“Totally,” she said. “Go through his plays. That’s what I was going to tell you to do.”
To spite her, without a word, I continued past them, running my hand along his other books. A bright red tome called, Unearthing the Answer: Manifesting Your Authentic Self, popped out at me. Would Stewart have really read something cultish like that? Once upon a time, it would have been fodder for our shared jokes. Then again, “The Answer” had been a Hollywood self-help trend a few years back and didn’t that explain it? I wondered if he’d really bought into that bullshit or if he’d just played along in exchange for inclusion.
Some more familiar objects dotted the shelves: a conch shell, a Batman figurine, an old-school Transformer, a Monchichi doll I once gave him when we were kids during a playdate—just because he liked it. I could remember his face, all surprise at the gesture.
There was a series of framed pictures too: One of him and Kate as teenagers with snowboards and oversized teeth on top of some mountain. One of them sunburned as twentysomethings at a luau in Hawaii. There was a photo of Stewart at the beach, sun shimmering along the plains of his face. His features had gotten more chiseled as he got older. He was always a thin kid, but these angles were the stuff of men. There was a still from some set—maybe the first season of Manic Mondays. That’s when I spotted that picture I’d been thinking of: him and me, arm in arm, after our elementary school production of Robin Hood. Seeing it stole my breath for a second. I picked it up to examine it more closely.
“That’s cute,” said Blair from over my shoulder. Why was she following me around? Stalker. “Halloween, I assume?”
“No, it’s from a class play we did when we were in fourth grade.” The theater teacher cast me as Robin Hood for some reason; Stewart was Friar Tuck. He was so mad about the part at first, but, of course, he stole the show. Probably that was when he first got bitten by the acting bug. He realized how much positive attention he could get. I stared at a young Stewart—giant shit-eating grin, glasses. He was a wiry boy who made himself strong, but he was already adorable then. Charisma emanated from every pore. He wore a burlap costume, slung like a sandwich board over his chest. He had his arm around my shoulders, pulling me sideways like we might topple over. I was wearing a dumb green hat and carrying a sad cardboard sword, and I looked like I knew it. But Stewart wasn’t embarrassed at all.
How had that boy arrived here as an adult? I had this irrational urge to find and warn the kid in the photo. There’s something wrong with your brain! I thought, What a tragedy.
I must have said it out loud because Blair said, “I know. I can’t even, Wren. I’m just so upset.” Her voice was like a commercial interruption at the climax of a movie—wholly unwelcome. She started to well up again. I clenched my fists and placed the picture back down on the shelf.
Stewart’s apartment. No Stewart. Stewart. Gone. I tried to force myself to believe it. I felt like something was missing. I felt lonely, like someone had burrowed a hole in my chest that was growing more gaping by the day. A black hole. But I still couldn’t make the fact that I’d never see him again real.
“Well, that picture has to go in the tribute exhibition, obviously, since it was his first acting gig,” Blair was saying, picking it up off the shelf and moving it to a stack on the dining room table. “Then you can take it home, unless Helen wants it.”
Why did she think she was in a position to dole out Stewart’s possessions?
I sighed. Maybe I needed to shock myself into recognition. I hated to even engage her, but what choice did I have? I exhaled a rattled breath. “So where is the scene?”
“The scene?”
“Where Stewart . . . where it happened. Where they found him?”
“Oh! I see. In the den. We already cleaned that up.”
“You already—?”
“Yeah, Bianca, the housekeeper, and I. We just got rid of everything and cleaned and whatever.” I wanted to smack her for being so blasé, for assuming she had the right, but she was already back inside one of his closets. “He had so many pairs of snow boots! Like how much skiing can one guy do? Especially a guy who hates being cold?”
I stood there, stunned. So much for having a moment to say goodbye. So much for making it real.
I had the urge to throw Blair out of the way and take the closet for my own—to hide inside and escape from her piercing existence. Then, suddenly, I was struck so strongly by a memory that I reached out for a chair back to brace myself.
The game was “Seven Minutes in Heaven.” We were sitting in a craggy circle on the floor of Dev Singh’s den—all black lacquer and gold fixtures—drinking Alizé and watching duo after duo disappear into the dark depths of the hall linen closet. His parents were out at some event or maybe even away at their Hamptons house.
Matthew Simonsson sat beside me, his right hand—twice as big as mine and most often seen palming a basketball—resting just centimeters from my own. I’d spent the night pretending not to feel him next to me like a vibration, his backward baseball cap tipped carelessly on his head, his T-shirt riding up above low-slung jeans as he slouched over his bent knees, revealing a band of boxers and smooth skin.
I wasn’t paying much attention as Amanda Cassin and Ryan Cunningham emerged. I didn’t much care what they’d done. Jimmy was DJing the music across the room. My friend Cynthia was sitting on my other side, complaining about how we were too old for this dumb game, clicking open and closed the silver clips holding back her pixie cut, messing with her bicycle chain necklace. I was only pretending to listen because Matthew had started tapping his fingers against my whiteout-painted nails, then pulling his hand back and looking the other way when I glanced down. He was pursing his lips, trying not to laugh. He’d been paying me attention like this all night; I could feel our future coming like a thunderstorm in summer.
The third time, I caught him turning away. “I saw that, you know,” I said, rolling my eyes like I thought what he was doing was stupid instead of the best thing that happened to me that month. “I’m not actually an idiot.”
He shrugged. “No clue what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s how you want to play it?”
He grinned at me—that giant beautiful grin that had monopolized my daydreams during weeks of boring algebra classes. That smile was the reason I didn’t understand fractions. “Yup. That’s exactly how I want to play it . . . homie.”
“Dude,” Cynthia said. I turned back to face her. “Can we leave soon? This is wack. So seventh grade.”
“Okay, soon,” I lied.
Tap. Tap. Tap. I whipped around, catching Matthew’s hand in my own before he could move it away. “Got you.”
He raised his eyebrows; shot me a killer smile. “Yup. You got me.”
We were staring at each other. I didn’t even hear Kim Yu say my name. Suddenly, Stewart was standing over me, sighing. He looked gangly and childish next to Matthew. “You coming?”
“Coming?”
“Wren! Hurry up! My turn to pick and I picked you and Stu for heeeeaaaven. You know it’s about time, you guys!” Fucking Kim. Of course. She liked Matthew too. It was obvious. She’d been at all his games lately. And we’d never been big fans of each other’s. This was her way of getting rid of me. No doubt I’d come out to find she’d taken my seat. Still. No choice.
“Okay. Heaven it is.” I shrugged at Matthew, as if dropping his hand wasn’t like unplugging from my lone power source. I stood up, pulling down my cropped baby tee, and nodded at Stewart. “Let’s do this.”
He looked as resigned as I felt. Thank God Kim had chosen him and not someone with actual expectations, who I’d have to reject. We walked to the closet; he opened the door. “After you, my lady.”
Once inside, we settled onto the floor of the narrow walk-in, surrounded on either side by neatly folded cloth napkins, sheets, towels, and duvets. I leaned m
y back against the door and stretched my legs out in front of me; Stewart did the same opposite me. In the dark, I could just make out a tub of silver polish and a digital alarm clock perched on a shelf above his head. The only light fell in from the hallway through cracks between the door and its frame. He was in silhouette.
“So, this is where the magic happens, huh? If these walls could talk . . . they’d talk about some really repulsive Frenching.”
I laughed. “I know! Did you see Jamal’s face when he walked out of here? I think Jenny tried to puree him with her braces!”
“Pretty nasty.” Stewart sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was long for him, hanging in his face. “So, we have about six minutes and forty-five seconds left to sit in the dark. What should we do?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, there’s not enough light for shadow puppetry. We could tie a bunch of dish towels together and lower ourselves down to Eighty-Third Street and Riverside, then make a run for it?”
“That sounds exciting, but maybe too ambitious in my platforms.” I was wearing a precious pair of brand-new John Fluevog sandals with super clunky wooden heels. Shit kickers.
“That does sound like a problem. And I assume we’re not making out since you’ve basically been sitting in Matthew’s lap all night?”
I sat upright. “Shhhhhh! Don’t say that!” I hissed, afraid that someone might hear.
“So we are making out?”
“Stewart!”
“You sound like my mom when I put my shoes on the sofa: Stewart! ” His parody of Helen’s voice was perfect. He was always a good mimic.
I felt anxious. Was I being that obvious about liking Matthew? Were my feelings as one-sided as Stewart was making them sound?
He and I didn’t really talk about who we liked. Actually, that wasn’t totally true. We talked about his crushes, just not the other way around. In middle school, I’d had the more dramatic romantic life, but now, in early high school, Stewart’s stock was shooting up along with his height. We’d had plenty of advice sessions about his prospects lately.
“What percentage of people who come in here actually hook up, you think? Fifty percent? Seventy-five percent?” He grimaced, squinting at the ground. “Do you think we’re sitting in fluids?”
My nerves won out over pride. “Does it really seem like I’m all over Matthew?”
He shrugged. “Probably only to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I know every tiny thing about you.”
“But I’m not like embarrassing myself?”
“No. I mean, unless you think it’s embarrassing to like a tool like Matthew Simonsson.”
“Stewart!”
“I’m kidding. I get it. Everyone likes him.”
“That’s not why I like him,” I said, tipping my head to the side. “You have to know that!”
“I do?”
“Yeah. I don’t care about what everyone else thinks. I mean, he’s cute. But did you know that he volunteers downtown at a Boy’s Club for underprivileged kids?”
Stewart threw his head back and slapped a hand over his eyes. “Of course. Now it makes sense! You heard that, so now you think he’s a ‘good person.’ ”
“Yes. I do.”
“Only you, man. Wren, he has to do community service because he got busted shoplifting.”
“I don’t believe that,” I frowned. “That’s just a rumor. Why are you trying to change my mind about him?”
“I’m not,” Stewart shook his head. “Matthew is fine. He’s great. I just hate the way he wears that hat. Why can’t he just put it all the way on?”
“I’m not even sure he likes me anyway.”
Stewart groaned. “Oh, please. Of course he likes you.”
“Why?”
“Because. You’re you.”
Most of the time, I knew I was pretty. I felt good about my newly platinum hair, like Courtney Love but girlie. Boys liked me; I was cool and comfortable around them. But I was fourteen. I barely knew what any of it meant, and I was smart enough to see I was out of my depth with Matthew. Was Stewart right? Was Matthew not a good person?
“Thanks, Stewart.”
“You’re welcome. So, now are we making out?”
I laughed, bent my knee and knocked his Jordan-clad foot with my giant sandal. “Stewart!”
“Just double checking. I’m a teenage boy. We have to exploit all possible options.” We were silent for a beat. I could hear the other kids’ excited voices from the other room. A Tribe Called Quest blasted from Dev’s dad’s stereo. Check the rhyme . . .
“You know what, Wren?”
“What, Stewart?”
“I think sitting in the dark with you right now for seven minutes might actually be heaven. It’s kind of nice and peaceful in here.”
I leaned my head back against the door. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“At least we don’t have to listen to Kim squeal. She’s like a velociraptor on crack. What is wrong with that girl?”
Stewart would go on to date that drug-addled dinosaur in twelfth grade. He said she was “misunderstood.”
Now, I watched Blair step in and out of the closet with armfuls of Stewart’s belongings. What was she if not another Kim?
Resigned, I walked over to the plays and began pulling them down, one by one. What else could I do?
Too soon, the rest of the crew began to arrive.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in sorting: Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, August Wilson, Lillian Hellman, Sam Shepard, Neil Labute, Annie Baker, Shakespeare, Chekov, Brecht, Mamet. Stewart’s collection seemed endless.
Keith appeared first in some shitty corduroy jacket that reeked of mothballs even from across the room, and when he entered, he crossed straight to Blair. I could feel him like a bitter wind, changing the chemical makeup of the room. He kissed her cheek and held her gaze with meaning. “How are you holding up, honey?”
“Okay, I guess.” She looked down. “It’s been hard.”
He nodded, rubbing her shoulder. “I brought you a matcha latte with almond milk. I figured you might need it. Coming here was very brave of you.”
He handed her one hot drink and took a sip from the other, dispelling any illusion George and I might have had about him considering our needs too.
Blair started to cry, sort of. At least she ran a finger under each eye in a performance of squelching tears. Keith completed a final revolution of his hand on her back and began circling the living room. I got the sense that he hadn’t been here before, which was interesting. Had Stewart never invited Keith over? When, exactly, was the last time they’d hung out? When was the last time he’d mentioned Keith’s name? I was starting to think that Stewart might have exorcised this guy from his life. Maybe my dead friend had some standards, after all.
George looked up, his face impassive. “Hey, Keith.”
“Hey.” Keith was too busy scrutinizing the space to look his way. “I guess they hired an interior designer to do this place up ’cause no way Stu had taste this good. Although, I would have added more pops of color.”
“Oh yeah, Keith?” I couldn’t help myself. “Is that what you would have done?”
He looked down, as if just noticing me. “What are you doing?”
“Sorting through Stewart’s plays to see if any are significant for the family to keep or for the tribute gallery. We’ll donate the rest.”
“Huh.”
“What’s ‘huh’?”
“Just that it might have made more sense for a real actor to do that.”
“Define ‘real.’ ”
“hi, guys!” Mallory and Brian swung the door open with a slam, interrupting us just as I was about to go all uncensored.
“omg. this is so fucking crazy!” M
allory crossed to Blair and kissed her on the cheek, then she made her way to me, kneeling down to give me a big hug. At least she was sweet. Brian waved.
She peeled off her coat—a faux fur, I assumed—and threw it over the kitchen island. She scanned the apartment. “this is so sad!” she grinned. Just as suddenly, her face collapsed like smushed Play-Doh and she started sloppy sobbing. I moved to get up and make my way to her; she seemed genuinely broken. But Brian got there first, rightly, and she buried her head in his shoulder. He half-frowned in a way that reminded me of a cartoon.
That’s when Willow arrived, wafting through the door like an essence. She paused to absorb her surroundings. “Hey, guys,” she whispered. She walked over to where Mallory and Brian were locked in an embrace and placed a hand on each of their heads. Then she rested her own forehead against both of theirs. “It’s going to be all right,” she hushed. Both of their eyes popped open, surprised, but she didn’t seem to notice. She released them and crossed the room in slo-mo, taking deep breaths as she floated. When she got to me, she placed a hand on my head too. I hoped none of us had lice ’cause she would definitely have been spreading it. Actually, it kind of felt good. I had another headache and the pressure of her palm offered some relief. “Hi, Wren,” she whispered, kneeling beside me.
“Hi, Willow.”
“How are you?” I could barely hear her, her voice was so quiet.
“I’m okay. You?”
“I am meeting myself where I am today, Wren. Where. I. Am. That’s all any of us can do.”
“So true.”
Her hand was still resting on my head, and I could smell her perfume—some essential oil blend of maybe neroli and rose. This one was nicer than the one from the funeral.
“Hey, Willow?” I said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“He’s already dead. You can’t wake him up. You don’t have to whisper.”
“Oh.” She took her hand off my head. “I was just trying to be respectful. In many ways, this is a sacred space.”
Competitive Grieving Page 13
