Take Me With You When You Go

by David Levithan

  “Get away from here!” Terrence yells. “This is our property.”

  Stop, I think. It won’t work.

  Darren laughs, stepping over the curb. “Sure. If this is your property, then he’s his mother’s property and I’ve come to retrieve it. It’s time for him to apologize to her for everything he’s done.”

  “Apologize?” I say.

  He turns those angry eyes on me, full blast. “You are not going to hurt your mother any longer, do you understand? From now on, you are going to behave. Now stop all this shit and let’s get your ass home.”

  What’s the one word we were never allowed to use with Darren? Two letters, starts with an N, ends with an O? The trigger word. The unsafe word. The word guaranteed to piss him off more and make any punishment even worse.

  I saw what happened when you used it. I heard what happened.

  I also knew it never stopped anything. I knew he would storm right through it.

  And if you want to know the truth, the despicably ugly truth, I might not have used it now, at this moment, if Terrence hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t been so embarrassed that Terrence was seeing me cut down to the core of my weakness. It was that mortification more than anything else that found a way to tell Darren no.

  The second it was out in the air, he grabbed for me. Terrence tried to block him and got shoved aside. The rage, Bea—the pure rage. Darren tackled me right to the ground.

  The jolt of hitting. Him right on top of me. Terrence crying out, then trying to pull him off. Me thinking I am going to die and also I feel really bad about the suit. More voices—neighbors running over. Shouting, “Get off him!” And then, miracle, Darren getting off me. Pulled back. Shrugging off Terrence and Mr. Anderson from next door. Mrs. Anderson yelling, “Police! I’m calling the police!” Maybe that’s the word that gets through. I can’t get up. He’s yelling at them all now, saying this is his son, he can discipline his son however he wants. You deserve this, is what he’s saying to me. Though now he won’t look at me, still on the ground. A few more neighbors are coming out of their houses. “I’m going, I’m going,” Darren spits out. I turn my head and look at the car.

  Our mother, Bea.

  Our mother.

  Just.

  Sits.

  There.

  Staring ahead through the windshield.

  I’m over here, Mom.

  I want to call it out, but I don’t want Darren coming back.

  Terrence reaches out to help me up. I touch the back of my head and Terrence says, “Oh shit,” because there’s blood on my fingers.

  The car door slams again. The car makes a wide U-turn, and for a second I think he’s going to run us over. But the car stays in the road, drives away.

  Mrs. Anderson takes a look at the back of my head. Tells me it doesn’t look too bad, but I should stay there while she gets the first aid kit and some water.

  I stay on the ground. Another neighbor, Mrs. Clemmons, says she got the whole thing on her phone, including the license plate. Terrence sits down next to me, holds my hand. The neighbors notice and don’t comment. Instead Mr. Anderson introduces himself, and so does Mrs. Clemmons.

  Mrs. Anderson is cleaning off the wound (“Just a cut,” she assures me) and bandaging me when Terrence’s parents pull up.

  There are a lot of things to explain, and I don’t hold back.

  I explain them all.

  * * *

  —

  They call the police. They remind the police what Darren did in the movie theater. They ask about a restraining order. The police say they’ll warn him to stay away, and explain the steps for getting a restraining order. Nobody talks about social services, foster care, all of those things I’m afraid of. They ask about you and I make sure to say you’re eighteen, that we’re in touch, and that you’re fine. Terrence’s family also makes it sound like I’m already living here, like they’ve already taken care of it.

  I’m not telling you all this to distress you. I’m fine. It sucked seeing him again—but it also helped me to know that the more people hear my story, the more I find out they’re on my side, not his. I’m still scared, but I don’t feel out of my mind for feeling scared. Not nearly as much as I did before.

  Terrence’s mom was ready to call our mom and give her a good tongue-lashing—I’ve honestly never seen the woman so angry. But I surprised myself by telling her, no, that was something I had to do. Not right now. But soon. I keep thinking of her sitting in that car, staring as if the car was moving forward, and I know that I can’t just give her my silence. No. There will come a time, soon, when I am going to have to throw my words at her. Because that, more than any silence, is what she should be carrying with her right now.

  Just not tonight. It’s late. Terrence says he’s not waiting up for me, but I know he is. All these things happen…and still there’s school tomorrow.

  But, hey, you know that because you’re in a dorm room. What’s that look like, Bea—college? We should both try it sometime, no?

  First things first, though. You find out what you can about our father.

  And I—well, I’m going to figure out what I need to say to our mother. Once and for all. Suggestions welcome.

  Ez

  PS—Tell London I say hi. Because why the hell not, right?

  Subject: #fuckdarren

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 07:36 CST

  Holy shit, Ez.

  Holy. Shit.

  So of course I immediately go online to find out if Darren’s been locked up, but if there’s anything out there about evil stepfather + unfit mother + fight with teenage son of unfit mother in front of teenage son’s boyfriend and neighbors, I don’t see it.

  I tell Patch about my badass little brother because, as miserable and god-awful as I know that was, I’m really, really proud of you, and he’s the one who lets me know this is an even bigger deal than Darren trying to bully you/drag you into the car. This goes so far beyond our usual. My mind doesn’t fully grasp this at first because I’m so used to keeping quiet about Darren and Mom and all the sordid things that happen behind closed doors over at good old 885 Hidden Valley Circle, so my first reaction is HOLY SHIT, MY BROTHER IS A BADASS, AND IF I EVER SEE DARREN AGAIN, I WILL KICK HIM IN THE FACE SO HARD HE’S GOING TO BE CHEWING WITH HIS NOSE.

  Don’t get me started on our mother.

  But as I’m telling him, Patch sits up, all serious, and starts shaking his beautiful head. “Jesus, Martha,” he says with a kind of whoosh sound, as if he’s been holding his breath till just this moment. “He’s really lucky that he has a place to stay.”

  Me: “Yeah.” But now I’m worrying about Terrence and his parents and how long their hospitality will actually last.

  “But,” he goes, “and I didn’t think about this—the police might tell your mom her husband has to leave, and then it’s all okay. Ezra could go back home if he wants to.” He is also a pretty positive person, something that might get on my nerves if he wasn’t so cool and self-aware.

  Now, you and I both know what the answer should be if the police suddenly tell Mom she has to choose between you and Darren. It would have to be you, right? Her son? I mean, what kind of mother steals her own kids from their father and then ditches them for her shitbag new husband?

  Maybe the kind of mother who pretends that the new husband isn’t grabbing her son and trying to force him into a car. Where she sits. Staring out the window. As if nothing is happening.

  No.

  No.

  Fuck her.

  Fuck them both, Ez.

  I’m going to send this now and hopefully you write me back right away.

  I’m sorry I’m not there.

  I’m sorry I left you.

&nb
sp; I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  Love,

  Bea

  Subject: From Franco

  From: franco@francositmarket.com

  To: Bea

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 08:02 CST

  Bea,

  Thank you for letting us know where you are. You take care of yourself. Your things are here. We aren’t going to throw them away.

  Your friend,

  Franco

  Subject: SLU (my day Part One)

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 22:13 CST

  I’m not exactly sure how to start this letter. We both know I went to see our brother today. The only thing I can do is describe it.

  But first.

  Patch and I leave campus around 10 am, after his Intro to Criminal Psychology class. To save time, I go with him. No one knows I’m there because there are probably two hundred students in that lecture hall. The professor is young, maybe late thirties, and they call her Dr. Naomi, her first name. That’s how hip she is. Anyway, I sit by Patch, concentrating on the smell of his soap, the nearness of him, so that I can distract myself from the following two things: A) The fact that my younger brother (you) has just gone through a major public battle with our mother’s asshole lover; and B) The fact that I will be spending this day with my surprise younger younger brother (London) and his mom (who isn’t our mom) at their house, which used to be the house of our recently deceased father.

  So I’m breathing in Patch and breathing him out, and completely blanking out on Dr. Naomi’s lecture. Until she starts talking about nature vs. nurture and the impact on criminals. Are they born bad? Are their criminal tendencies a product of genes? That’s debatable. Or is it something in their upbringing, in their home environment, societal environment, parental experience—is that what creates them? On and on.

  I don’t realize my hand is in the air until Patch nudges me in the ribs. His gaze follows my arm upward. My gaze follows his, up, up, up to my hand, raised for all to see. I drop it back down, but too late. Dr. Naomi says, “Yes?”

  She says it in such a friendly way. So welcoming and nonjudgmental. Which is why I open my mouth and say, “What if it’s a combination? What if they’re born with bad tendencies, what if we all are, but those tendencies are nurtured by their specific environments? What if their genetic makeup isn’t any more screwed up than anyone else’s, just the normal amount, but they’re told over and over and over again that their only choice is to be bad?”

  Because—what’s this? I’m actually beginning to believe that you and I aren’t the problem here, Ez, no matter what Mom and Darren say. Funny how you can believe things about yourself if someone tells you enough. They are the problem.

  Dr. Naomi seems to appreciate this comment, and she gives examples of those who’ve been brainwashed into crime—people like cult followers and the Manson girls. I sit there thinking about the Manson girls and feeling better about myself—as shitty as Mom and Darren are, I would never murder anyone or brand a swastika on my forehead. And then, like that, the class is over.

  “Good work today,” Dr. Naomi says to me on our way out. You can tell she’s searching for my name.

  “Martha,” I say.

  “Martha,” she repeats. “I look forward to more from you.”

  And this is the first time in my life anyone has ever said this. Like that, I freeze, unable to move, until Patch lays his hands on my shoulders and steers me out of the room.

  College. I think about it all the way to London’s house. I’ve never thought about college. I mean, I used to, about a hundred years ago when I was little. Back when I was tutoring Celia What’s-her-name and reading books even Mom and Darren (you know, if they actually read) couldn’t comprehend. But once I hit high school, I learned it just wasn’t an option. There wasn’t the money or the expectation. I still thought about it now and then, but we both know thinking about it and having it be an actual possibility are two different things. If it had been possible, I would have stayed and graduated with Joe and Sloane and the rest of my class, but that never seemed to matter.

  College.

  I’m picturing myself—another version of me, more put together, a little less runaway, a little more runway—walking across campus, sitting in lecture halls, raising my hand, getting into debates with professors and other students. I imagine my dorm room, decorated in bright colors, maybe Andy Warhol prints. I’ll dress like Edie Sedgwick, all smoky eyes and mod skirts and boots, maybe an ironic beret. I’ll wave to everyone and go to the occasional party, but no one except Patch and my close-knit circle of friends will know me, really know me. Everyone else will buzz about how smart I am, though. How mysterious. How they’ve heard I overcame my circumstances to be here.

  I envision myself in a cap and gown, walking across the stage, you in the audience with Terrence and maybe London, and Patch, smiling his proud, too-handsome smile. I’ll give a speech about forgiveness and believing in yourself, and how if I can do it, anyone can. There will be tears from the audience, tears from me, and I’ll walk off that stage knowing in my heart that I can do anything.

  It’s a beautiful daydream for a Manson girl, isn’t it?

  Love,

  Bea

  Subject: London Wooster (my day Part Two)

  From: Bea

  To: Ezra

  Date: Mon 22 Apr 23:02 CST

  Part Two

  The Home of London Wooster

  Patch drives me across St. Louis, giving me a pep talk. For once, I want to hear it. I could use some positive words. My own head is always such a negative, self-doubting place, although maybe a little less than it used to be. He talks and I listen.

  “No matter what happens, this doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t change the fact that you, Martha, are brilliant and amazing, that your smile—when you use it—could light up the dark Missouri sky. That your brain works in fascinating, dangerous ways. That you are braver than you think. That you are a human firework, all electricity and bright, bright colors. That you will always have your brother Ezra, no matter how far from home you wander, no matter how many half brothers or sisters pop up along the way.”

  Before I can start picturing a slew of little Londons, dressed in matching red puffer vests, showing up one by one by one, Patch says, “Hey, Martha. You got this.”

  “What about you?” I say.

  “What about me?”

  “You should tell your dad you’ve got your own dreams.”

  He waves his hand at this. Stares out the windshield at the road. “We’re talking about you,” he says in a minute.

  “We’re always talking about me,” I say, and there’s an edge to my voice, even though you know me, Ez. I’ve always liked it when things are about me.

  “You’re just a lot more interesting. And besides, my problems have been there for a while. No need to address them right now.” He reaches for the radio, cranks it up, and starts singing loudly to some old Prince song. It’s horrible, and I laugh, and then he’s laughing and we’re good. I sing the rest of the way at the top of my lungs, and I can’t remember when I last did this—took up this much space, made this much noise, and didn’t worry about it. His voice joins mine and then he reaches for my hand and I let him take it. I used to hate holding hands with Joe. Something about it felt clingy and suffocating. But sometimes it’s good to feel human skin other than your own.

  I keep an eye on the GPS. I can see the miles counting down until we’re two miles away. One mile away. Half a mile away. A quarter of a mile. Two blocks. Seven hundred feet.

  We drive through a respectable upper-middle-class neighborhood. Manicured trees, two- and three-story homes, s
ome with porches, some without. Not McMansions, but older houses, houses with character. Lots of SUVs parked in driveways.

  Five hundred feet. Four hundred feet. Three hundred feet. Two hundred feet. And suddenly there it is—the only house like it on the street, maybe in the entire neighborhood. All angles and multiple stories. Very modern, but, like, modern in a beautiful way. Like a Picasso.

  The front door opens before I get out of the car, before Patch can finish telling me to call him when I’m done, no matter what time, and he’ll come back to get me. Before he makes me repeat (for the tenth time) his phone number so that I can call him since I still don’t have a phone of my own to program his number into. London stands on the step, Spider-Man shirt bagging around him, and waves.

  For one second, I think about telling Patch to drive away, to get us the hell out of here. To tell him I won’t step out of this truck until he faces his own dad and stands up for himself, for his life, the way I’m trying to do.

  But then he says again, “You got this, Martha.” And I don’t want to disappoint him, and I don’t want to disappoint London, who stands grinning and waving like we’re in some giant crowd and he’s worried I don’t see him.

  So I close the door to the truck, Patch on one side, me on the other, and walk up the neat stone path. London holds out his hand to shake mine, and instead of telling him, You’re such a weird almost-fifteen-year-old, I shake his hand and follow him inside.

  I want to describe every detail to you, Ez, but this is already long and I haven’t even gotten in the house, and there is so much to say. The house is one that Dad designed. He wasn’t an architect, but London says he could draw, and when he was younger he wanted to study architecture. As modern as the house is, it feels warm and homey inside. Kind of like a magazine, but without everything too matching. Open and airy, but lived-in. Lots of light. Lots of art on the walls. Photographs our dad took, mostly black-and-white, of trees and skies and horizons. Lots of open spaces. London shows me Dad’s camera, and I hold it in my hands and try to imagine this man I didn’t know carrying it around and capturing moments. I try not to think of all the moments we lost.