Take Me With You When You Go

by David Levithan

  And he goes, “No one’s waiting for me. No one that matters. Especially not this Felicity you speak of. And hitching’s dangerous.” He flashed me that smile again. “Just tell me one thing. Is going back to St. Louis you running to something?”

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  For a while, we don’t say anything, and then he goes, “She sounds like a nightmare.”

  “Who?”

  “This Felicity chick.”

  “Chick is demeaning. Unless you’re an old person who doesn’t know any better.”

  “Felicity then. She sounds like a lot.”

  “She is a lot. But a good a lot, as opposed to a bad a lot. I’m a bad a lot.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Huh.”

  “Only I’m not.”

  “Not what?”

  “A bad a lot. I actually think I’m pretty cool.” And as I said it, I kind of believed it. I thought of standing on the turtle sculpture shouting at all the onlookers, all those people staring at me during the worst moment of my life like I was there for their entertainment, like I’d invited them to pull up a chair and watch the Bea Melts Down Show. I thought of them running away after I shouted at them and I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud in Patrick Aaron Robinson’s truck.

  He was looking at me, just like they looked at me, and I said, “You had to be there.”

  We rode in silence for a mile or two. I stared out at the ugly, boring landscape, wondering what it was like to grow up here. Wondering what our lives would have been like if we’d grown up here. I’m deep in my head, the way I get, and at some point Patch turned the music up, up, up, and I was suddenly aware that it’s blasting and then I couldn’t think about anything but the music. N.W.A.

  I reached over and turned it down. “What?” I said.

  “Oh good, you’re still here. I said, I’m a bad a lot too.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  I reached over again, this time to flip his visor down and point to the mirror. “No, you’re not. Look at you.”

  He pretended to admire himself. “Take the wheel, Martha. I gotta get a good look at this.” He let go of the steering wheel, and instinctively I grabbed it so that we didn’t go careening off the road or slam into oncoming traffic, such as it was. He turned his head this way, that way, grinned at the mirror, winked.

  Finally he sat back, arms folded, while I steered. “You think you know people because you’ve been hurt by them. I know what that’s like. But don’t pretend you know me.” He flipped the visor up and took the wheel. And the air around us changed. He reached out one long arm, veins in his muscles twitching, and turned up the music again.

  We didn’t talk the rest of the trip. It took us an hour to get back to St. Louis, to the park, and by the time we got to the turtles London was gone. I didn’t really expect him to be waiting for me in his puffer vest in the dark, but not seeing him there made me feel even worse.

  I said, “He’s gone.” Even though it was obvious.

  Patch said, “So let’s look for him.”

  “You don’t even know who I’m looking for.”

  “Doesn’t matter. This is more interesting than anything I have to do right now. Felicity included.”

  “Fuck Felicity,” I said.

  He laughed. “Everly,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Everly. The name of the girl I was going to see when you hijacked me.”

  “Everly?”

  “Everly.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Everly. Felicity. Same thing. So are you sorry you’re here? With me?”

  “No.” And I could hear the sincerity in his voice the way you and I can always tell if someone’s telling us the truth or not. He had his hands in his jean pockets because the air had gotten cooler, and I thought, He’s someone who can stand around and know what to do with his arms.

  I said, “You’re really handsome.”

  He laughed again. He said, “It’s just my face.” And he waved at it like this old thing and then slid his hand back into his pocket. “So do you know where he lives? The mystery person you were hoping to find here?”

  “No, but I’ll find him.” I pulled out my phone and typed in Jonathan Calvin Wooster, and what do you know, just like that, an address pops up. After all these years of wondering about Dad, all we needed to do was type his name into a search engine, and there he is. You know, if we’d known his name.

  I held up the phone to show him.

  “That’s him?”

  “That’s his dad. My dad, technically. He’s apparently dead now.”

  “Okay. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks. And, hey, thanks for the ride.”

  “Yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Martha.” He started walking ahead of me, back to the truck. When I didn’t follow him, he turned around and said, “Well, come on. We can stay at SLU or we can go to my house and you can meet my very intimidating yet well-meaning dad.”

  “I’ve got places I can stay.”

  “Sure you do. Come on.”

  Which is why I’m writing this from the laptop of someone called Nando in a dorm room on the St. Louis University campus. This is the thing about life, Ez. You never know where it’s going to take you.

  Subject: The Deeper End—Part Two

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 01:28 CST

  Okay, I’m back. You didn’t know I was gone, which is the magic of these emails, but for the past two hours Patrick Aaron Robinson and I have been sitting on the roof of his dorm in two old lawn chairs, under a partly starlit sky, talking. Me, dressed in one of his basketball jerseys, which hung to my knees, while my filthy clothes got washed clean in the basement laundry room. The first thing I did was ask him about Everly.

  “So what’s her story?” I fixed my eyes on him. In case he decided to lie, I wanted to be able to see it.

  “Everly’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took a drink. Stretched his long legs in front of him, crossed his ankles, shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of got distracted before I could find out.”

  “By me?” Even though I knew the answer.

  He laughed. Nothing seems to get past him. “By you.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “We’re not together. She goes to Mizzou. I met her here in St. Louis at this dive bar called The Haunt. Last week. Me going to Columbia, that was going to be the first time we hung out.”

  All of a sudden, I felt like the stars were closing in. I don’t know why, but I got mad. At him. At this girl in Columbia, Missouri, who probably has the nicest story you’ve ever heard, one without villains or sadness or people running away.

  I said, “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Too late.” And then he grinned at me. “If I’d really wanted to see Everly, I wouldn’t have stopped to pick you up.” Like that, the stars were back where they belonged, way up in the sky, and I could breathe.

  “So what about you?” Now his eyes were fixed on me. “Who’s waiting for you back home?”

  “No one.” But this felt like a lie, and out there on the roof, under the stars, I didn’t want there to be any lies. “Actually Joe,” I said. “Joe is waiting. But it’s over—it’s been over—for a long time. He knows, but…” My words drifted off. I didn’t like Joe being there on that roof.

  “But you’re hard to shake.”

  I gave him a haha fuck you look, but he wasn’t mocking me. He was smiling in this sweet, sexy, genuine way.

  “I’m gonna need to keep my eye on you, Martha.”

  I couldn’t h
elp smiling then, and we sat like that for a few seconds, grinning at each other like two teenagers in a movie.

  Then his eyes broke away from mine and stared out into the distance, where he pointed out his house, or at least the general direction of his house. He said he hadn’t been back to see his dad since Christmas because they don’t agree on his life. As in Patch is living the life his dad wants him to, but “It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it, and it doesn’t mean he gets to ask me about it.”

  The whole conversation made me sad because at least his dad cares about him. I said, “At least he cares what happens to you.”

  “I know he does,” Patch said. “But there’s a difference between caring and listening. He doesn’t listen.”

  I told him about Mom and Darren and how they don’t care or listen, and then I told him how I just walked away from everything, including you.

  He said, “I don’t how much longer I can not walk away.”

  “So maybe you need to.”

  He shrugged.

  “So do it,” I said.

  “It’s complicated.” And he sounded irritated, like he wanted me to shut up and leave it alone. But you know how I can get, Ez. Like a dog with a bone. I wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Or you could just keep complaining about it,” I said, feeling kind of impatient and also irritated. I mean, I’ve never had much patience, Ez, but it’s like now that I’ve been on my own and now that I’ve been through what I’ve been through I have even less. And saying this to him I felt a little older. And responsible in a way I’d never felt before. Because there I was giving this smart, gorgeous man—with the whole world laid out before him—advice like some wise old crone who had lived a hundred lives. And I wanted to shake him, to tell him to stop being one of those people who always talks and talks about the things he hates about his life without doing anything to change it. Sometimes people, even the smart ones, even the good ones, just can’t see themselves.

  As upside down as our lives might be right now, Ez? At least we’re doing something to change it.

  Anyway, I wanted to let you know what happened. I don’t know where it all goes from here or where I go. But I do know that bright and early tomorrow morning—later this morning, I guess—the world’s handsomest basketball player and I are going to Dad’s old house to see about this boy who claims to be our brother.

  Love,

  Martha

  p.s. He probably won’t want to hear this from me, but tell Terrence thank you. I’m going to sleep better tonight knowing you’re with him and that he knows what’s happening and that, no matter what, no matter how deep the deep end gets, he has your back.

  Subject: From Bea

  From: Bea

  To: franco@francositmarket.com

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 1:50 CST

  Dear Franco,

  Please accept my apology. I’m sorry I haven’t written to let you know I’m okay, but I haven’t had computer access till now.

  I came here to find my father. That is why I ran away from home. You may or may not have figured that part of it out. My “father” turned out to be a half brother I never knew I had. My actual father is dead. Old Bea would have just taken off and not said anything to you, even after all your hospitality. But I am trying to let Old Bea go. New Bea wants to say she’s sorry to you and Irene.

  I am trying to sort out some things. I know I left my belongings, such as they are, at your store. If I’m not back in a week or so, please feel free to throw them away.

  Thank you again.

  Your friend,

  Bea

  Subject: Late night wonderings

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 02:09 CST

  When you’re with Terrence, do you ever feel like you need to be on your best behavior and show him the very best Ezra? Like, do you feel this urge to sweep yourself under the rug or out onto the street and Pledge out all the dusty, cobwebby, rough, and broken spots so that he can’t see them?

  I never really felt that with Joe, but Patch is kind of intimidatingly good and kind and handsome and funny. And, as if all that wasn’t enough, smart. For some reason, he likes talking to me—or else he’s really good at pretending—but I wish I had a shinier, gleamier Bea right now who could take my place and sit beside him on the roof of his dorm and talk about the stars.

  Subject: Sunday bloody Sunday

  From: Ezra

  To: Bea

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 03:21 EST

  So I started the day at church.

  I know, I know—get your jaw off the ground. Stop checking the temperature in hell to see if it’s dropped below zero. I was surprised too. But when Terrence’s mom asked me if I’d come along with the family to church on Sunday morning, I knew it was a big deal. I could see on Terrence’s face that it was a big deal. His mom was walking out on a limb she’d never tested before. I accepted the invitation.

  The problem being: I don’t exactly have the right clothes. And you know I’m hardly Terrence’s size. But Terrence’s mom is not deterred—no, she heads right to a closet I’d never even noticed before, and she takes out a suit she says belonged to Terrence’s dad back in college.

  So there I am, the white kid in the Black church, smelling of mothballs and with the cuffs of my pants constantly tucking under the backs of my shoes. And you know how people react? Like they’re all happy to see me. Am I introduced as Terrence’s “friend” rather than his boyfriend? You bet I am. Do I mind this? Not at all.

  The service begins, and while I don’t have any idea what to say or do, I know why I’m there. Not just because it feels so good to be welcomed, although there is that. No, the reason I’m at church this Sunday morning is because my father has died, and I didn’t get to go to any funeral, and what I need right now is the space to have my own funeral in my head. There aren’t any speeches in this funeral, because I don’t know what to say. The casket is closed, because I don’t know what he looks like. But all around me, there are prayers and songs, amens and hallelujahs. We’re sitting in the back row of the funeral, Bea; nobody knows we’re there. I see London in the front with his mom, sobbing. I see all of these other people reaching out to comfort them. I understand that this man I didn’t know, this man who’s died, has left memories inside all of these other people. As the funeral goes on, the memories are filling their heads. You and I strain to see them. We want to know just a little more. We want to feel we deserve to be there.

  I start crying, there in the church—the real church, not the one in my mind. Not loud crying, but tears down my face that I try to wipe away quickly. Everyone is so busy with their Jesus Jesus Jesus that I don’t think they’ll notice. But Terrence’s mom takes a tissue out of her purse and hands it to me. Then, when I’m done clearing my face of tears, she pats me on the hand. It’s going to be all right. She doesn’t have to say it; it’s transmitted in that simple touch.

  I say a prayer for London and his mom, because I know what they’re going through must be hard, and maybe they’re the kind of people who believe in prayers.

  * * *

  —

  After church, there’s a lot of talking and catching up. Terrence asks his parents if we can walk home since the weather’s so nice; I’m sure they understand that he’s just looking for a way for us to get out of there, and they go along with it. It’s only a half-hour walk, and we’ll probably get back to the house before they do, in time for lunch (which they call dinner).

  There’s not much to say about the walk home—it’s just a walk home on a nice day. As you can probably deduce, Terrence and I have spent a lot of time together this weekend, talking or taking a break from talking. There isn’t much left to say, and that feels comfortable rather th
an awkward. He tells me some stories about the people I met in church, and I try to figure out who he’s talking about. (He keeps referring to them by what they were wearing; I don’t have the heart to tell him that while he notices details like that, I don’t remember a single thing about what anybody wore.)

  We’re so busy talking that I don’t notice Darren’s car parked across the street from Terrence’s house. Not until I hear Darren’s voice calling my name, and I turn and see him there in the driver’s seat, window rolled down.

  “Ezra!” he calls out. “Get in this car right now.”

  Mom is in the car with him, Bea. I can see her next to him, staring straight ahead.

  “Now,” Darren repeats.

  I freeze.

  Then, that warning: “Don’t make me get out of this car.”

  I can’t move.

  I feel the tug of all the other times I’ve listened to him; it’s practically instinct, that instantaneous measurement of demand vs. consequence, knowing it’s always easier to give in to the demand than have it escalate into consequence. Don’t make me get out of this car. Don’t make me say it again. Don’t make me come over there. Don’t make me take that thing out of your hands and throw it away. Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.

  “Ezra,” Terrence says, pulling at my arm. “Let’s go inside.”

  The car door is opening. The car door is slamming. Darren is crossing the street.

  Terrence is pulling harder. He is going to rip the sleeve of his father’s suit.

  Why can’t I move?

  Just go with him. Get in the car. You knew this was going to happen. You knew you couldn’t stay here.

  Terrence stops pulling on my sleeve. He’s giving up on me. At that moment, I am sure he’s giving up on me.

  Walk away, Terrence, I think. It’s fine. I’ll go.

  But instead of walking away, he steps between me and Darren.