It was partially my fault.”
“No,” I argued, “it’s mine, actually. I typically don’t sit around here chatting with girls when I should be studying.”
“Oh.”
“So she probably assumed you’re someone special.”
Everly looked up, and there was no way for me to expand that statement and argue it away. Silicone became an angel of mercy as my phone alerted me of an update. I laughed as I read Amelia’s reply, and then showed the phone to Everly Anne.
Amelia_Sweetkisses_Vanguard: wouldn’t be the first time these boobs were used to save a life.
***
Cecily was the only saving grace to compiling a group differential, mainly because she didn’t refer to Everly as “Dr. Brighton’s little experiment,” but also because she didn’t take any shit from that cretino, Logan. They discussed predictable things about Everly like her clothes, scars, weight, and mannerisms. In the end, we stuck with an eating disorder as our diagnosis... Or, at least... they did.
“You know,” Logan said, “I heard she was Dr. Brighton’s kid.” He stared at me as he reached for his mug. “You heard ‘bout that, Trovatto?”
“Doesn’t matter. Won’t change the differential.”
“Doesn’t matter?” he echoed. “I’d have thought it would matter most to you.”
I dismissed him with a shrug. “Everly could be Santa Claus’s daughter for all I give a damn.”
“I meant,” he leaned closer, “you’re trying to fuck her, right?”
And there went the calm. I had to bury my anger, though, and hide it beneath a contemptuous grin. “Fuck a dying girl? Sorry, but I have no desire, nor need, to lift plays from your book, cretino.”
Cecily laughed.
Logan’s laughter turned mordent. “Just thought, with your ‘dying flower’ experience, it might be your preferred flavor.”
“What experience?” Cecily inquired as she glanced between us.
But I knew what he meant. “The next words out of your mouth about mothers better be how badly you need to get home so yours can tuck you in, Logan.”
/> “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t think the mommy wounds were still fresh. What’s it been, ten years or something? Hell, she must have been some mom. I mean I’ve seen all the sex-kitten pictures of Julep Rossi the actress, but I can only imagine the hotness of her baking cookies and being a good little housewife.”
I stared at him with a silent prayer for self-discipline.
As usual, God left me hanging.
Logan met Callum Trovatto full throttle. My fist told his mouth to keep my mother’s name out of it. My fist told his right eye, to never look at another goddamn picture of her ever again.
Noelle shoved me off of him and then kicked us all out.
Cecily laughed once we reached the sidewalk free of Logan, who’d stalked off with a bruised face in the other direction.
“Man,” she snickered, “who’da thought a couple med students studying eating disorders would be so lively?”
Still riled up, I snapped, “She doesn’t have a damn eating disorder.”
Cecily grew quiet, shrinking away from my anger. It only made me more pissed off about Logan’s comments.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just don’t like anyone talking about my mom. Not like that.”
“What did he mean?” she asked gently.
“It’s nothing.” Because only one girl held my secrets, and it wasn’t Cecily, no matter how much her skin smelled like coconuts, or how coyly she grinned when we accidentally bumped hands reaching for our coffee cups, or how cute her Italian face and big brown eyes. Her laughter held no pulse for me. It was just another hum in the clamorous streets of New York.
“I should probably walk you home,” I offered cordially.
“I take the train. I don’t live uptown. I’m a Brooklyn girl.”
“That’s fine,” I lied. Last thing I wanted to do was waste time walking her to the Metro, let alone going forty-five minutes to Brooklyn and then another forty-five to get back home. Bless her dedication, but this was not my burden. She was not my girl. Walking her to the train remained my offer.