She’s quiet, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. “Sorry.”
I bite my lip, nod a little. She stands and walks over to the cabinets, flinging them open until she finds a cup. She brings me water and orders me to drink it. I hesitate, shoot her an annoyed look, but I drink it anyway. Because I’m thirsty, not because she gave it to me.
“She mentioned a letter,” she says. “Did you get it?”
I think back as far as five minutes ago but my brain is mush. “No idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you will. She made it sound important.”
“I bet.”
“When’s the funeral?” she asks.
“Week from Tuesday.”
She nods. “You know … sometimes good-bye is like … a second chance, or whatever.”
I slowly roll my eyes over to her. “I’m pretty sure you’re just quoting Shinedown lyrics now.”
She smiles, her face lighting the dark, stale room. “I just mean … good-bye is the only way to move on. There’s a before and an after that defines you when something big happens. There’s before your mom died, and now, after. You decide who you’re going to be. My grandpa, Sarge, told me that.”
I let her words sink in, think what Ma would want me to do, who she’d want me to be. Then I remember I don’t have a choice anymore. I gave up my choice to decide when I let Kyle drive that night and then let this mess go on and on and on until Kyle’s mouth flew open before mine could.
She fusses with her nails. They’re all bitten off. “I went to see your mom again. I mean, before she … you know…”
I don’t flinch. “I know.”
“You know?”
“The ornament. Just seemed like something you would do.”
Her cheeks flush.
The longer I sit, the more the room moves in waves. I move toward her with my clunky limbs, my face now in hers. She takes her glasses off, cleans them with the hem of her shirt, and I see her, like, really see her now.
“You should get contacts,” I blurt.
“I have them, just never wear them. It’s easier to hide.”
“You should never hide. You have really … beautiful eyes.” I linger in them, swim around the colors of her ocean for a minute. She smiles at me with only one corner of her mouth upturned. I close my eyes, listen to the sound of her voice.
“So, tell me something. You can draw anything—why bears?”
Her voice echoes now, far away but right in front of me, like tunnel vision in my ears. “They’re one of the most solitary carnivores alive, don’t need any damn one for any damn thing. I like that.”
She pushes her face into mine. I feel her breath on my face. I pry my eyes open and find the center of her light. “You’re like Jack in Titanic.”
“Who?”
“The movie, Titanic,” she says. “You know—poor, hot boy on a ship, snags the rich guy’s girl but dies in the end when the ship hits an iceberg? He saves her. Everyone’s seen it—haven’t you?”
I shake my head. “Icebergs don’t exist anymore. Global warming.”
“I hope you’re kidding.”
I smile.
“Will you draw one for me?” she asks, her voice rising at the end.
“An iceberg?”
“A bear.”
“Why? You already stole one from my car.” I grin.
She playfully punches my arm. And maybe it’s the smell of her perfume or the look in her pleading eyes, or maybe it’s just because I’m empty inside and desperately want to feel something—anything—but I press my lips onto hers and nestle her face into my palms. She doesn’t pull away but sinks into it, wrapping her arms around the back of my neck. Her fingers comb through the strands of my hair with soft, downward strokes, trailing along my skin, all the way down my back. An electric force climbs across my limbs to reignite everything that’s been lost. She’s breathing life into me. It takes a full thirty seconds, but when it happens, I realize how completely screwed up this is. I pull back. She’s out of breath, her big eyes still looking up at me.
“You should go,” I tell her. I’m breathless, too.
She’s quiet, her head shaking back and forth with a slight smile. She pushes me to the side of the recliner and squeezes in beside me. “Like it or not, you’re not a bear. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be the sodium to your chlorine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Together, we’re NaCl—you know—salt?”
“Oh my God, you’re such a nerd.”
“Thanks.” She forces her head beneath my arm and snuggles up against me, her hand holding mine. I’m sure I smell like dog shit, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s leaning against my chest, her ear to where my heart is beating fast. I let her curl up into me because maybe she needs this as much as I do. I close my eyes again. Ma’s face guides me into a deep, dark, slumber. Only this time, I am at peace.
It’s around midnight when she elbows me in the rib. “Oh no, oh no, no, no,” she’s mumbling, trying to pull herself out of the chair.
I rub my eyes. It’s still dark, but she’s panicked. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Didn’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
I follow her finger to the door she’s pointing at. “It’s the police! Oh, no, no, no. My parents are probably freaking out that I didn’t come home!”
I’m half asleep when I hear her words. But with a jolt, I realize what’s happening. I grab her arm with urgency to pull her back. “I need to tell you something.”
She pulls away, and I drunkenly stumble backward. “Not now, Bash.” She’s fumbling for a light switch, flicking it on and off, but no lights shine. “What’s happening—where’s the light?”
“Stop,” I tell her. I’m trying to grab ahold of her, but I have no control over my hands. She won’t stop moving, rustling farther and farther away from me.
“Don’t answer it! Let me talk to you first!” I yell. She turns to look at me one last time, those green eyes catching me through her lenses, as the door swings open. Two officers let themselves inside, and Birdie’s face turns ghostly white.
“I’m so sorry,” she rambles. “I lost track of time. I … Wait … how’d you know I was here?”
“Sebastian Alvarez?” one officer says, inching toward me.
My face feels hot. “Yes.”
He pulls my arms tight around my back and rings the hard metal cuffs around my wrists, binding me to him. “You’re under arrest for the hit and run of Benedict Paxton, fleeing the scene of an accident, and theft of Jeffrey Taylor’s Mercedes-Benz the night of November seventeenth.”
I don’t want to look at Birdie’s face; I feel her gaze on me already. “Bash?” she asks in a panic. “What … what are they saying?”
I’m quiet. My lip bleeds into my mouth I’m biting it so hard.
“BASH!” she repeats. “You didn’t do this! It’s not him—he didn’t do it! What’s happening? Tell me, please! I don’t understand!”
The officer gently nudges Birdie away from me. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
Birdie pushes through to find my eyes. I try to turn away as the tears fall, soaking into my shirt. She’s violently trembling. This is the moment I wanted to avoid. I hear her heart shattering into glass pieces right in front of me, and all I can do is try not to make it worse. So in turn, I say nothing.
“No, no, no,” she’s mumbling to herself. “He didn’t do this. You’re wrong. He wouldn’t.”
I don’t know what the cops are saying. My ears are muffled by a high-pitched squeal, the kind you might hear during dead radio air. The officer drags me outside and shoves me by the head into the back of one of the two police cars. So this is what eighteen looks like. Not a fan.
I hear her, Birdie, screaming from the front stoop of the trailer where the goddamned 17 is still drooping. The second cop is consoling her, patting h
er back to calm her even as she runs to the car window. With her fists pounding against the glass, her words stream through, loud and clear. I think she says “I love you,” so I turn my head away because I’ve caused enough damage already.
“BASH! Tell them you didn’t do this! Please! Plleeeaasssee!!!” The officer pulls her back again.
The last thing I see before we drive to the station is Birdie crumpling down into the sidewalk. Her head is in her hands—she’s probably cursing the day I was born—something most people probably do anyway. The blue and red lights flicker shadows along the dirt road, much like they probably had after we struck her little brother. Guilty, I’m so guilty. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the leather seat. But this time, it’s not Ma I’m seeing in my mind. It’s Birdie. If she wasn’t broken before, she’s officially broken now.
And I’m the one who broke her.
birdie
I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
Breathe, Birdie. Breathe.
Inhale, hold. Exhale.
But … Bash …
My lungs are deflated like a balloon that’s been pricked by a stray twig. I’m slowly falling back to the earth, to reality, and it hurts. So bad. There are layers and layers of ventricles and valves in my heart that seem to break apart with every new ache. And it won’t stop.
Officer Hall wants to drive me to the children’s hospital. He won’t let me behind a wheel in “my condition.” He says I’m in shock and shouldn’t drive. I think I swat at him a few times as I try to find my keys, so he handcuffs me to “calm me down,” which only makes me scream louder. I’m not calm. I don’t want to be. My wrists struggle between the clanging metal that’s rubbing my skin raw and bloody as I gasp for air, for a clear thought, and I wonder what this all means. I can’t seem to piece things together so they make sense. Because to me, none of this makes sense. All I know is, there is no way Bash had any part in what they’re saying. The odds of that happening are … are … and now my brain is broken, along with my heart.
“How long have you known Mr. Alvarez?” the officer asks as I collapse onto the sidewalk.
I try to find a sentence in all the muck. “Work—we met at work. Actually … a party first. Then work.”
He sits next to me, the moon peering down over us like a big, yellow shadow. “Small world.”
“It’s actually not that small. The circumference of Earth is a mere 24,900 miles, but in comparison to the sun’s 2,715,400 miles, I guess … yeah. It is.” I sniffle, feel my breaths grow longer as I convince myself this is a dream and everything will go back to normal soon. Whatever that means.
He smirks, pulls a tissue from his back pocket, and rests it beneath my nose. I am calmer now, my lungs still palpitating, my breaths growing stronger. “I’ll take the cuffs off if you promise not to swing.”
I nod. He twists the key in the little hole, and I’m free. He doesn’t seem to know exactly what to do or say.
“Sir, why did you arrest him? He didn’t do anything. I don’t … understand.… Please.”
He sighs. “I’ll drive you to your parents first. Then, we can talk.”
“What about my car?”
“Don’t worry about that right now.” He stands, holds out a hand to help me to my feet. I grab hold and wearily dust myself off. He opens the back door of his police car where I reluctantly slide in and try to imagine what Bash is thinking as he sits in another just like it.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t turn on the siren. Unless you want me to.” He spins around to smile, but I turn my focus out the window.
There’s a four-mile-long silence before he tries again. “I remember my first love. Couldn’t live without her, I thought. Looking back, as real as the feelings were, I see them now for what they were—practice. My heart got broken about a dozen times after that, each one harder than the last. But what I learned was, sometimes no matter how much you love someone, it doesn’t mean you should be together. Some chemicals don’t mix.”
I hear him, but pretend not to, and he’s silent the rest of the ride. My thoughts are busy sorting all these new files: Bash, More Bash, Bash Again. This has to be some kind of mistake because he couldn’t have done what they think he has. Could he? He’d have told me, wouldn’t he? I’m not so sure anymore. I want to understand—need to understand. But I just … don’t. This is new for me. I text Violet to comfort me, knowing she won’t be asleep yet.
ME: GIVE ME TODAY’S QUOTABLE SILVER LINING, STAT!
Not a minute passes before she responds. She sends me an image of a grumpy looking cat with the caption Every silver lining has a cloud.
Ugh.
Along the drive, we pass two different pieces of disheveled roadkill I’d normally take pictures of. Instead, I feel like I’m lying right beside them. Smashed. When we get to the hospital, Officer Hall walks me to Benny’s room. I’m slow to follow. He seems to know where he’s going. A couple steps before we’re there, he turns his cherry nose and cheeks to face me. “I saw your story on the news. The whole department has been on the case nonstop. That something like this could happen here … horrible. So I’ve checked in on your little brother a time or two, because, well, I’ve got a little boy. I’ve been praying for you all.”
He turns before I can respond, rapping his knuckles on the door’s frame. Mom and Dad are inside, nearly asleep. I trail behind the officer, a little ashamed, but I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve not done anything wrong. Or have I?
“What is it?” Mom asks, rising from Benny’s bedside. She’s wearing slouched sweat pants and an oversized tee with the picture of the three of us from before I began eighth grade.
Officer Hall beckons me. Uneasily, I step into the spotlight. The buzz sizzles overhead as I take a deep breath.
Officer Hall looks at me, then back to them. “We’ve arrested the person responsible for your son’s hit and run.”
Mom clamps her hand over her mouth and immediately starts crying what I assume to be happy tears. Dad is smiling but holds back. He’s restrained. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyebrows knitted together, he knows there’s more. “When? How?”
“Well, you already knew we busted that dealer in New Castle but let him go. What you don’t know is we let him go in exchange for information. He had proof—pictures of the car he fixed the day after the accident—but didn’t realize was the car in question until afterward. The car was stolen by a Sebastian Alvarez. We took him into custody an hour ago.”
Mom walks closer, as if being closer makes the words clearer. “Wait, why is my daughter with you, then? It’s after midnight.”
“He—” My voice cracks. “Bash, he…”
“Birdie—you okay? I’m confused. Did that boy hurt you, too?” she asks.
I’m vigorously shaking my head, fighting their words. “No. No. He didn’t do this. He couldn’t have.”
“I don’t understand,” Mom says. She’s hugging me, then pulls back. My eyes can’t find hers. I’m swimming through all the things I’ve ever said to Bash, all the things he ever said to me. And in all of that, I feel a deep, sinking stone floating down the length of my body like an anchor.
Gently, Officer Hall places his hand on my shoulder. “She’s in shock. We found her with Mr. Alvarez when we arrested him. I don’t think she knew of his connection.”
“What?” The word rings sharply in my ears. “Birdie, is all this true?”
I finally move my eyes up to hers, and it stings. “I … I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I need to understand this, Birdie. How do you know this boy? Where did you meet him?”
The officer interjects. “She said they met at a party and they work together.”
“You’ve known this boy ALL THIS TIME?” Mom shouts at me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking them. “And you SAID NOTHING?”
I flinch as Dad pulls her away.
“She didn’t know, Bess,” Dad says, to my rescue. “If she had, she wouldn’t
have been with him. Right, Birdie?” The way he says it, though, it’s like he really doesn’t believe it and honestly, I don’t blame him.
“There must be a reason,” I mutter. “He wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this. He wouldn’t.” I think I’m crying now, because everything blurs. The room shrinks in size. Everyone is in my face asking things, pointing at me, yelling at me, and I have no answers—for once in my life—and all I can think is, Brynn would love this.
Dad’s nodding, pinching his lips. “Okay, okay,” he says, brushing the hair from my face. “She didn’t know. This isn’t her fault. Let’s take a breath and figure it out. Okay, Birds? It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.” He pulls me into him, and I bury my face in his sweater, hiding.
“What will happen to this young man?” he asks the officer. He’s rubbing my back in circles, trying to make sure I know he’s on my side, maybe. And I wonder, Who is on Bash’s side?
“Indiana hit-and-run laws are pretty straightforward,” Officer Hall says with a firm voice. “Mr. Alvarez stole a car, hit and nearly killed a boy, and fled the scene. We also have reason to believe he was impaired at the time of the collision. If your son pulls through, he could be looking at three to five years in prison, plus fines upwards of five thousand dollars, or more.”
“And if he doesn’t … pull through?” Mom speaks up.
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
My eyes sting as I look up. “Please don’t press charges. I’m sure you have the wrong person or maybe it was an accident or … I don’t know. Please. You don’t know him like I do. I’ll never ask for anything ever again. I won’t even see him. I just want him to be okay. Please. I … I promised his mom before she died.”
I’m pleading for his life, knowing I shouldn’t. Maybe he isn’t worth my pleas. I should feel the way Mom does right now, appalled and disgusted. But for some reason, he is worth it. Mom and Dad are silent.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Officer Hall interrupts. “He broke too many laws, so it’s out of your parents’ hands. If it makes you feel any better, the owner of the car isn’t pressing charges for theft. He is grateful to have his hood ornament back, though, so thank you for turning that in, Mrs. Paxton.”
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 24
