“It’s on Monday,” I protest.
“Yeah, all right, whatever, I’m not gonna get in your business. But I tell you what—Fly would go for it, one hundred percent.”
I mumble about how I heard him call Brooke a stage-five clinger. I try to stop myself from saying it, but not so hard that I actually do.
“For real, do you have a wire on me? It’s like this: Brooke and Fly have love, but it’s not love. It’s over, but she’s acting like it isn’t because of what happened.” He lets out a healthy yawn, one so big that I yawn too.
The Brooke topic dies within our long stretches of air intake. I’ll have to get more information elsewhere.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” he starts. “Nobody did. We all stayed up just kind of staring at the hospital walls.”
“I bet,” I say. I wish insomnia would find me. There are certain recurring themes my mind forces me to visit every time I close my eyes. It’s, like, I get it. I deal with it enough while I’m awake.
Turrey inhales and pauses, the first sign of hesitation I’ve seen from him since we met. I stop chewing just so I can take it in. “I could right now.”
It’s not a question, but he means it as one. “Do you want to sleep in your truck?” I ask, not sure if I’ve read him right. It seems so random.
“I don’t think I can drive if I don’t.”
“Oh.” A little smile creeps up on me, happy to know that I read him perfectly. It flattens out when I mull over his words again. “Oh.” What’s one more reluctant yes in the bigger picture? After what happened to Martin, any mention of unsafe driving is a good enough reason to do something, no matter how strange. “That’s fine.”
“Damn food always makes me tired,” Turrey curses as he throws his garbage away.
Maybe I’ll study while he sleeps.
Maybe.
What a word.
8
In the center of a hazy version of Turrey’s bedroom sits a makeshift poker table. The space is all dim corners and lazily maintained pieces of decor. Clouds of smoke fog the room. It smells like stale air conditioning. It feels like the stillness inside an idle car.
Before Mike Turrey takes his seat, he puts on opaque sunglasses to cover the truth his eyes will surely show. One by one, the other players appear. Spencer Kuspits sits on Turrey’s left, smiling because he should. Because he can. Because it’s all he knows how to do. Chris Davis is on his right, typically smug. And Petra McGowan presides over them all, dealing the cards with the precision of a time-tested expert.
The boys are dressed in tuxedos—the same ones they wore to prom, sans top hats and canes. Spencer is in white and pink. Chris is in black and gold. Turrey is the sleekest in a rich dark brown, almost as dark as his skin, accented with a black tie.
Petra wears jean shorts and a heather-gray crewneck tee. That’s not right, Turrey thinks. In a flash, Petra’s dressed in a white button down with a black vest over it, her hair slicked back into a neat low ponytail.
No words are spoken or looks shared. It’s all steely stares and quiet grimaces. The stakes are too high. A life is on the line. The life of Martin McGee.
Martin, a.k.a Fly himself, is off to the side, elevated on a pedestal constructed from old beer cans, wearing the custom Cubs jersey Turrey got him for his sixteenth birthday. The players know of Fly’s presence, but no one reacts when he yells out, “Hello? Hello? Why won’t anyone look at me!” They don’t even glance in his direction. He is nothing more than a physical representation of why they are playing.
Petra silently deals five cards to every player. When Turrey turns his hand over to look, each card is not a number, but a good memory with Fly. He understands the rules of the game: choose which card you think is the best memory and place it down in front of you. Once everyone’s chosen, the group has to vote for which card wins the round. When a winner is decided, all other entries from that round are thrown out, the memories erased from existence. Replace your discard with another card from the deck until the pile runs out. The player with the most winning memories gets the right to be the most upset about what’s happened to Fly.
The first card Turrey looks at is the time in fifth grade when Fly decided he was going to climb the flagpole. For Turrey’s eyes and ears only, the card starts playing out the action of the day like a movie.
A young Martin hypes himself up, clapping his hands together and dropping down to do push-ups, putting on a big show. It’s fall. The bite in the air has painted red splotches onto his cheeks, only further exaggerated by the effort he’s putting into preparing.
A small crowd of fifth graders gathers around him. Young Turrey, Spits, and Chris stand together at the front, never more than a step or two away from one another. Young Spits’s teeth push out over his lower lip as he stands gawking. Young Chris shifts from foot to foot, rubbing his arms furiously to fight the cold. He’s forgotten his jacket once again. Young Turrey is jumping in place, excited for what’s to come. He starts yelling words of encouragement to both Martin and the crowd. “Let’s go!” and “Come on now!” He’s met with small cheers every time.
Martin announces he’s ready. He takes a step back then leaps to the pole, wrapping himself around it like a koala. He starts scooting up, his face tense with concentration. Around the ninth scoot, he loses his energy and slides down so fast the crowd gasps.
“Ow!” he yells out, more theatrical than genuine. He leaps back up. “Let’s try that again.”
Young Turrey turns to the crowd, cupping his hand behind his ear to make the other kids cheer louder. This goes on a few more times, each of Martin’s attempts to climb more pathetic than the last. However, the crowd turns more and more hysterical, growing in size and volume, lathered up into a true frenzy.
“Fly! Fly! Fly!” the fifth graders chant at Turrey’s beckoning. A new nickname is born right on the spot.
Principal Wheeler catches on and runs over to the flagpole. She presses her hand into Martin’s back and directs him toward her office, the entire crowd chanting his new name as they walk away.
Turrey doesn’t even have to examine the other cards in his hand. This card is the moment Martin McGee learned how to entertain a crowd. This card is the moment Martin McGee became Fly.
This card can’t be beat.
Turrey places it on the table, smiling as he does it. So much for poker faces.
Once all the cards have been laid down, one by one the memories are projected onto the blank wall above Turrey’s bed. Spits and Chris laugh hysterically at Spits’s card. It shows the time Fly dressed in a full wet suit to ask Brooke to prom. Fly gathers up all the other dancers on Brooke’s Poms team. They put on shark fins and do a hastily choreographed number to LL Cool J’s song “Deepest Bluest” from the movie Deep Blue Sea. Fly performs the song with modified lyrics, somehow making it about the dance.
It’s funny, but it’s not Fly’s best work.
The memory ends. Without deliberation, the others vote for it. Spits even votes for himself. Turrey forgets to vote, that’s how flustered he is. The boys don’t notice. They see a majority in favor and call it a win. The rejected cards dissolve into the poker table, memories erased.
“Wait! Absolutely not,” Fly calls out from his beer can perch. At this, Turrey can’t help but turn to look at him, surprised at his outburst. “Turrey’s card was obviously the best. That was one of the greatest days of my whole life! It can’t just be gone. I mean, I did crush that lyrical rewrite, but absolutely not. Plus, Turrey was the one who gave me the ice pack from his lunch box because I bruised my tailbone so badly that day at the flagpole. He deserves to win.”
Turrey stands up. He walks over to Fly’s perch and hugs Fly close. “I know I don’t really do this kind of shit, but I love you, man,” he says, tears in his eyes. “Please come back to us.”
9
It happened again.
/> I was with Turrey, Spits, and Chris. Petra was there too. They weren’t paying attention to me even though they were all gambling for…me? I kept asking what was going on, but no one would even look at me. I was up on this beer can throne in my Cubs jersey, watching over them.
Their cards played memories from my life. Seeing myself in different stages—smiling and laughing and being the general jackass I’ve grown to be—made my heart numb out and my knees cave in. The only thing I knew for sure was that after they picked a winner from the round, all the other memories were supposed to disappear forever.
They picked me in a wet suit sweating my ass off dancing with Brooke’s Poms team, trying to get her to go to prom with me. It was a good memory for sure, but it wasn’t the one that should last. How could I be reduced to just that day?
Turrey’s been there for me since we were playing Pee Wee together in kindergarten. That kid was the first person to ever invite me to play sports during recess. He was dribbling a ball, getting ready to start up a round of foursquare, and he yelled out, “Hey, Martin! We need one more. You in?” Freakin’ six years old, and he could see I needed a friend.
I had to speak up and defend the card he chose. I didn’t care if they weren’t going to listen. After I finished talking, Turrey told me he loved me and that he needed me to come back to them. As much as I’ve been through with that kid, it’s always been out of love. We both know that, but it gets me to hear him say it, especially when I don’t know why he felt it needed to be spoken. Or why he was so upset. Or what he meant by Please come back to us.
Like wake up?
Believe me, Turrey, I’m trying.
• • •
Turrey’s slumped over the steering wheel, snoring. He really did need it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person fall asleep so effortlessly. We’re in the back of the mall lot, where no cars dare park unless it’s the day after Thanksgiving or the day before Christmas. Turrey left the engine running so the air could stay on, but I open my window anyway. I stretch my hand out, and my fingers pinch distant trees that stand as islands in the concrete ocean around us.
Without warning, Turrey wakes up, as abrupt and effortless as his descent into sleep.
“Welcome back,” I say.
“I had a weird dream.”
“Just now?”
“Yeah. I saw Fly.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” He turns up the radio to hum along.
There’s no way I’m going home now. “Could you drop me off at my friends?” I ask. I give him Daniel’s address so he can plug it into his GPS.
“That’s my address,” he says back.
A misplaced two instead of a four, and I stumble on the discovery that Mike Turrey and Daniel Stetson are neighbors. I realize I’ve seen Turrey before—granted, through a fence or from a second-floor balcony—but I have years’ worth of squinted glances into his home life. His family loves to throw huge backyard parties. We even snuck into one. His little brother and sister publicly hate each other, staging outdoor fights with the regularity of a scripted reality show, always finding new ways to scream children’s versions of obscenities at each other. When they think no one is watching, they get along perfectly.
“I knew I’d seen you before,” Turrey says. “You’re at Daniel’s a lot.”
“Yeah. He’s one of my best friends.”
“Cool,” Turrey answers, his favorite drifting response. He starts up the engine and rolls the windows down lower.
I stretch my hand out to feel the warm air blow through my fingers.
I went to the same school as Martin. The same mall. I’ve had the same skeleton of a life. Now I know his family. I know one of his best friends. How interesting to paint a picture of someone when they aren’t around to help with the shading.
What picture does the world paint of me? I wonder. And how close is it to the truth?
Not very, I answer as I pretend to smash a distant oak tree between my thumb and my index finger.
I don’t know Martin at all.
But I feel like I do.
I feel like I do.
10
Turrey parks in his winding driveway and walks me over to Daniel’s. He follows me as I open the back gate, walk through the vegetable garden, and end up at the edge of the in-ground pool. Apparently, Turrey is coming with me.
“Petra!” Cameron shouts, emerging from her shaded corner to greet me. She sees Turrey and tries to communicate in glances, asking Why is he here? with only her eyes. She’s so distracted by his presence that she hugs me while dripping wet. Her one-piece soaks the front of my shirt.
“This is Mike Turrey,” I tell her. “Turns out he lives next door.”
They shake hands. It’s all so forced. I wander off to put my purse down on a pool chair.
Aminah emerges from the guesthouse. “Hello,” she says more to Turrey than me, sizing him up as a candidate for her affections. Her gold bikini shimmers in the sun, popping against the umber of her skin.
“Sup,” Turrey responds.
Aminah dives headfirst into the pool and glides through the water. She surfaces on the other side and holds on to the pool’s edge, keeping her back turned to us. Knowing she has no plans to engage in the conversation further—aggressive disinterest a time-tested Aminah Prabhu dating ritual—I ask Cameron, “Where’s Daniel?”
“Oh, he’s inside,” she tells me. Her eyes shift as she sways.
For a girl with a cherub’s face and a near-impeccable GPA, Cameron’s had a tiny share of debauchery, once dancing in her underwear by Daniel’s pool, a beer can in either hand, singing America the Beautiful. She’s selective in her moments, but when she lets loose, she means it. She hovers around the buzzed stage right now, reaching her hands out for objects that aren’t there in an attempt to steady herself.
The worst thing that can happen to a person in a social setting is happening to Turrey, and he doesn’t even realize. He’s the elephant in the room. His existence is the question, the point of awkwardness, the nervous fidget. Cameron wants to hear about Martin, but she can’t ask because Turrey’s here, and she doesn’t know enough about him to take a chance. Aminah continues dismissing him, alternating between underwater laps and inflatable lounging. The kitchen curtains flutter where Daniel spies on us from inside the house. Turrey doesn’t budge.
The intense daylight begs for me to take a break. I sit and apply lotion, attempting to sunbathe in jean shorts and a wet crewneck tee. It isn’t easy, but it’s much better than trying to keep a conversation going between Turrey and my friends.
Heat beats down on the lounge chair. Sweat pools on the back of my neck where my hair sits crumpled against the wicker chaise. My eyes are closed, but the sun burns red through the lids, lighting up my thoughts, which are full of equations. Letters and numbers converging in a way that requires more of my focus than I’m willing to give. My mind zooms out and sees the paper the equations are written on: a single sheet on a thick stack sitting on the desk in my bedroom. The letters actually scream, as if they aren’t letters but people, crying out in neglect. They move around. Questions asking other questions. If X equals Y, then why aren’t you here to study? Can you track the vertical shift of what you’re doing to your future? P(E or T)Rª = S(T/U) P+(I-D).
I tuck the problems away into my overcrowded attic of a mind. Soon. I will study soon. All I need to do is pass. And if I don’t, I lose the precious scholarship money my parents mention any chance they get.
Petra, you can’t just throw away tens of thousands of dollars because you’re upset about a breakup!
My thoughts move to the reddish-blackness I see with closed eyes.
What does Martin see behind his?
I go back to his fanned-out eyelashes. His trimmed hair. That scar on his lip. His Facebook page. Van Halen.
• • �
�
I spend my time focusing on my thoughts. It makes more sense to still use those words—time and thoughts—even though the nothingness seems to swallow everything up.
I need to be the Martin who gave an impromptu knock-’em-dead speech at his sister’s wedding, not the Martin who slept through a whole lecture in U.S. History then drew pictures on the pop quiz that followed.
Starting with Petra seems like my best bet. She’s the one thought I had while I was in the car with Spitty. I even imagined her at that card game with Turrey.
She’s been my constant.
I focus on her name. Petra Margaret McGowan. Petty Margs. I try to see her better. I don’t have much to go on. Red cheeks and chipped sparkle nails. The light around her when the sun hit her face. Her long brown hair flowing over the back of the folding chair. Van Halen.
11
Petra tries to jump into a pool, hoping to be relieved of the relentless heat. The water is crystal blue and full of people. But Petra doesn’t go under. The liquid hardens where her feet touch. It scorches like pavement. She hopscotches, trying not to burn her soles, dodging heads and complaints simultaneously.
“Look out!” someone yells.
“Stay out of my way!” says another.
She does her best, bouncing around as many people as she can. A few heads go under as she catches them with her gazelle glide. Some people grab at her ankles out of spite. Most scream obscenities at her.
She is ruining the party.
The edge of the pool gets farther away with every hop she makes toward it. She stops, stranded in an impossible middle. Her feet burn. The pain is immense, but to her, it’s better than being chastised. There’s no room in her mind to hide the hurtful words. Make them not matter. She begins to cry, unable to find a solution.
“Petra!” a voice calls out.
She scans for the source, examining the faces of countless strangers half-submerged in a pool she identifies as Daniel’s, though most aspects are different. It’s an idea of Daniel’s pool, more of a feeling than an actual thing.
What You Left Me Page 6
