by Jenny Han
I don’t bother answering her. What does it matter? My boat, the beautiful Judy Blue Eyes, is no more.
* * *
We have a senior assembly last period. A few former Jar High graduates are back home for spring break, and they’re talking to us about their first-year experiences in college or some shit. Lil’s sitting in the back, by herself, with an empty seat next to her. Reeve’s, I guess. The rest of their friends are down front. Before the thing gets started, I shoot up there and steal the seat.
“How’s it going?”
“Ash hasn’t said two words to me. And Alex, he won’t even look at me. But I think Derek and PJ are coming around. I mean, obviously Reeve and I didn’t set out to hurt anyone.”
I give her the eye. “Come on, Lil. Yeah, you didn’t set out to hurt anyone but you knew exactly what would happen if people found out. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been sneaking around.”
“That’s fair.” She bites her lip. “But I can’t help the way I feel.”
I shrug. “Then fuck everyone. Who cares? You’re almost out of this place anyway.”
Lillia nods like I’m making sense, which I am, but then she sinks low in her seat. “I hate feeling like Alex hates me.”
“Have you tried talking to him?”
“Yes. But he just walked away.” She hangs her head.
“Then try again!”
“I feel like maybe I should give him some space?”
“Lil, don’t do that thing you do where you just pretend that shit is fine and dandy. Remember, you got off easy because Mary isn’t around anymore.”
“I’m not!” she says emphatically. “He’s just so mad, Kat. I’ve never seen him this mad before.”
“Well, think about it. The girl he’s loved forever and his supposed best friend have been secretly together under his nose.”
“You’re not making me feel better.”
“Sorry. Your hair looks very shiny today.”
Lillia pouts at me. And then she concedes, “It’s a new conditioner.”
As soon as I see Reeve making his way across the auditorium toward us, I stand up. “Later, Lil.” I love Lil, and I do have her back, but I also can’t help but think she and Reeve are just a bad idea.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARY
I’VE IMAGINED WHAT REEVE’S BEDROOM might look like so many times. At first I’m almost afraid to move. I just stand and look at everything, take it all in. I’ve never been in a boy’s room before. Not ever.
Reeve’s bedroom is in the attic of his house. I can tell by the pitch of the roof over my head, because it looks like I’m standing underneath the top of a triangle. On either side of the room there’s a small circular window. I can see the bare branches of winter treetops outside, dancing in the wind.
His bed is a queen, and it’s neatly made. There’s a weight bench in a corner, right in front of a large mirror. On the floor there’s a range of dumbbells in two neat rows, from smallest to largest. And on the walls are a bunch of pages ripped out from exercise magazines. The pictures are of exercise routines, but also of football players in splashy poses, and some models. I wrinkle my nose at one he has of a brunette in a hot-pink bikini drinking beer from a big frothy stein. At least it looks like it’s been up there for a long time, because the clear tape is yellow and peeling away from the wall.
Reeve’s bedroom isn’t completely clean. Dirty clothes spill out over the top of an overstuffed laundry hamper into a pile on the floor. His desk is covered in paper. And every single drawer in his dresser has been left open.
Reeve’s at his desk. He hasn’t started his homework. Instead he’s just staring at a framed picture underneath his lamp. It’s of him and Rennie, probably from freshman year. He’s in his Jar Island football uniform, and she’s in her cheering outfit. He’s holding her like a strongman.
Reeve lets out a sigh. He picks up the frame, walks past me, and puts it into his very top drawer. He pushes it closed, but only halfway, and walks out of his room.
I tiptoe over to look inside the drawer. There are a few pairs of boxer shorts inside, but mostly it’s random trinkets. There are army dog tags for someone named William Tabatsky. A couple of silver dollars. An article from the newspaper when Reeve was sports player of the week. And now the picture of him and Rennie. I feel something weird underneath the frame. Something vibrating. Humming. Warm. I’m not sure if it’s a real noise or something only I can detect. I use my hand to guide away the picture frame, and then I find it.
The pocketknife.
* * *
He looked so bummed that morning on the ferry, I knew something had happened. I sat next to him and asked him what was wrong. Reeve just shook his head at first; he didn’t want to talk about it. So I let him sit in silence, and we shared the pack of Pop-Tarts I’d bought from the snack stand.
Mom always fixed me breakfast, but I used to take some change from her change plate each morning so I could buy Reeve and myself a pack of Pop-Tarts to split. One time Reeve said that I should lay off the Pop-Tarts, that I’d probably lose weight if I didn’t eat that kind of junk. I’d still buy them after he said that, but I’d only eat half of mine.
As we got close to the mainland, Reeve told me how his older brother Luke had taken back the pocketknife Reeve had stolen, the one Reeve had used to carve his name in the ferry seat. I didn’t totally follow the story, but Reeve was upset. It had been their grandfather’s. “Grandpap said he wanted me to have it,” he told me. “But Luke said I was lying. He told me to quit being such a baby. And when I wouldn’t, he told my dad and I got the belt.”
Before, Reeve had told me stories about how his older brothers picked on him, but they always ended with some comeuppance, some prank or sneaky thing Reeve did to settle the score. But on that day there was no such happy ending, and that was usually the case when Reeve’s dad got involved. He was a drinker and he had a temper, and it seemed, to me anyway, that Reeve got the worst of it. I couldn’t imagine my parents giving me the belt. Ever. I turned to look at him, and he was wiping his eyes. Reeve was crying.
That night I asked my mom if I could have some of the money from my savings account. They’d started it when I was a baby, and every time there was a holiday or a birthday, I had to put at least some of the money in there for safekeeping. I didn’t understand why, but Mom said that one day I could use that money for college, or for a trip to Europe or something.
She refused.
So when my parents went to sleep, I snuck downstairs and went into my mom’s wallet. She had a bunch of money in there. I took a fifty-dollar bill.
That weekend I went down to the shops on Main Street. I knew this one store my dad liked to bring his antique coins to. They had a lot of pocketknives there. The old man who owned the place didn’t seem keen to help me at first, but I told him I was shopping for my father’s birthday present and flashed him the fifty-dollar bill.
I ended up finding an old pocketknife that looked pretty close to the one Reeve had had. It had mother-of-pearl inlay in the handle and a lot of different tools you could slide out, like a can opener, a nail file, and a corkscrew. I knew it wouldn’t be as special as the one from his grandfather, but I hoped maybe this one could be special in a different way.
When I gave it to him on Monday, he was really surprised. I had chosen not to wrap it. I just handed it over like it was no big deal with his share of the Pop-Tarts.
“Where’d you get the money for this?”
I was glad he could tell it was expensive. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. It was funny. My mom hadn’t even noticed the money was missing. I was afraid she might ask me if I’d taken it. But she didn’t.
Reeve didn’t exactly say thank you, but I knew he was thankful. He was smiling super big, and he kept saying “Oh, cool!” over and over again as he fiddled with the features. He showed me what each little thing did. Even though the man at the shop had explained it to me, I pretended like I didn’t know a thing.
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* * *
There it is. The pocketknife I gave to Reeve. I can’t believe he kept it. I concentrate hard and take it in my hand. It doesn’t look like he ever used it. The blade is shiny and sharp.
I sink down to the carpet and I frown. It’s not a keepsake. Reeve probably tossed it in here after I gave it to him, yet another thing Reeve wants to hide away and not think about. I’m not someone he wants to remember. I’m something to forget.
How funny, then, that I’ll use it to kill him.
* * *
It’s dark; the only light is the glowing face of the alarm clock on his bedside table. It’s just after three in the morning. The wind is whipping through the bare trees outside, and a few of the branches scrape against the window. Reeve’s asleep in his bed. I take quiet steps across the room, the knife in my hand, and move closer and closer to his bed. He won’t even see it coming.
Reeve’s lying on his back, shirtless, the covers tangled around his legs. I step closer to him and watch as his chest rises and falls in long, slow breaths. His hair is just slightly damp around his forehead. He looks more like a boy than a man, vulnerable and sweet and peaceful. It’s too bad his insides are the opposite of his outside.
I slowly lower myself onto his bed. Reeve groans, and I freeze. He shifts and rolls over onto his side, so he’s facing me. I give it a second, just to make sure he won’t wake up, and then lie down next to him, nose to nose, so that we’re almost touching but not quite. He’s so close to me, I can see the tiny bit of stubble on his chin.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Back when I was fat and he was the crown prince of Montessori, I’d daydream about it all the time. His lips on mine. My first kiss. I creep closer. His lips are parted the tiniest bit, and I can see the slick pink insides of his mouth.
Why shouldn’t I? I’ve earned the right to do whatever I want to him. I could do way, way worse.
I lean in over his face, my lips pouty and soft. I never should have kissed that boy David on Halloween night. I should have saved it for Reeve.
Just then he moves again, this time with a quiet mumble, and his lips lift into a smile.
I set the knife down. What’s he dreaming about?
If someone who has passed on regularly appears in your dreams, it may be due to more than your subconscious longing. Some spirits are known to actively reach into the dream states of the living to pass along messages or to simply communicate that they still exist in an active capacity. Therefore, it is advisable not to dismiss any information regarding the afterlife obtained via a dream or subconscious event.
I reach out and press my hand to his forehead. Reeve immediately shivers, and then, in a rush of energy, I’m pulled straight into his mind.
Being in someone else’s dream is just like Aunt Bette’s book said. Things look a little smoky. But I can definitely tell where I am. Reeve’s on a football field, dressed in a uniform that’s not Jar Island colors. The stands are full of fans, not unlike the games I went to early in the season. He’s in the middle of a play, throwing the football downfield. The other players are blurry, faceless.
Reeve cocks back his arm and lets a long pass fly. Instead of watching it, he turns away from the field and walks over to the sidelines, like he has every confidence the ball will land where he wants it to. He’s got a big grin on his face, and the crowd roars. I guess because he was right.
I walk quickly alongside him and try to see where he’s headed. And then I spot Lillia in the stands, clapping happily for him. She’s in a tight black dress, her hair impossibly shiny, her lips rose-petal red. It’s the dress Kat bought her, to get Reeve’s attention. I’ve always thought Lillia was the prettiest girl at our high school, but in Reeve’s eyes she’s more than that. She’s sexy.
She stands up and throws her arms out, ready to embrace him, and calls out “Reeve!” breathlessly, like they’ve been apart for years and years.
Before Reeve can get to her, I step in front of him.
“Guess who?” I say.
He startles. “Excuse me.”
I won’t let him step past.
“Um, hello. I was talking to you. Don’t be rude.”
Reeve looks confused. “Do I know you?”
I lick my lips. “Yup. You and me go way back.”
I reach up for his face and pull it down to mine. I force our lips together.
And then it’s happening. We’re kissing. Kissing kissing.
But only for a second or two. Then he pulls away, his brow furrowed with confusion. Behind us I hear Lillia calling for him.
He wants to drift past me and go to her, but I won’t let him. I keep my body between them. “Reeve,” I say, more loudly so that I drown out Lillia’s voice. “Remember? From Halloween night? I bumped into you in the maze.”
He finally focuses on me. “Yeah. I remember. You picked up my crutches for me. What’s your name again?”
I can’t wait to tell him. I smile my prettiest smile. “My name is Big Easy.”
I have his attention now. He’s frozen; his eyes are wide and alarmed. I show him the pocketknife, slide out the blade. “Look,” I tell him. “You kept it.” And then I try to kiss him again. I have to grab him by the back of his neck to bring our faces close together. But I can only get our lips to touch for the briefest of seconds before he’s pushing away from me, panicked.
I glance over my shoulder and watch the bleachers where Lillia sits. Alex has appeared next to her and he whispers something into her ear. As he does, everyone in the stands drifts far, far away into the background, as if they are on a conveyor belt. Reeve sees this too, and he looks distressed.
“Please, Alex!” he screams, and reaches out for Lillia. “Don’t tell her what I did!”
But they are gone. Finally he looks back at me. Reeve starts rubbing his eyes, as if he’s about to wake up. “You need to stay a secret,” he tells me.
I’m his secret. His shameful, terrible secret.
I scream, “You think you deserve to be happy, after taking my life? You honestly think you deserve that?” And my voice is so loud, it drowns out any other sounds.
Reeve looks stricken. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
Pointing at him with the blade, I scream, “You didn’t leave me any choice! You knew that I loved you, and you treated me like garbage!” I scream it so loud, the back of my throat burns like fire. Any decent human being wouldn’t do that. It’s crueler than cruel. It’s heartless.
I turn my head slightly, and there are Reeve’s teammates, rushing toward him with one of the big water coolers hoisted high in their arms. Reeve tries to back up away from them, and from me, but it happens too fast. They tip the cooler on top of us, and we’re both splashed with ice-cold water.
Except something shifts. We don’t get wet just from the water inside the cooler. It’s an impossible amount, an ocean’s worth. And the knife slips out of my hands.
Suddenly the water turns dark, dark blue, like midnight. We’re in the water around Jar Island.
He’s underwater with me, limbs flailing, mouth open in a silent scream. He tries to kick and swim up to the surface, where Lillia is peering down on us from the dock. But I’m not letting him. I grab hold of his arm, and I start swimming toward the blackness, toward the bottom of the ocean, tugging him down with me. Bubbles of air pour out of his mouth as he struggles to break free from me, but I’m not letting go. I’m Big Easy, fat and heavy like an anchor, sinking him farther and farther and farther away from the surface.
I open one eye and watch as Reeve thrashes around in the bed. It looks like he’s having a seizure, just like he did at homecoming. He saw me that night. He whispered “Big Easy.” He was afraid of me then, too. That the secret of me would come out. That everyone would know the truth, what a terrible, horrible person he is. Every muscle is taut as he writhes around, gasping for air. And his face—I swear he’s turning blue.
I don’t know why, but I pull my hand off hi
s forehead. Reeve’s eyes immediately fly open and he sucks in a huge breath of air. He’s coughing and gagging, his eyes darting around the room. He clicks on his side lamp, sits on the edge of his bed, and tries to catch his breath. He’s panting. He pitches forward and sinks his head between his knees. “You’re dreaming,” he pants. “It’s only a dream.”
He lies back down and, after a bit, falls back asleep. I curl myself next to him and listen to him breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
KAT
AFTER CHUGGING THE LAST DROPS of orange soda in my can, I rewind the track about twenty seconds and click the playback button. The final strum comes on nice and loud—the very last note of Alex’s third song—and I slide up the treble just a bit on the mixer, so you can really hear the dirty vibration of him pounding that guitar string. It’s raw and messy, just like his lyrics.
We’ve each got one of my earbuds in, and we’re both peering at his laptop screen, watching the levels bounce up and down and then turn, abruptly, into a flat line when the track ends.
Alex turns his head to me and whispers with a half smile, “Are we good?”
I hit save and pull out my side of the earbuds. “We are so good.” I hold up my hand, and Alex high-fives me with a big grin on his face.
“You’re freaking awesome, Kat.”
“Tell me about it,” I deadpan.
Alex asked me to mix his audition tape, even though I told him that I didn’t know shit about music production. I mean, I sat in on plenty of bands screwing around at Paul’s Boutique with recording equipment, back when I used to hang with Kim. She and I would add hand claps or screams or whatever was needed to the tracks, but none of the guys ever let either of us near the mixing board to tweak the sound.
But Alex insisted. So I told him what software to buy for his laptop and picked him out a pimp microphone that cost more than a year’s worth of ferry tickets, and a new guitar pedal that we had to special-order from Europe.
