We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Oh” was Isaac’s only justifiable response.

  John scratched at his scalp, curls going into further disarray. “Yeah, I know, it’s ballsy. And possibly insane, but it feels like everyone’s trying to forget it happened—the school, Sonya, even Tommy. Janelle thought it might be nice if there was a place where students could submit poems or short stories in memory of the people we lost or even just about that day. I would obviously vet everything. Would you want to help? You could be my second-in-command.”

  Isaac sat up straighter. “Really?”

  John shrugged. “Get you back in the game. We meet Tuesday nights.”

  “Amazingly enough, my Tuesday nights are free.”

  John reached out his hand. “Then, it’s settled.”

  Isaac shook it, enveloping John’s smaller hand in his own. Just the idea, the mere suggestion, of having something creative to do made his chest feel warm. Surely, the warmth had nothing to do with John’s proximity or the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled.

  As if silently agreed, they both stood and walked toward the front door. John pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “Let me get your digits.”

  Isaac shared his phone number but paused in the foyer by the library. “Can I read one of your books?”

  John looked up from under his brows. “They’re really gay.”

  Isaac laughed at both the skepticism and irony. “I don’t mind.”

  Taking off his suit coat, John walked past him into the library. He tossed his jacket on the desk and ran a finger over book bindings before pulling one free. “Here.”

  Isaac took the proffered book and recognized the gold circle on the front. “You won the Newbery Medal?”

  John looked away, cheeks red. “I told you I’m a better writer than teacher.” John shoved his hands in his pockets, and Isaac had the sudden, irrational fear of leaving the safe, cozy space. He did a slow circle until a mounted album caught his eye amidst all the other music posters: James Taylor, Sweet Baby James. He made a beeline.

  “Is that signed?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen James live twice, met him once.” John ran a fingertip across the frame, dusty at the bottom.

  “He’s one of my favorites. I’ve never…” Isaac stumbled over his own excitement. “I’ve always wanted to see him. There just never seemed to be an opportunity. What was he like?”

  “Funny. Friendly.” John’s cheekbones picked up light from the hallway and glowed. “He tells these stories, and it feels like he’s talking right to you—like you’re in an empty room together. Then, during intermission, he sits on stage, and you can run up there and have him sign album covers, breasts, whatever.”

  “James Taylor signed your breast?”

  John giggled—a loud sound that echoed into the foyer and back. “I did have to restrain myself from rubbing all over him. I think he was my first crush.”

  Isaac lifted the book. “Your author bio says you like ‘old-people music.’ Is this what you mean?”

  “Pretty much. My dad raised me on it.”

  “You don’t dance like a fan of old-people music.”

  One of John’s brows lifted. “When have you seen me dance?”

  Isaac scrambled for an answer that didn’t include the Cave. “Well, you did moonwalk into Joe’s Pub.”

  John yawned. “Oh, right.”

  Isaac turned and almost ran into the doorframe. “I should go.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  Isaac nodded, and even if it was a lie, John made the lie easier.

  Before he could leave, John put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll text you so you have my number. If you need anything, just call, okay? I’m serious. Any time of day.”

  A handshake didn’t feel like enough, so Isaac gave John a quick and enthusiastically reciprocated hug.

  After a reminder on directions, Isaac found the strength to jog home through the rain. When he got there, he still smelled witch hazel. Out of habit, he checked his phone, but no angry messages awaited him—just a quick text from John.

  “Call me, fucker” with a thumbs-up emoji.

  Isaac hadn’t been so charmed by someone in years.

  ISAAC TAUGHT TWO composition classes Monday morning, which he floated through in a sort of idiotic haze. He couldn’t get his brain to operate, and he hoped the students didn’t notice. Maybe it was the Monday funk—or maybe this was who he was now, the stereotypical absent-minded professor. Tommy and John invited him to lunch, and their friendly shenanigans kept him entertained, especially when they fought about college football. They were the two stooges, and the fond way John smiled at Isaac made him wonder if the guys were secretly interviewing him to be stooge number three.

  The rain from Friday night stretched into Tuesday. Between three and four p.m., many of the teachers held office hours, including Isaac. He stood in the open doorway of his office and pretended to skim a pamphlet about the Hambden University MFA program when he actually observed the scene down the hall.

  Visibly, John had been caught in the storm. He shook fistfuls of raindrops on the carpet while Tommy tried to stay away from the watery barrage. Wet, John’s hair reached all the way to his shoulders. He shoved soaked strands back over his forehead and said something that made Tommy laugh.

  Isaac dropped the pamphlet he pretended to read at the sound of Cleo’s voice. “He is ridiculously attractive, isn’t he?”

  “You scared me.”

  “Sorry, Dr. Twain.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He tried to catch his breath. “Just surprised me. What did you say?”

  “John. He’s a dreamboat.” She looked back toward the soaked creative writing teacher. “He used to be more filled out before the summer, but he’s still so cute. He has that skinny punk thing going on now, like he should be smoking expensive cigarettes with a British accent or something.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t…” Panicked at her insinuation, Isaac shook his head.

  “Oh, my God, that was so rude. I just assumed—the way you were looking at him.” She hit herself lightly on the forehead. “Oh, Cleo.”

  “It’s okay.” He thought about spouting some lie—I’m straight, I love women—but didn’t have the energy.

  She put her hands by her mouth and imitated vomit with her hands, fingers moving from her lips toward the floor in a rainbow arc. “I say dumb things all the time. It’s probably why I’m still single. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not.” Change the subject. “Will you let me know when you sing again?”

  She beamed, red lips matching her hair. “Yes! For sure.”

  A dripping John appeared, took Cleo’s hand, and kissed it before playfully punching Isaac in the shoulder. “Ready for tonight?”

  Isaac nodded and backed against the wall, away from John, as Meeks stuck her head from her office. “John. Isaac. Could I see you both for a second?”

  John used his wet coat cuff to wipe water droplets from his lips and heaved a wary glance Isaac’s way. Isaac just shrugged. They couldn’t be in trouble for the literary magazine; no one even knew about the controversial theme—yet.

  “Don’t suppose you have a towel in there?” John asked.

  “Don’t suppose you have an umbrella?” She disappeared back into her office.

  John sighed. “She loves me.”

  “I can tell,” Isaac replied and followed John down the hall.

  Meeks’s office had zero personality, walls bare but for two diplomas and shelves with a few books. It felt cold. Isaac knew it had belonged to Meeks’s predecessor, Abby Blake, who had died on College Green. Perhaps the emptiness was symbolic of Abby’s absence, or perhaps Meeks was just empty inside, truly the cruel robot she appeared to be.

  “Sit,” Meeks said immediately and then spoke again. “Not you, John. I’d rather you not ruin my furniture.”

  He remained standing, arms crossed, so Isaac did, too, in solidarity. Even from where he stood, he could smell Meek
s, the reek of cigarettes.

  “The Ohioana Literary Festival is this weekend,” she said. “And I’d like you both to attend on behalf of Hambden University.”

  “What?” John spat.

  Meeks didn’t even look up from a file on her desk. “John, you’re going to be a featured speaker.”

  “Sonya, you know the kind of questions I’m going to get. It’ll be a circus.”

  “Yes, that’s why it’s so last minute. We didn’t want the media getting wind of your presence, although it’s not as if they miss you.”

  Like water before a boil, Isaac felt the tension rising in John. His pale cheeks began to flush, and he curled his hands into fists. Maybe Isaac should speak up, diffuse the tension, but Isaac didn’t know either John or Meeks well enough to guess at what might calm either of them. He kept his mouth shut.

  John flipped wet curls from his face. “Handling the media was never my job.”

  “Clearly.” She brushed at some lint on her dark dress pants. Her hair, as usual, clung to the back of her head in an angry bun. “Isaac, you’re going with him as a watchdog. Make sure he behaves.”

  John scoffed and rolled his eyes.

  “I’m sure he’d prefer Tommy,” Isaac said.

  “Yes, he would, but John and Tommy are like frat boys together. You’re older and more responsible, from what I can tell. You’re also a fresh face. Neutral. The sooner people forget about the past and move toward the future, the better, which is partially why John is speaking—to show he’s alive and well and we’re…that the school is still a place of higher education and not just the scene of a tragedy.”

  John crossed his arms and stomped one foot. “What if I don’t want to go?”

  “John.” She rubbed her eyes. “I know you’re young, but don’t be a child.”

  “Then, don’t treat me like one.”

  “Your presence will cause a stir at the Ohioana, but we can’t let it get out of control. You’re a hero, after all.” She made it sound like a dig. “Isaac, I trust you’ll keep things in order.”

  He could have offered promises and platitudes, but Isaac wasn’t her trained dog. When he didn’t speak, she moved on.

  “Just do your job as a trusty emergency hire.” She stood, physically closing the conversation. “You’ll leave early Saturday morning. A day, a night, and you’re both back on Sunday. I’m sure you can handle that. And I booked the last room, so I’m sorry, but you have to share.”

  Oh, hell, no.

  Isaac wanted to protest about the single room. He could stay in another hotel maybe? There had to be one close by. He couldn’t stay in the same room with John, not because something might happen but because…

  Shit, something actually might happen.

  The magnetic pull that was John Conlon only continued to grow stronger the more time they spent together, but all that was just fine and safe in public. Within the small confines of a hotel room, where Isaac might see John in cuddly pajamas, watch him brush his teeth, hear him snore? It was too intimate, too much, especially as sex-starved as Isaac felt. He was about to speak up when John grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall.

  John walked and seethed, his hair drying in Shirley Temple rings. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”

  Isaac followed close behind. “I’m sorry?”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tommy sat in John’s office, reading a stack of papers. He looked up when they entered. “Why are flames shooting out of your eyes?”

  “Fucking Meeks. She’s sending me to Ohioana as a speaker.”

  Tommy’s mouth dropped open, and he actually removed his thick glasses. “You can’t go. You’ll be mobbed.”

  “Isaac’s my bodyguard.”

  “Well, he’s got the build for it. Want me to go too?”

  “No, you’re not allowed.” John peeled off his wet coat, revealing an equally soaked plaid shirt. “Apparently, we misbehave together.”

  “Tell me you’re taking all your drugs with you.”

  “Yes.” John gestured toward Isaac. “And thanks.”

  Tommy winced. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, I like drugs,” Isaac said in an effort to ease the tension, and John sort of laughed. He at least made a sound between an amused snort and a cough.

  “What are you speaking about anyway?” Tommy asked.

  “I don’t know. How not to get shot?” John covered his mouth.

  Tommy stood quickly and put both hands on John’s shoulders. “Okay, let’s breathe.”

  John took a single deep breath before leaning the top of his head against Tommy’s chest and hiding his face. His breath shook, and he sniffed, wiping at his eyes.

  “Let it out, dude,” Tommy whispered.

  Again, Isaac felt the now familiar need to just hug. Instead, he rested his palm on John’s upper back. “You got this,” he said.

  John lifted his head, cheeks wet with tears. “Yeah.” He pressed both palms against his eyes. “Shit.”

  “Isaac, promise to take care of him?”

  Suddenly, all the nerves about sharing a hotel room vanished because Isaac had a task. He had a function. He was needed, so he smiled. “Feed him liquor and punch the paparazzi? I’m on it.”

  John smiled, thank God. “Actually, maybe it’s a good place to announce the literary magazine. Subversive but interesting. Meeks will be less likely to reject us if I’ve told the entire Ohio higher-ed community.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Naughty boy.”

  “We’ll make the best of it, huh?”

  Isaac muttered platitudes of agreement, and they spent the rest of their office hour debating the college Bowl Championship Series.

  IN A THIRD-story classroom of Ellis Hall, they crammed together, the myriad members of Hambden University’s literary magazine staff. Isaac had already met Janelle earlier. She’d been close with Demi and hadn’t even hesitated to tell Isaac, “She died in my arms.”

  Janelle was the big brains behind the project and, according to John, a budding writer of the morbid and macabre. She looked the part. No bigger than five foot four, she had light eyes and wore lots of bracelets on her left wrist. Her black T-shirt had a picture of a vampire bunny rabbit, and her jeans were skintight, bottomed off by Converse—dead ringers for the ones John wore every day.

  Despite her tiny voice, Janelle opened the discussion with strength and clarity. “We’re all here because we want to remember the people who were murdered. Or we at least want to write about what happened.” She pulled a notebook from her black bag as she talked and then looked at John. “I thought up a name, but…”

  “But what?” John leaned back in a student-sized desk, slouching as usual with his skinny legs stretched in front of him like stilts.

  “The name.” She itched at the bracelets on her wrist. “People might not like it.”

  John shrugged. “In writing, if you haven’t pissed someone off, you probably aren’t doing it right.”

  Janelle tapped black-painted fingernails on the desk. “I want to call it Being Frank.”

  The room went silent. Kids stopped shifting in their seats.

  When John didn’t say anything, Isaac asked, “Why do you want to call it that?”

  She focused her attention on him. “I know the magazine is in memory of the victims, but I guess I’ve been thinking, what did Chris Frank feel that day? Why did he do it, you know? Nobody got to ask him.” She looked at John. “Did you ask him?”

  All eyes turned to their professor.

  “No,” he said.

  “I just think Chris should be remembered too,” she continued and shrugged. “Maybe someone will even write about him.”

  A dark-skinned boy with tight curls gripped the front of his desk. He’d introduced himself earlier as Anthony. Not Tony but Anthony. “And ‘being frank’ means being honest, right? We need to be honest about what happened. Not just throw flowers on the altar out there but be real abo
ut how it feels to be back here after that day. Right, John?”

  John ran his hands through his hair, already a mess. After his finger comb, he looked like a nervous madman. “I’m going to get in so much trouble for this. Isaac, what do you think?”

  He thought he felt alive. He wanted to do a little jig in celebration of subversion, but calmly, he took a long, slow breath. “If you haven’t pissed someone off…”

  The two grown men stared at each other until John grinned.

  “All right, honestly? You’re my best students. I trust each of you, but we’re going to get heat for this. There are going to be people who are very upset, especially with the name—but I’m willing to do this if you are. Especially if you think it’ll help.”

  Janelle nodded.

  A couple of the other kids looked nervous, but they eventually nodded, as well. Isaac felt a prickling in his spine that might be the birthing of his new life, especially when he made eye contact with John’s glittering gaze.

  “All right. We need to make a timetable, including the call for submissions.” John paused. “Then, I need a drink.”

  SATURDAY MORNING, ISAAC lugged his bag up the hill from Union Street to John’s house in a state of buzzing nerves. He liked John, of course, liked spending time with him, and the impromptu trip did get Isaac away from his lonely apartment. Some of his initial fears about sharing a hotel room had been forgotten. Isaac had talked himself out of any romantic affiliations with John because, for one thing, John wasn’t even his type, even if he was charismatic and almost too beautiful to be real. Secondly, no way was Isaac jeopardizing his job, not now when the literary magazine had given him something to look forward to. Sharing a room with John would be fine—maybe fun. If Isaac was lucky, the sound of another person breathing nearby might even keep bad dreams at bay.

  The sun had just barely risen above the edges of the Lothos city limits, washing the quiet, morning air in an orange tint. In the hills, away from downtown, the air smelled not of stale beer but of wet forest floors. John’s porch light was on when he arrived, so he knocked twice and waited.