Take Me With You When You Go

by David Levithan

  I’ve always felt the combustion inside of me, Bea. I always thought it was bright as the sun, and that if I let anyone see it, it would blind us all.

  But I was wrong.

  It wasn’t a sun.

  It’s been an eclipse.

  And now I’m feeling what happens when all the lies, all the games, all the denials are pulled away.

  I understand why you left, Bea.

  I completely understand why you left.

  But we’re still in the deep end, aren’t we?

  How the fuck do we get out of it now?

  Ez

  Subject: The Deep End

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Sun 21 Apr 21:15 CST

  Yes, Ez. It’s true. We have a brother. A short, eager puppy of a fourteen-almost-fifteen-year-old brother named London who catfished me into leaving the only life I’ve ever known so that I could become a runaway and a dropout. You can’t make this shit up.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself, but I couldn’t. If I had, I might’ve gone back there and strangled that kid. Not that my life was ever going to be amazing, but the thought that I may have ruined what chance I had at it is pretty hard to stomach.

  He looks like us, Ez.

  * * *

  —

  This is what happened:

  I met him at Forest Park, which is this giant city park that’s home to the art museum, the zoo, the history museum, and the Turtle Playground, which is all these dinosaur-size turtle sculptures that you can climb on. It was a warm, blue-sky day, and it seemed like the entire city of St. Louis was out in it, meaning in the park. The playground alone was crawling with kids.

  My first thought was Maybe Dad doesn’t remember that I’m eighteen now and too old to climb on turtle sculptures. After all, the last time I saw him I’d only been walking for about a year.

  I sat on the grass and waited. And then I thought better of it because what if he didn’t see me down there on the grass? So I stood, and that seemed so formal, and I never know what to do with my arms, so I sat on the head of one of the turtles, legs swinging, trying to look all la la la. From that vantage point, I could see all sides. I wasn’t sure which direction he’d come from.

  Every time I saw a man of Dad’s approximate age, my heart would do this leap and I’d be like There he is and go kind of breathless. And then the man would walk on by or head off in the other direction, and I would sink a little more, melting into the muddy brown concrete of the turtle’s head.

  Poor Bea.

  Then—

  At some point, this kid came walking up onto the shell of one of the other turtles. He stood there for a minute, shading his eyes, looking all around. I noticed him because he was wearing a bright red puffer vest even though it was like eighty degrees out. When he saw me, he jumped down off the shell and headed right for me.

  I knew when I saw him that we had to be related. But even as he was walking toward me, even as it was dawning on me that this kid was tied to you and me in some way, I was still looking over his head for Dad.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Uh. Hey?”

  He just stood there squinting up at me through these glasses, and the next thing he said? “Your hair’s different. It used to be long. It’s short now. And white.”

  “It’s not white. It’s blond.”

  “It looks white from down here. You’re still pretty. Just different.”

  I said, “I’m meeting someone. Go away.”

  He said, “I know.”

  And that’s when I knew Dad wasn’t coming. That Dad, wherever he was, didn’t have any idea I was here. My stomach did this flip and my bones went cold in spite of the heat.

  He said, “Your dad is Jonathan Wooster. Jonathan Calvin Wooster.”

  “Jonathan Calvin Ahern.”

  “No. It’s Wooster.”

  “Online you said it was Ahern.”

  “Because that’s your last name. That’s the last name you thought he had. I needed you to believe me.”

  “So you’re telling me his last name was Wooster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which means, what? My last name is really Wooster?”

  “I guess?”

  “Uh-uh. Hell no.”

  “I can prove it.”

  I’m not going to stand there arguing with a teenager who seems like he could argue for days. I say, “So?”

  “So I’m his son.”

  “Whose son?” And I’m still looking around, just in case Dad is on his way, just beyond that tree or making his way down that path.

  The kid said, “Jonathan Calvin Wooster.” And he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m your brother.”

  I said, “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m waiting for my dad.”

  “I know.”

  I said, “If you’re really Jonathan Ahern—Wooster’s—son, prove it.” Even as my stomach is flipping and my bones are about to crack in two from frostbite.

  And he holds up his phone and shows me all these photos of him and this man who looked a lot like Dad, or at least the Dad I sort of remember. And then he shows me his school ID, and there’s his name—London Wooster—and a picture of him without his glasses, a little blurry, looking so much like me at fifteen that I actually thought it was me for a second.

  And I go, “So you got his nose too. I’m sorry.” And then I go, “London? Seriously?” And my heart is beating too fast because even though the name is different, I know it’s him. This man. The one on his phone. Is our dad.

  London goes, “Yeah. But they call me Lo. You can give me another nickname if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m almost fifteen.”

  “Good for you. Where does the Wooster come from?”

  “Your mom changed her last name after she left.”

  This sounds like Mom, but why should I believe this kid?

  “What do you want, London Wooster?”

  “Lo. To get to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because our dad died last year and I’m an only child.”

  He said it just like that, Ez. Our dad died last year. So, so casual and matter-of-fact.

  I said, “That’s not my problem.” But at this point I’m trying to breathe. I’m trying to concentrate on not falling off the head of this stupid dinosaur-size turtle and landing splat on the ground at his feet.

  He said, “It’s why you came here.”

  “To meet him, not you.”

  “But I’m here and he’s not. So maybe you can get to know me. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I never thought you’d write me back. And then you did, and I couldn’t believe it, and you actually thought I was him, and I wanted to talk to you some more, so I just didn’t tell you it was me.”

  “You realize that’s fucked up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, like seriously, certifiably fucked up.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “And I left my life to come here to see him. Not you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I left Ez.”

  “Who’s Ez?”

  “Ezra. My brother.”

  “I have a brother?”

  I said, “No.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “But you just said—”

  “No.”

  “Ezra? His name is Ezra?”

  “No.”

  On and on, Ez, forever.

  Until he said, “Maybe he could come here….”

  That’s when I stood up, and I was a world taller than London Woos
ter because I was standing on the nose of that turtle. I said, “No. You need to stop. I’m not your sister. He’s not your brother. Maybe technically, but that’s it. We don’t share a dad. How can we share a dad when Ezra and I never had one?” And maybe I was yelling it. Kids stopped playing. People were staring. I stared back. “He’s not my brother,” I yelled at them. “My brother’s name is Ezra and he’s back home. This”—I pointed at London—“IS NOT HIM.” They stopped staring then, gathering up their children, hurrying away, looking at anything else but me.

  London was crying by then, and I felt bad, but honestly, Ez, I felt worse for me. Because all I could think about was my list of questions.

  Why did you leave us?

  Was Mom always so shitty?

  Are you as shitty as she says you are?

  Do you know about Darren? Like, do you know how he treats your kids?

  Would you treat us like that, if you were here?

  What were you like when you were our age?

  Did you even want children?

  What are you most afraid of?

  What’s the one thing you’ve always wished you could do?

  Which Avenger do you relate to most?

  All these things I will never know the answers to because our father took the answers with him. And in that moment, standing there, I realized just how much I wanted to know the answers to those questions. Like, needed to know them. All my life, I haven’t thought about Dad except to wonder why he hated us so much that he would not only leave us but leave us with our mother. And suddenly, for the past how many months, I’m thinking about him every day. And I realize how much I wanted to see him. And talk to him. And ask him every last one of those fucking questions.

  And then I was crying, which made the world look like I was seeing it from behind one of those shower curtain liners that’s gone foggy and water-splattered. Talk about being in the deep end. I never knew they made water that deep.

  And then I climbed down and just walked away from this kid, our brother. But before I did, I said, “You were the one who did this. You need to be the one to tell Ez.” And I grabbed his phone, typed in your email address, and left him there.

  Subject: The Deeper End

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Sun 21 Apr 22:47 CST

  I walked away from St. Louis. Literally. Found Interstate 70 and walked until I was out of the city limits because I had to get as far away from there as I could, even if I had to do it on foot.

  And then I started hitchhiking my way to Columbia. I don’t know why, maybe because I’d heard of it, which is more than I can say for most Missouri towns. And maybe because the guy who gave me a ride was good-looking in a Golly Gee All-American kind of way and that’s where he was going. His name is Patrick Aaron Robinson, called Patch by his friends, and he plays basketball at St. Louis University. Even though he looks like a good churchgoing boy—warm hazel eyes, easy smile—he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and there was a pinup-girl air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror of his truck. Old me would have taken one look at him and said keep on going, buddy. Because this guy is scary handsome. Remember Marcus Doyle, who was a class above me? Patrick Aaron Robinson is even better-looking. So old me would’ve been like, No way. I wouldn’t even know what to say to a guy like this. But runaway/dropout me just climbed right into his truck.

  At first he tried to talk to me, but when I didn’t answer, he stopped. We rode most of the way without speaking, me in my head, thinking of how I’d just fucked up my life because of an almost-fifteen-year-old, and now this guy was going to kill me and dump my body in a field somewhere on the prairie because apparently I’m a terrible judge of character and serial killers sometimes look like regular churchgoing folk or Zac Efron (see Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile), and this guy was both. My brain was like, Get out of the truck. Jump out right now, even if it’s moving. But my body kept sitting there.

  At some point I said to him, “If you’re going to kill me, you might as well do it now.”

  He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  I said, “Go ahead. Seriously. It’s better for me if you get it over with.”

  “Do you want me to kill you?” He was doing this half-smile thing, with dimples, like I was making some big fat joke.

  “Not really.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  Neither of us said anything for a minute, and then he goes, “You do know I was kidding, right? I’m not a murderer. I can’t even catch a fish without releasing it. Something my dad finds extremely disappointing.”

  I said, “We’re good.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need to know. I’m just here for the free transportation.”

  “You look like a Martha.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yeah. You really do.” Flash flash dimple dimple. “So if you don’t want to tell me your actual name, that’s what I’ll call you.”

  You could tell he thought he was cute. Which he was, but that’s not the point. I just rolled my eyes and stared out the window.

  “So, Martha. Do you have some big life plan or are you seeing where the road takes you?”

  He didn’t mean anything by it, but something in me just snapped. Like all the things I was holding and carrying suddenly got too heavy, and one went plummeting to the floor, and then all of them went tumbling, and all at once my arms were empty and I’m holding nothing but air. It’s not that I ever had big plans for myself, but all at once I didn’t have any. Like in the moment I met London Wooster, anything even resembling a plan went away.

  I started to cry. Again. Full-on ugly crying. Gasping and hiccupping and my entire self wet from all the tears.

  He pulled the truck over to the side of the road, and this is when I thought it would happen. The killing. He turned off the engine. We sat there for two or three minutes, which felt more like two or three hours. I know it was two or three minutes because I was watching the clock on his dash.

  Finally he goes, “If it were up to me, I’d be at KU—that’s University of Kansas—with the rest of my friends. But my dad has other plans.” Then he goes on about how he’s more interested in criminal psychology than basketball, and it’s just his dad and him, his mom died when he was small, and his dad doesn’t see him, not really, even though he means well. And the entire time I’m sitting there crying into my hands, wondering if this is some sort of serial killer foreplay. Like he wants to confess all these things to me before he wraps his phone charger around my neck and boots my dead ass out onto the roadside.

  Then he goes, “What’s your excuse?”

  I dropped my hands. I looked at him. “For what?”

  “Running.”

  “Who says I’m running?” I dried my face as best I could with the backs of my hands.

  He looked at me then, starting with my shoes, ending with my messy, wet face.

  “You do.”

  I almost got out of the truck and took my chances on that long stretch of highway. But then I was like, I’ve got nothing to lose. And I’ve run this far, haven’t I? And here I am on some Missouri highway, having left my brother—and this new other brother, deceitful shitbag that he is—and everyone I know, including Franco and Irene, behind. So I said, “You should try it. If you hate your life so much. Why don’t you run away?”

  He stared at me so long I thought, This is when he kills me. And then he said, “You’re right. Maybe I should. The thing is, Martha.” He’s got this soft, raspy voice that makes him sound like a phone sex operator. “The thing is, I’d rather run toward something than run from something. Does that make sense?”

  I hiccupped. Nodded. Croaked out a “yes.”

  “I just haven’t found the t
hing I want to run to yet.”

  He started the truck. We pulled back onto the highway and for the next mile I thought about this. I just haven’t found the thing I want to run to yet.

  I sat there thinking about all the running from I’ve been doing and how my running away was the first time I ever ran to something. Even if that something blew up in my face, I figure running toward is still better than running away.

  And that got me thinking about stupid London Wooster with his stupid glasses and stupid face with Dad’s stupid nose sitting right in the center of it. He was running to me. To us, Ez. He did it in a fucked-up, twisted way. But that doesn’t change the fact that he ran to me. However he did it, maybe I should have listened. After all, family for you and me is in short supply and beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him your email. I’m sorry it didn’t come from me. But in some ways, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. I felt like he owed you an explanation for why your sister left you behind. I felt like he owed us both that.

  The farther away we got from St. Louis, the worse I felt. I couldn’t get that kid out of my mind. So I asked Patch to turn the truck around and take me back. And at first he thought I was joking, but then he was like, “As long as you tell me your name.”

  “It’s Martha,” I said. “You were right.”

  I could tell he knew I was lying, but he said, “Okay, Martha.” And turned the truck around.

  I said, “I can hitch. Someone’s probably waiting for you. Some college girl with perfect hair and a perfect life. You should go back to her. She misses you. She’ll die without you. Even though she’s smart and capable and probably on scholarship, even though she can afford to go to ten colleges at the same time if she wanted to. Her family has always been supportive and there for her in all the ways that count, and they believe in her, most of all. Anything for her. You don’t want to keep her waiting. Felicity. That’s her name. Don’t keep Felicity waiting. No one keeps Felicity waiting.”