The Tragedy of Dane Riley

by Kat Spears

  “Definitely hell,” I say without hesitation. “I want there to be nothing. Life is already hell.”

  I don’t say that in the privacy of my own mind I have often hoped there is no afterlife, that the people we love can’t watch our actions from the advantage of a spirit world. There are many things I have done in the past six months that I hope my father could never see. Even as I did them, I hoped he wasn’t watching over me like a guardian angel, shaking his head in disappointment or disgust. I can’t even pick my nose anymore without thinking about my dad watching me like some kind of Jedi Force spirit.

  “Don’t say that,” Ophelia says, startling me out of recollections of the things in my life that are secret, from other people, if not from myself. “That makes me sad to hear you say that.”

  “Why would you care?” I ask. The question comes out sounding angry.

  “Of course I care,” Ophelia says as she presses one hand to her chest. “I mean, we’re friends. Sort of.”

  “How do you figure?” I ask. “We’ve never hung out. Not really.”

  “Is everyone you hang out with your friend? I hang out with lots of people who aren’t my friends. Not real friends.”

  “Maybe not,” I say, thinking lately I don’t feel like my friends and I have much in common, like they don’t struggle with the same thoughts that I have about the uncertainty of everything. “How would you define a real friend?” I ask.

  “I care about you,” she says, “what happens to you. That’s friendship.”

  “If you say so. I’ve always gotten the impression that I got on your nerves.”

  “Oh, totally,” she says. “You’re getting on my nerves right now.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Ophelia purses her lips in an effort to keep from laughing at her own joke.

  “See?” I ask, my voice rising with feigned exasperation.

  “Just because you get on my nerves doesn’t mean I don’t like you. That you’re not my friend.”

  “Thanks. A lot. I feel really fucking special now.”

  “Do you remember last Christmas?” Ophelia asks, with her whiplash-inducing ability to change the subject. “The Dabsons had that holiday party and invited everyone in the neighborhood to drop in?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It was a couple of days before Christmas and they had that giant fake tree in the living room. I mean, a white Christmas tree? As if McLean isn’t white enough already. Anyway, Mrs. Dabson was talking about her golden child, Jordan, applying to schools and she made some comment about how lucky my dad is because it’s going to be so easy for me to get into a good college and get a scholarship. And she didn’t mean because I’m such a good student or a great field hockey player.”

  “She meant because you’re brown,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Ophelia says.

  “Mrs. Dabson is a lunatic. I wouldn’t worry about anything she says.”

  “You were there,” Ophelia says as she nudges my shoulder. “You don’t remember?”

  “If it involved our neighbors I probably blocked the whole thing from my memory. It’s possible I was really high.” I do remember the conversation, but I hadn’t given it any thought at all since it happened. I’m used to being the person who says whatever is socially unacceptable. I’m enjoying the fact that I did something memorable enough that Ophelia would take any notice, so I let her finish telling me the story.

  “You were standing right there.” Ophelia’s voice rises with exasperation. “And after Mrs. Dabson made that comment there was an awkward silence and then you said, ‘I guess it’s too bad Jordan isn’t brown, too. They’ll have to actually judge his applications based on his grades.’”

  “Well, it’s true, right?” I ask. “She was being a racist asshole.”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t believe it when you said that,” Ophelia says. “It was the first time I realized you weren’t a total creep.”

  “That’s … flattering.”

  “In fact,” Ophelia says, “it made me realize you were pretty cool.”

  “I’m waiting for the ‘but.’”

  “There is no ‘but.’”

  We are both quiet for a minute and I wonder what she’s thinking. The human mind is the last great frontier.

  “So, why did you text me earlier?” I ask.

  “I just wanted to talk to you,” she says with a shrug. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure. But why?”

  She places her glass on the table and shifts in her seat to put her hands under her thighs, drops her head to one side so she’s looking right at me, then opens her eyes so wide it looks like it must hurt. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have a big crush on you.”

  I laugh at that. “Very funny.”

  After taking another sip she says, “Why would you assume I’m being funny?”

  “I never thought about you being into any guy, I guess,” I say, carefully dodging her question. This is another lie. I worry about Ophelia being with other guys all the time. No guy is really good enough for her, present company included.

  “What did you think?” she asks, misunderstanding what I said. “That I’m into girls?”

  “Well, you do play field hockey.” In order to cover my reaction to her joke about having a crush on me, I have to create a diversion, say something so insulting it will distract her from my horrific pain and make her forget it.

  “Oh,” Ophelia says, her forehead wrinkling as I meet and exceed every low expectation she has for me. “So if a woman plays a sport, that makes her a lesbian?”

  “Nah,” I say. “Just field hockey … and softball.”

  She appraises me silently, one eyebrow arched in judgment as she waits for me to finish making a fool out of myself.

  “Maybe boxing, too…”

  “I take back what I said about you being cool,” she says.

  My plan, which has been working beautifully since the start of senior year, is to always be just enough of a dick that Ophelia will never catch on to the fact that I am in love with her. If she finds out … well, I’m not sure what will happen, but for sure I will be rejected, and, by extension, humiliated. And because she is my neighbor, my rejection and humiliation will be an ongoing, daily ritual.

  She takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh before saying, “But not gymnastics because that’s girlie. They wear leotards and makeup and have glitter in their hair.”

  “I guess so,” I say. “I wouldn’t think of a girl who does gymnastics as being a lesbian, no.”

  “And not beach volleyball,” Ophelia says helpfully, though she isn’t really trying to be helpful at all, “because those outfits are sexy.”

  I know that she is ridiculing me—not just telling me that I am an idiot, but proving it, too. “Okay, I get it,” I say. “Now I’m the asshole.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “You definitely said it.”

  Finally, I have said something to make her smile. I mean … finally. I have known Ophelia for two years, and before this moment I couldn’t swear under oath that she had teeth. And, really, she is only laughing about the fact that I am an idiot, so it isn’t exactly the kind of smile I have hoped for, but I’ll take it. That smile makes me feel good. It makes me feel better than good. It makes me want to do a bunch of other shit that will make her smile.

  “So,” I say, “you’re not into girls, but you don’t have a boyfriend. Why not?”

  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she shoots back.

  “I asked you first.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend because I can’t be in a romantic relationship,” Ophelia says, as if shocked by the suggestion. “My parents have never provided me with a positive example of a romantic relationship.”

  “Nobody’s parents have ever provided them with a positive example of a romantic relationship. That’s what television is for.”

  “Seriously, my mom is the most unsuccessful married person to ever live. She’s had two husban
ds, three live-in boyfriends, and one guy who dated her just because he needed a kidney donor and thought she might be a match.”

  “Did she do it?” I ask. “Did your mom give the guy her extra kidney?”

  “It’s not really an ‘extra’ kidney, is it?” Ophelia asks. “Not if you’re still using it. My point is, the people who have raised me are emotional cripples. I’m the last person who should be in a romantic relationship.”

  “I’ve tried to kill myself,” I blurt suddenly. “I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that I tried to kill myself, or that I failed at it.”

  “That’s kind of funny,” Ophelia says, flipping her head to look at me in a way that makes her hair jerk out of her face and lay obediently over one shoulder.

  “Not really,” I say with a grimace.

  “I mean, not funny that you tried to kill yourself. That’s tragic. But the way you think about it—failing at suicide is the ultimate failure.”

  “This is your therapy session, not mine,” I say as I resettle in my seat and remind myself not to get too comfortable. “So, you think just because your parents got divorced, and that your mom is bad with … interpersonal relationships, you just give up on love?”

  “What I’m saying is that I have no point of reference. I don’t know what a successful romantic relationship looks like. So, any relationship I enter will probably end badly.”

  “Everything ends,” I say. “Usually badly.”

  “You know what I think? I’ve always thought that if I ever do have a boyfriend he would have to agree ahead of time on a date that we end our relationship. That way there’s no anxiety about when it will happen. We both know it’s coming. That way we’re prepared. And if we still like each other, still like spending time together, then it will still end. But it won’t be bad. It will just … be.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” I say.

  “Why is it a terrible idea? Killing yourself—that’s a terrible idea. But just deciding to be happy and enjoy each other for a while? That’s not terrible.”

  “So”—I decide to go along with her crazy for a minute—“you just pick some arbitrary date?”

  “Well, I figure the first couple of months, that’s the best time of any relationship. You’re still getting to know the person and you want to spend all of your time with them. So, say two or three months. You pick the date ahead of time and then you just walk away.” As she says this she waves her hand out and away from her body, like she’s throwing a Frisbee. “Then it’s not like anybody is getting dumped.”

  “Or dying,” I say.

  “Right. It’s just…” She pauses and shrugs. “… over.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe if you knew the outcome ahead of time, then being in a relationship would be okay.”

  “So, you don’t have a girlfriend? Have you ever had one?”

  “I don’t think so. No. There was one girl, I used to have a huge crush on her. But I only saw her when I was home in the summer and she always had a boyfriend.”

  “Does she go to our school? Do I know her?”

  “No. You wouldn’t know her.”

  “Well, what’s your excuse now?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend because there’s nobody who wants to be my girlfriend. I always manage to say the wrong thing.”

  “Yeah, but you do that on purpose,” Ophelia says, and it surprises me.

  “Only to you,” I say. “I only say the wrong things on purpose to you.”

  “Why?”

  “I like to give you good reason not to like me upfront. That way I never have to wonder why you don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” she asks.

  “Don’t like me.”

  “I just told you that I don’t think you’re a total creep.”

  “Well, I guess that’s pretty good.”

  And then, the worst possible thing happens. A car pulls into the driveway and I recognize Eric’s certified, pre-owned Audi.

  “Crap,” I say as I sink down into my seat, trying to become invisible.

  “What?” Ophelia asks.

  I only sigh in response as Eric is already almost to the front step.

  “Hey,” he says with a surprised smile. “Ophelia, what are you doing here?”

  “Just hanging out. What about you?”

  “My mom would lose her shit if I was coming home this late. I stay here because my dad and Trudi go to bed early.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Ophelia says.

  I wish she would stop talking to him so he will go inside and leave us alone. As much as I hate interacting with Eric, I hate the idea of him interacting with Ophelia more. She’s beautiful and smart, but she’s also kind of a nerd, so I doubt Eric has paid much attention to her before now.

  “What are you up to, Dane?” Eric asks as he jerks his chin in the direction of the bottle of wine, half empty, on the table in front of us.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Ophelia and Eric both wait as if I might say more, but I don’t.

  Eric picks up the wine from the table and drinks straight from the bottle, not even bothering to ask if one of us wants more before he puts his cooties all over it. Typical Eric. The largest piece of cake is always his.

  “Dane never mentioned you guys were friends,” Eric says to Ophelia.

  “That’s because you and I don’t talk,” I say.

  “Sure, we do,” Eric says. “You’re just always depressed about something so you never want to hang out.”

  “Dane and I aren’t really friends,” Ophelia says. “I just use him for sex.”

  Eric laughs at that, and it makes me hate him a little more than I already do. Ophelia is joking, of course, but the fact that they both think wanting to have sex with me is a joke makes me feel lonelier than ever.

  “Good luck in that department,” Eric says. “Have him tell you about STI statistics. He knows a lot about that. Right, Dane?”

  Ophelia says nothing, just takes a sip from her wineglass. I couldn’t swear it, because of the dark, but Ophelia’s cheeks look flushed, like she might be blushing, and I wonder if she’s embarrassed because she really likes Eric, is attracted to him.

  “Well,” Eric says as he lifts himself off the porch rail to his full height, “I guess I’ll leave you guys to do … whatever you were going to do before I got here. See you around.”

  “Good night,” Ophelia says as Eric opens the screen door and slips inside.

  I say nothing, just wait for the sound of the interior door shutting before I relax by degrees.

  “Fucking asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Why do you dislike him so much?” Ophelia has a habit of asking questions that are uncomfortable or hard to answer and then watching, rather than listening, for a response. Her dad, the Colonel, is the same way, and it always makes me wonder if his work for the military includes Black Ops interrogations.

  “Why don’t you dislike him more?” I shoot back.

  She shrugs one shoulder. “He’s always been pretty cool to me.”

  “Of course he has,” I say, and it sounds like an accusation. “Because you haven’t slept with him. Guys like Eric are only nice to you because they want to sleep with you.”

  “Really?” she asks, unmoved by the anger in my tone. “You think that’s the only reason a guy would be nice to me?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say, but Ophelia isn’t ready to let it go. I know from experience she will latch on to my idiotic remark like a pit bull and shake it to death.

  “You’re not nice to me. Does that mean you don’t want to sleep with me?” she asks.

  “When have I ever been not nice to you?”

  “Um…” She pauses as if she’s really considering my question, then says, “I don’t know. Maybe right now.”

  “This isn’t mean,” I say. “This is just honest. You’re naive to think that if a guy like Eric is being nice to you it’s because he’s a nice guy, doesn’t have some ulte
rior motive.”

  “An ulterior motive?”

  “Like sex.”

  “Oh, come on. Why do I have to be the victim?”

  “Let’s just forget it,” I say, thinking that Eric already did his best to ruin the end to a pretty awesome night. I’ve had Ophelia all to myself for a half hour.

  “Talking to you is exhausting sometimes,” she says.

  “You should try being in here,” I say as I tap the side of my head. “I’m exhausted all the time.”

  “You don’t give anybody a chance to be anywhere near inside there,” she says, pointing at my head.

  She waits in silence and I’m not sure what she wants me to say. I’m confused now, and angry after seeing Eric—him treating my house, my life, as if everything is open for him to take.

  “I should go,” Ophelia says, and, for sure now, I get the sense she’s waiting for me to stop her, to say something meaningful.

  “Good night, Ophelia. I’ll watch to make sure you get home okay.”

  * * *

  Dr. Lineberger greets us and gestures for me to enter her office. Mom stays behind in the waiting area.

  The days are growing warmer but Dr. Lineberger hasn’t reset her thermostat. Seventy degrees. Warm enough that in the puddle of sun that spills through her office window, I feel as if I could sleep.

  “It’s good to see you, Dane,” Dr. Lineberger says as she does her routine of waiting for me to choose a seat before her.

  This time I take the couch so I can stretch out a bit, and she takes one of the chairs.

  “How are you?” she asks as she settles in across from me.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I thought our last meeting was really productive,” she says. “Maybe we didn’t solve anything, but you and your mom were both honest about your feelings.”

  “I guess.”

  She nods but watches me and waits to see if I’m going to say any more before she says, “So, let’s talk about your father. You miss him, of course. But your mother has said she thinks your response to losing your father has been extreme, that you can’t manage the grief and you aren’t getting any better as time passes. What do you think about that?”