by S. Walden
“You saw me?” I asked, not looking at him.
“I especially liked the hand-on-the-hip look,” he replied.
I cringed. “Oh my God. I have to go.”
“Please don’t,” he said, and caught my arm. “I’m only teasing.”
I finally mustered the courage to look at him, and he let go of my arm.
“Why didn’t you just knock on my door?” I asked. “I saw you pass by, like, three times.”
He shrugged and massaged the back of his neck.
“Okay. That’s not an answer,” I said.
He grinned. “You looked busy. Vacuuming.”
I considered him for a moment. “Do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Just down the street.”
Well, that was inconvenient. Everything about this guy was inconvenient, from his incredibly sexy face and hair and eyes and body, to the fact that he went to my school, to the fact that he lived in my neighborhood. How had I not noticed him until today?
“But I’ve never seen you,” he said. “Did you just move here?”
“Well, my dad’s lived here awhile. I moved in with him when my mom moved to California,” I explained.
He looked at me as though he expected further explanation. I don’t know why I wanted to give it to him. It was presumptuous on his part, but for some reason it didn’t bother me.
“My parents divorced when I was in middle school,” I said.
“Jeez, they couldn’t pick a better time?” he asked.
“For real. I was already a frizzy, oily, pimple-ridden mess. You’d think they’d have the decency to wait until high school or something when things started leveling out.”
He grinned.
“Anyway, I went to Hanover High up until last year,” I said. “But I didn’t want to move across country my senior year, so here I am.”
“But it’s still a new school either way,” Ryan pointed out.
“True, but at least the area’s familiar, and I have a good friend from my old high school I still hang out with,” I said.
He nodded.
“So what’s your story?” I asked. “I never see you hanging out with anyone at school.”
He tensed immediately, clenching his jaw the same way he did when I caught him in the stands with my camera at the volleyball game.
“I don’t have a story,” he said.
I shuffled uneasily, unsure what to say. It was obvious I hit a nerve, and I thought better about pressing him. A little indignation flared up, though; after all, he clearly expected me to share with him, but he was unwilling to do the same. I never liked one-sided anythings, especially friendships.
“Sooo, where’s your house?” I asked, trying for something neutral.
“It’s six down from yours,” he replied. “Same side of the street.”
“So we’re practically neighbors,” I replied, and he nodded, dropping his skateboard on the sidewalk.
“I better go,” he said.
I felt the disappointment instantly. We had only begun talking, and there was so much I wanted to ask him, to know about him. Why was he at Beth’s funeral? Why was he a loner at school? He was hot as hell, so I knew looks had nothing to do with it. Why did he stare at me all the time at school? Why did he look pissed at the volleyball game? Why did Cal tell me to stay away from him? Why did he talk to me just now, seemingly happy until I asked him about his story? God, I couldn’t stand not knowing! And watching him glide down the sidewalk farther away from me while my mouth filled with questions put me in a rotten mood for the rest of the day.
***
“Can you believe I used to be a cheerleader?” I asked Lucy as we settled into our seats.
She didn’t know how to respond. I’m sure she wondered why I even mentioned it at all. It was random.
“I mean, I so don’t come across as the cheerleader type, do I?”
Lucy shrugged and gave me a noncommittal smile.
I kept trying.
“I was a flyer,” I continued. “I could do basket tosses all day long, but the Liberty was the hardest for me.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Do cheerleaders have a type?”
I was surprised and felt slightly encouraged. “Sure they do. They’re sweet and bubbly and smiley.”
She grinned. “So stereotypical.”
I laughed. “Where do you think stereotypes come from?”
She giggled then went quiet. “Not all of them are sweet,” she whispered.
“Oh, you’re talking about the mean girls,” I said.
I felt awful. I knew the conversation was painful for her. I knew it was drudging up old memories she’d rather keep buried, but I had to know what happened to her. After the party, I resolved to be a martyr if I had to, for each and every one of these girls. But I needed more information. It wasn’t just about Cal anymore. I could most likely put myself in a compromising situation with him any time I wanted. No, it was more than that. There were others, and I wouldn’t be satisfied with just destroying Cal’s life. I was taking them all under.
Lucy nodded. She looked like she was making up her mind, debating how much to share with me. She started to speak but promptly closed her mouth when Cal approached my desk.
“Hey, Brooke,” he said, shooting Lucy a sidelong glance. I saw her tremble. Tremble.
“Hi, Cal,” I replied.
“Wish you would have stayed longer at the party,” he said. “I wanted to hang out with you more.”
“Well, duty called,” I replied. “I had to get my friends home.”
“Yeah, they looked pretty wasted,” Cal said. “One of them was all over Parker.”
“I think I remember him being all over her,” I corrected.
“Oh, that’s right,” Cal said, shaking his head. “You really pissed him off.” He chuckled. “You interrupted his game.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy whispered, and vanished from the room.
Cal watched her leave then turned back to me. “Hey listen, you probably don’t want to get involved with her.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I asked.
“She’s loony, if you know what I mean,” he explained. “I think her dad committed suicide or something, and she’s just been a nutcase ever since.”
I hated Cal. I hated his guts. If I had a shank in my purse, I’d whip it out this instant and plunge it into his heart. Then I’d cut his tongue out for being such a fucking liar. Lucy’s dad was alive and well, as I learned last week when she mentioned something to me about his job. The only person who might have turned Lucy into a nutcase, if she even was a nutcase, was Cal himself. He raped her, too. I knew he did.
Suddenly I looked over at Ryan. I remembered Cal’s warning to me in the gym, to stay away from Ryan because he was crazy. What happened to Ryan? Obviously it had something to do with Cal. My mind raced in that moment, remembering Ryan’s sister at the restaurant. She looked like she could be in high school, but I’d never seen her. Perhaps I just wasn’t paying attention. What if something happened to her? What if she was another victim, and Ryan was powerless to do anything about it? Rapes become much harder to prosecute if there’s no physical evidence. I doubted any of these girls went to the hospital after their attacks. I doubted Ryan’s sister did, being so young and afraid. And ashamed.
My mind was reeling by this point, and it took me a long time to hear Cal’s voice in the distance working to get my attention.
“Brooke!” he said. “Damn girl, where’d you go?”
I shook my head. “I have this massive test today in physics. I’m sorry. I just spaced.”
I turned my head to see Lucy hanging around just outside the classroom, reluctant to come back in until Cal was safely in his seat at the back of the room.
“Well, think about what I said. Just trying to help you out. Being new and all,” Cal said.
He walked to the back of the room, and only then did Lucy come inside. She slid into her seat soundlessly and didn�
�t acknowledge my presence.
***
“Say ‘BFFs!’” Mom exclaimed behind the camera.
“BFFs!” we screamed, holding up our necklaces so that the separate pieces were joined, fixing the crack, making a whole heart that read “Best Friends.” It was my favorite birthday present from my favorite person.
Beth hung around after all the party guests left. She was spending the night, and we had big plans that included pizza, movies, make-up, and gossip. I didn’t think any of my subsequent birthdays would live up to this one. I decided that eight years old was the perfect age, and I wanted to freeze frame this moment, wearing a pretty piece of jewelry my best friend carefully picked out for me, and never grow older.
“You promise not to take it off?” Beth asked, sitting with me at the kitchen table.
“I won’t ever,” I said, thinking I couldn’t wait to show it off Monday morning to those particular girls at school I didn’t like.
Beth grinned from ear to ear watching me finger the heart piece.
“I wanted the ‘Be Fri,’ but I knew you’d want it,” she said.
It’s true. I’m glad I had the “Be Fri” over “st ends,” but I was willing to exchange. If it made Beth happy, no matter that it was my birthday, I was willing to trade.
“Wanna trade?” I asked.
“No no,” she answered. “I like my half now. I’m just saying that when I first saw it, I thought I wanted yours.”
I smiled and grabbed another plate with cake. “Wanna share?”
“Mmhmm,” Beth replied, reaching for a plastic fork.
“You think we’ll be best friends forever?” I asked, shoving a too-big piece of cake in my mouth.
“Why not?” Beth replied.
I laughed somehow, with my mouth full. “Exactly. Why not?”
“As long as you don’t turn mean like Courtney,” Beth said.
“I would never act like her!” I replied.
“I know, Brooke.”
She plopped her left arm over my shoulder in a casual way.
“Happy birthday, Brooke,” she said, and leaned over to kiss my cheek. The cake crumbs on her lips stuck to my face.
And I didn’t care.
I awoke sobbing. I clutched my stomach and rocked back and forth, back and forth, feeling the threat of a panic attack and powerless to stop it. I heard Beth’s voice repeating the question over and over: “You promise not to take it off?”
I couldn’t breathe when the next wave of sobs washed over me. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it stifled nothing. I was accustomed to feeling constant guilt, but this was different. This was heavier, scarier. And I feared I would be trapped forever, never able to move on because of the way I treated her.
“I promise!” I screamed before I realized I said it out loud.
Dad flew into the room.
“Brooke, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside me and taking me into his arms.
I cried harder, burying my face in his shoulder, liquid pouring out of my eyes and nose all over him.
“I was a bad friend,” I cried.
Dad stroked my hair. “That’s impossible.”
But Dad didn’t know what I did. He didn’t know the sins I had to repent for, the sickness in my mind that made me hear Beth all the time. Talking to me. Pleading with me. Cursing me. Crying for me.
I pulled away and wiped my nose. “Yes, Dad, I was.”
“What do you mean, Brooke?”
“You’ll think me so horrible if I tell you,” I said. My voice shook uncontrollably.
“I would never think such a thing,” Dad replied.
I drew in my breath. “I sneaked around with Beth’s boyfriend before she died.”
Dad was quiet.
“She found out about it,” I said. “I don’t think that’s why she . . . did it, but I feel so guilty. I never got the chance to make things right.” Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks, plopping one by one on my arms and chest.
“Are you still with her boyfriend?” Dad asked.
“No!” I replied. “My God, no!”
“Then you’ve made things right,” Dad said. He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s enough,” I whispered.
“Did you apologize to her before she died?” Dad asked.
“Yes. I mean, she wouldn’t talk to me face to face, so I had to leave messages on her cell phone, but yes. I tried. For months I tried. All summer.”
“Then honey? That’s all you can do,” Dad said. He kissed the top of my head.
But I knew that wasn’t all I could do. There was a way I could atone. I had to or else Beth would haunt me forever. I imagined my brain deteriorating, growing black with disease because of guilt. I couldn’t stand the thought, and begged my father to stay up with me. I was too afraid to go back to sleep, to see Beth’s face, so we went downstairs. He made me tea, and we sat side-by-side chatting into the early morning hours while the television hummed in the background.
***
I stood considering the blank canvas—stark white and full of promise. I had my paints ready and an idea in my head. I was outside on the back patio. I never painted inside, even with acceptable lighting. No. I had to have sunshine if I were to create anything good.
The sun felt warm and delicious on the top of my head, weaker than the summer sun but not altogether ineffectual like the winter one. The seasons were changing, and I observed the first turning of leaves in my back yard. That was my idea: to do a painting of leaves.
I dipped my paintbrush in a glob of oil paints I had mixed. I never painted with acrylic. Mom asked me one time why I couldn’t be a “cheap” painter, noting the extreme price difference between acrylic and oil-based paints. What could I say? I couldn’t make her understand the difference, how acrylic paint dried almost immediately on the canvas. Impossible to manipulate. Stubborn and unforgiving if you made a mistake. You had no choice but to paint over your mess-up. And then it stayed hidden within the painting, and you always knew it was there.
But oil-based paints were different. They forgave you when you messed up, drying slowly to allow you ample time to fix mistakes, make things right. On many occasions I could leave my painting for days, come back to it, and manipulate the colors as though it were still freshly painted. Oil paints were wiser to the human condition, understanding our imperfections and giving us enough time to rework ourselves until we made things right. I couldn’t make my mother understand the richness of oil-based paints.
“Oh, I know all about the richness of them!” Mom said years ago when I took up my hobby. “All I know is that you better not get bored with this.”
I had never gotten bored with painting. If anything, I worked each year to become better. Learning new techniques, discovering my strengths. Above all, painting allowed me to escape me. I didn’t have to be popular Brooke. Funny Brooke. Sexy Brooke. Witty Brooke. I could be as vulnerable and weird as I wanted, and my friends would forgive me for it because it was art. And they were impressed.
The first contact of brush on canvas is a heady thing. I think it’s the promise of something wonderful, beautiful. You can see the finished product in your mind’s eye, but it never turns out quite as you expect. It’s always better, or at least that’s been my experience. And that’s where the headiness comes in. You think you know what to expect. You think you have it all planned out. But something in you always surprises you, and it’s a buzzing undercurrent that keeps you silently guessing until your picture is complete.
I began, feeling the rush as my brush hit the canvas for its first stroke. I worked all morning creating each leaf, carefully mixing colors I thought would evoke that one last brilliant push for life: jewel tones of rich reds, golden browns, and fiery oranges. But I couldn’t get my colors bright enough. They looked bright on my palette, but once I transferred them to the canvas, they turned a muted, uninteresting shade.
I thought my eyes were pl
aying tricks on me. I looked down at my arm where the palette was cradled. The colors screamed to me. I looked at my painting. They moaned before going silent. A flat nothing. But not before they laughed at me a little. I heard them laugh. I heard her laugh.
My heartbeat sped up. I felt the rush of rage, an anger far from righteous. It was only anger, and it flowed through me like wicked adrenaline. The kind you shouldn’t act on, but if you don’t, you know you’ll explode. I didn’t want to draw attention from neighbors playing next door, so I seethed silently.
I stared at my lifeless painting and mouthed the words: “Beth. You fucking bitch.”
Eight
Ryan was notably silent after our conversation several weeks ago. He didn’t acknowledge me in class, and I never saw him ride his skateboard down the sidewalk. Sometimes I would sit in the living room with the curtains pulled back and watch for him. It was blatant and desperate, and I didn’t care. I knew he saw me talking to Cal on several occasions at school, and I wondered if that accounted for his lack of interest. Either way, my feelings were hurt, and my pride along with them. Shouldn’t he try to fight for my affections or something? Wasn’t that the manly thing to do?
I decided to pay him a visit instead of waiting for him. It was a chilly October Saturday afternoon, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed down the sidewalk, counting six houses from mine. I walked up the stone path to the front door feeling the rapid tapping of my heart. It was that good nervous feeling, an expectation of something wonderful mixed with the fear that it wouldn’t turn out as I’d hoped. But the hope made me knock on the door anyway.
A young girl answered. “Yes?”
I recognized her from the restaurant as Ryan’s sister. She had the same color hair as Ryan, the same blue eyes, though hers were a little less transparent.
“I’m Brooke. I live right down the street,” I said. “I’m a friend of your brother’s.”
“My brother doesn’t have any friends,” the girl replied. “But I’ll let you in anyway.”
I was startled. What a thing to say, and the way she said it. Matter-of-fact. Not snippy or cruel. Just matter-of-fact.
I blurted what I knew I shouldn’t. “How can he not have any friends? He’s so cute.”