The Catastrophic History of You And Me

by Jess Rothenberg

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “By the way,” she giggled, “where’s your friend?”

  I gave her a look. “Excuse me?”

  “He’s really cute, by the way. Do you think you could, maybe . . . introduce us?” She hesitated. “You know, sometime?”

  Say WHAT?

  She grabbed for her bag excitedly. “I have to say, I’ve had the biggest crush on him for like—ever. But I swear I don’t even think he knows I’m alive.” She caught herself and laughed. “You know what I mean.” She pulled out a balled-up piece of paper and set it down on the table in front of me. “I’m so lame,” she giggled. “I even think his handwriting is kind of adorable.”

  His handwriting?

  I felt my cheeks flush. I reached for the crumpled paper and unfolded it slowly, smoothing it out as best I could. There, jotted between a few old pizza stains, was a list of words I remembered all too well. Each of them crossed out, nice and neat.

  Except for two.

  Denial

  Anger

  Bargaining

  Sadness

  Acceptance

  “Where did you get this?” I said quietly. Then I dug around in my pocket and found the pen—the awesome one from third grade—and crossed off sadness.

  Because frankly, I was feeling pretty sad.

  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed, in full-out Valley Girl. “You, like, totally think I’m a stalker, don’t you?”

  Um, like, ohmigod, YUP, I do.

  Patrick was right. Girls ARE crazy.

  She giggled again, sort of a cross between a chipmunk and a dolphin. “I swear I—”

  “I don’t think you’re his type,” I blurted out. “No offense.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

  I shrugged. “Just what I said.”

  Riley crossed her arms. “Oh, really?”

  I glared back. “REALLY.”

  “What,” she laughed sarcastically, “and you are?”

  Maybe.

  Probably.

  Definitely.

  She got up from the booth and stormed away. For the first time in a while, I smiled.

  I glanced over at Nintendo Kid. His auburn hair and sweet face instantly reminded me of Jack. I couldn’t help wondering what could’ve happened to this little boy that he had ended up at Slice all by himself. I pointed at his sweatshirt. “Harvard man, huh?”

  He nodded. “Michael goes there.”

  I hesitated before speaking. “Who’s Michael?”

  “My brother.”

  He lost his brother. Just like Jack lost me.

  The sound of my Jack’s laugh filled my head—the uncontrollable kind, when we’d chase each other around the house playing tag on Saturday mornings. I missed his smile and the way his hair stuck up on one side because of a cowlick. I even missed the time he farted on my pillow because he was mad I got to stay up later than he did.

  Forget it. Think about something else.

  “So.” I did my best to push the memory out of my mind. “Finally taking a break from the game, huh?”

  Sam scrunched up his nose. “The batteries died.” From the tone of his voice, I could tell I’d hit an extra-sensitive topic. And it suddenly occurred to me why. Maybe video games had helped him forget something he didn’t want to think about.

  “Hey,” I said. “Want some new ones?”

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yeah! Could you?”

  Clearly nobody had ever bothered to give Sam a copy of the D&G—probably since he was too young to read it. I grinned. I was about to totally blow this kid’s mind. I waved my hands around in the air mysteriously, like I’d done a million times whenever Jack and I used to teach each other magic tricks. The big difference now was, I was doing actual magic.

  “Hocus pocus. Abraaacadaaabraaa . . .”

  Sam’s eyes got real wide. I waved my hands around a bit longer, put them behind my back, and made the first wish I’d made in ages. Just like Patrick had taught me.

  Batteries, please. Double A.

  I smiled at Sam a moment later. “Pick a hand. Any hand.”

  He pointed to my left hand. “THAT one!”

  I held it up to show that it was empty. “Nope. Try again.”

  He made a face like he’d been cheated, but finally pointed to my right hand. “That one?”

  “Ta-da!” I cried, dropping the batteries down in front of him with a clunk.

  He looked at me, and then back at the batteries. Picked them up and carefully turned them over in his hands, as if they might suddenly vanish into thin air. He quickly scrambled to load them into his DS, and switched the power button to ON. The old classic sounds of Tetris started up within seconds. “Thank you,” he said in total awe. “You fixed it.”

  And then he burst into tears.

  “No, no, sweetie,” I said, feeling terrible. I got up and switched over to his side of the table. Put my arm around him and pulled him close. He snuggled in, and I felt his tears soak through the front of my dress as I rocked him back and forth.

  “Shh,” I said. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “No it’s not!” he cried. “I want to go home.”

  I remembered back to the morning I had seen Sadie and Jacob on the beach. I remembered the way Patrick had held me in his arms until I didn’t have any tears left, and how he’d carried me back to Slice, whispering in my ear that everything would be all right. I remembered the hurt in his eyes when he had tried to tell me how he felt and I had cast his feelings aside like they didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter. Because, in that moment, I’d only been thinking of myself.

  It hit me then, while I let a little boy I hardly knew sob into my arms.

  I had broken Patrick’s heart.

  Just like Jacob had done to me.

  And I hated myself for it.

  Suddenly, I wanted to know everything. I wanted—no, needed—to understand who Patrick was, and who he’d been, and why I felt like he’d taken a part of me with him when he disappeared.

  Because I was really, really sick of being in the dark. I was really, really sick of feeling sad and lonely and like something inside of me was missing. Something, I was now sure of, that had always been missing. Even when I was alive.

  I waited for Sam to stop crying. Kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his hair. “Be right back.” Then I stood up—shoulders back, head held high—and walked over to the one person who was finally going to give me some answers, whether she liked it or not.

  Crossword Lady.

  CHAPTER 41

  let us die young, let us live forever

  “Where is he?” I parked myself on a stool right in front of her and leaned in over the counter.

  She shrugged, not looking up from her crossword.

  “Please,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “That’s confidential information.”

  Aha. So she knows something.

  “But this is important.”

  She gave me a long, hard stare, like some Old Lady–style version of Chicken. I didn’t back down. Finally, she placed her pencil on the counter and folded her hands. “Happy now?”

  “I’ll be happy when you tell me where Patrick is.”

  “How should I know where he is?”

  “Because.” I flashed her my Most Sincere Smile. “You know everything.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “You’re trying to butter me up.”

  Darn it, not sincere enough.

  “I am not,” I insisted. “And anyway, what’s the big deal? Just tell me where he is.”

  She shook her head. “I meant what I said.”

  I sighed angrily. Death was just as bad as life! Tons of stupid rules that didn’t make any sense.

  “I’m asking you nicely,” I said. “Please. He’s been gone for weeks. I’m worried about him.”

  She let out a sarcastic snort. “That’s funny, since it’s your fault he’s gone.” She patted he
r puzzle. “And, by the way, it is also your fault that I now have nobody to help me with eighteen across.” She reached again for her pencil.

  All of a sudden, I remembered the paperwork I’d had to fill out my very first night at Slice. Was it possible Patrick had filled out the same forms, all those years ago? Could Crossword Lady have a file on him too? I leaned in and snatched the puzzle away from her.

  “Hey!” Crossword Lady snapped.

  I shook my head. “Not until you give me Patrick’s file.” I took out my pen as she looked on in horror, and started filling in my own answers.

  “Not in ink!” she said. “Ink is permanent!”

  “Let’s see . . .” I ignored her as I scanned the clues. “A four-letter word for a Mediterranean cheese often featured in a Greek salad.”

  “Feta!” she cried.

  “I’ve got it!” I began to scribble in my own, even better answer. “B-R-I-E!”

  “No!” She tried to grab the puzzle away from me, but I dodged her hand. “Give it back! You’re ruining it!”

  I leaped off my chair, only getting started. “A five-letter word for a person who doesn’t eat meat. Hmm . . .” I pretended to be stuck. “This is a tough one.”

  “Vegan.” She waved her arms. “VEGAN!”

  “I know!” I snapped my fingers, then dug my pen into the paper even harder than before. “EAGAN!”

  “Oh, how could you?” she wailed. “All my hard work, for nothing!”

  “What was that?” I asked. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” I didn’t give her a second to answer and went right back to the list of clues. “Ooh, now here’s a really tricky one. An eight-letter word for a baked meat dish that’s a classic family favorite.” I squeezed my eyes shut, and swayed back and forth, chanting like some kind of Hippied-Out Yoga Master. “Of course!” I called out the letters as I went. “H . . . A . . . M . . . L . . . O . . . A—” I paused. “Oh shoot, that’s not right, is it? Hamloaf is seven letters, not eight!” I smacked my forehead and groaned for extra-dramatic effect. “It must be meatloaf! But now I can’t erase it! Oh, silly me, why didn’t I use a PENCIL?”

  Crossword Lady’s face was now such a deep shade of purple that she had started to look more like an eggplant than a lady. But too bad! The way I saw it, there was no reason whatsoever that I shouldn’t have access to Patrick’s history. He’d certainly had access to all of mine.

  “You want his file?” She ripped open the drawer next to her, pulled out a thin manila folder, and slapped it down on the counter. “HERE!”

  I reached over and took it. Gave her my biggest, actually genuine smile.

  “Why, thank you.”

  Then I threw her puzzle down and flew out of Slice so fast I nearly blew the glass doors to pieces. I hugged Patrick’s file to my chest and zoomed as quickly as I could to the one place I knew I could read it in peace, without anyone interrupting me.

  The bridge.

  When my feet touched down on the familiar orange metal grating of the Golden Gate a few seconds later, I thought Patrick might’ve been proud of me.

  “Perfect landing,” I whispered.

  My lungs filled with ocean air and I felt myself relax. There wasn’t much wind today, and the sky had turned a sleepy shade of purple-gray. The mountains stretched out before me, regal and mysterious, and the sun warmed me up as it sank closer toward the horizon.

  “Here we go,” I said. “No more secrets.” Carefully, I opened the file. There was a small stack of papers inside, and I quickly scanned the first page. A questionnaire, just like the one I’d filled out almost a year ago. The pencil handwriting was super-faded and barely there, but I could still make out a few of his answers.

  NAME: Patrick Aaron Darling

  Darling? His last name is Darling? How the hell did I miss that?!

  I continued down the list.

  DATE OF BIRTH: August 1, 1965

  DATE OF DEATH: July 11, 1983

  Whoa. It was one thing to have joked with him about it, but it was another to see it written down in black and white. I really had been hanging out with a forty-five-year-old the whole time. Sort of. I kept reading.

  CAUSE OF DEATH: Sui Caedere

  Apparently, Patrick’s super-annoying habit of spouting Latin phrases went way back. “Sui Caedere?” I groaned. “What is that, Latin for Whoops, I totaled my motorcycle?” I shook my head. “Such a dork.”

  I tried to make out some of the other answers, but the rest of the sheet was so faded it was hard to tell what was what. Except for the last two questions at the very bottom.

  HOPES: Lily will find me

  DREAMS: She will forgive me

  Finally. There it was. Something real. Something I could finally hold on to.

  A name.

  “Lily.” I said the word slowly, letting it simmer on my tongue. So this was the girl he had loved, way back when. “Patrick and Lily.” It sounded good. It sounded right.

  For about half a second, part of me felt the tiniest bit jealous, even though I was well aware how crazy that officially made me. Why the hell should I be jealous of somebody he’d known a lifetime ago, way before I’d ever been born?

  No reason. No reason at all.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Brie,” I scolded myself. “Keep it together.”

  I did my best to push the thought from my mind, and instead tried to focus on how awesome I was getting at this whole Private Investigator thing. I wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes level yet, but two new clues were better than none. But what had he done to her? Why did he need her to forgive him?

  Typical boy, messing stuff up.

  I flipped through more official-looking papers—nothing worth studying too closely—and saw a photograph of a baby with dark hair, dark eyes, and an unmistakable grin.

  Come in, Houston, we have just received confirmation that Patrick Darling was born cute.

  I came to a folded-up newspaper and removed it from the stack. Checked the date in the top right-hand corner. July 12, 1983. I smoothed the paper out, not wanting to tear the pages, and laid it carefully across my lap. Then I said a silent thank you to the sky for keeping the wind away, and began scanning the headlines. One of them stood out from all the others.

  HALF MOON LOCAL BOY, 17, TAKES OWN LIFE

  I stopped. Then I read it again. And again.

  “That can’t be him,” I said, feeling lost. “Patrick died on his bike. Didn’t he?” My eyes wandered down to the brief story.

  A local high school student took his own life here in the Half Moon Bay area, police said on Sunday evening. The body of Patrick A. Darling, 17, was discovered at approximately nine o’clock Sunday night at Breakers Beach, where they believe he jumped to his death after stabbing himself repeatedly. Darling is survived by his mother, three sisters, and father, and was said to have been devastated by the recent loss of his high school sweetheart, Lillian R. Thomas, 16, following the tragic motorcycle accident that claimed her life over the 4th of July weekend.

  I felt a sudden force slam into me. Voices, confusion, the sound of sirens and twisted metal as my lungs filled with fire. So loud and so intense, my vision started to go blurry around the edges.

  Help me. Please help me. I can’t breathe.

  A boy’s screams, his hands, his mouth pressed onto mine, trying to force some life back into me, even though it was too late. Tears and screams and kisses and cemetery gates slamming shut, locking me in.

  Don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me here without you.

  My entire body was shaking. I flipped back to his questionnaire without breathing and looked again.

  CAUSE OF DEATH: Sui Caedere

  “Sui Caedere,” I read again and again, until the words had merged together into one.

  S-U-I-C-A-E-D-E.

  The sheet fell from my fingertips.

  “He lied to me,” I said. Patrick hadn’t died on his bike. He had killed himself.

  My eyes flooded with tears. But why? Why would he lie
about it?

  Digging.

  Let me out.

  Scratching.

  Help me.

  Clawing.

  Please.

  Silence. Stillness. Staleness. Darkness. Endless.

  A boy’s voice seeping down into the muddy cracks. Quiet at first, then all mixed together with the sickly sweet smell of gasoline and tears.

  Please, it said. Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you, Angel.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a second piece of faded newspaper peeking out from Patrick’s file. My thoughts filled with dread as I reached for it and checked the date.

  July 5, 1983.

  A week earlier than the first paper.

  I opened the paper and gasped out loud when I saw the wreckage front and center. A pile of smoking hot metal, crushed handlebars, smoldering rubber tires, and a dismembered seat, staring back at me through a faded photograph. A dreamy afternoon ride down Highway 101 that had morphed into a nightmare.

  My voice shook as I read the headline.

  A COMMUNITY MOURNS

  SWEETHEARTS TORN APART BY FATAL MOTORCYCLE CRASH

  But my eyes couldn’t help skipping the actual article. Instead, they wandered just beyond the headline to a second smaller photo of a boy and a girl. The ink was almost completely faded, so I had to really squint to get a solid look.

  Patrick.

  There he was in the same leather jacket, faded jeans, and a smile to die for. Behind him—arms wrapped lovingly around his waist—was his sweetheart.

  Lily.

  There she was. The girl Patrick had loved so much that he’d waited twenty-seven years for her in the dinkiest pizza shop this side of heaven—hoping, begging, praying that she would walk through those doors, and right back into his arms.

  I squinted extra-hard and held the paper so close it was practically touching the tip of my nose. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, until suddenly, I saw it.

  Her dark, wavy hair. Her happy smile. Her face so free, so fragile, and so full of possibility.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  Because the girl in the photograph was me.