I yank the lid off the box, and there it is. Sitting right on top. Relief floods through me.
The copy of The Outsiders Tristan gave to me.
I open the cover to find the inscription he left for me on the title page:
Ed,
Thanks for listening.
Tristan
My stomach drops. I was wrong. There are monsters under my bed. This monster is called guilt.
I had listened, Tristan. But not enough.
Chapter Six
Ed:
My distaste for the glorified zombies belonging to Wendall High School’s Let’s-Be-on-Every-Page-of-the-Yearbook-Club is no secret. But even I have to admit that one of the club’s most prominent members, Georgina Fritz, is pretty damn hot.
Ridiculously hot.
She fulfills every requirement ever written to qualify for drool-worthy status—legs that seem to go on for eternity, hair that, no matter which way she flips it, seems to fall into place, clothes that are a little too tight or short, but teachers tend to forget the dress code around her because she’s just nice to look at in them.
Cliché? Sure. But even I must admit that years and years of evolution have somehow warped some part of me into wanting her. Some man millions of years ago decided this was what he wanted, and we were all damned as a result.
And of course, I can’t stand her.
Sure, somewhere deep inside, there might be something of worth. But, overall, I loathe her.
I can’t stand her for her ability to make men feel small just because she can. I can’t stand her for all the boys who can’t complain about how she hurt their feelings with a cold glance or nasty refusal because society would label them soft. I despise her because despite my claims that I can’t be pigeonholed into some small, suffocating definition of the teenage boy, I’d sleep with her if given the chance.
She’ll think I’m weak because of Tristan’s death. I already know what cards she’ll play in this game. She’ll attempt to comfort me, always wanting to appear sympathetic to those beneath her. Like all good queens would do. And when a proper amount of time has passed, when nobody remembers how a boy died driving home drunk on Wilmington Ave, she’ll find a way to put me right back into my proper place.
The politics of high school don’t just stop because some unlucky bastard lies six feet underground. No. The game continues. It’s just the rules that change.
But I’ll win the war before she even knows there is a war going on.
I see her glance up at me from underneath her bangs. She sips on a straw, leaning her cheek on her hand, her elbow resting on the lunchroom table. Her JCrew top fits tight against her chest.
Yes, I notice.
She takes a long pull on her straw.
I can’t help but swallow.
She tilts her head. She’s taking me in. She’s designing her attack.
But I’ll make the first move.
I push my chair out from the table and head toward the trashcan. I throw my trash away and head out of the lunchroom without a second glance. I have laid the trap. I wait in the hallway outside of the cafeteria. I pretend to look at the newly posted flyers on the dangers of teenage drinking.
Right on cue.
Georgina rushes out of the cafeteria, almost colliding with me. Her shoulder brushes against mine and my skin tingles. She takes a step away from me, pulling down her shirt, which has ridden up seductively in her haste. Surprise passes over her face.
She thought she would have to chase after me.
“You left this,” she replies, holding up my Physics textbook.
“Thanks,” I mumble, tearing my eyes from her and turning my attention back to the flyer.
She sighs. “I’m so sorry, Edward.”
“Ed.” Only Brett is allowed to call me Edward. And it’s been forever since she has. Once we had a long conversation about her distaste for nicknames. She told me that I was named Edward, and it was a discredit to any name when someone took it upon himself or herself to shorten it. I remember making some comment about her reading too many hippie lovin’, down-with-the-state, protect-your-identity, 1984-ish books. She has called me Ed ever since.
Georgina clears her throat. I have missed whatever she has said. Lucky for me, I have an excuse—uncontrollable, undeniable grief.
Thank you, Tristan!
She points to the poster. “I know we aren’t friends, Ed, but if you want to talk sometime…”
“What do you care?” I snap. The angry, introverted, mourning man is just the sort of brooding male girls go crazy for. Of course, I guess I am angry. And introverted. But I can’t mourn someone who left on his own terms. And I know that’s how it was.
It’s no different than when a celebrity dies. Like the almighty King of Pop. The same people who were calling him a child molester years ago were crying and lamenting him the minute he died. They used to call his kids freaks, and yet they clung to the idea of them during the memorial. I am one of the closest people to Tristan and his death, and that makes me a hot commodity.
People love others’ misfortunes, and Georgina wants a front row seat.
“Everybody liked Tristan, you know. He was great. Maybe I haven’t been the nicest person to you. I know I haven’t. But it shouldn’t surprise you when I say I feel his loss too. As a Christian, I offer you someone to talk to if you need it.”
Wow. People really use the Christian line. I wouldn’t have a problem with it if I thought for once second she meant it. I’m all about a higher power if that’s what gets you through the day. I almost believe her when she says it too. She oozes earnesty. She’s had a lot of practice.
I think back to the copy of The Outsiders that Tristan gave me, and I remember the night he was referencing in his note. I also remember what part Georgina Fritz played in that night, and I remember she’s a snake.
My eyes find the floor. I bite the inside of my cheek and begin to rock back and forth. She moves closer to me. “Want to get out of here? I can get us some passes.”
Georgina has made it a point to volunteer as a student aide after school every year since freshman year. The girl is smart, and I know she has the power to pull some strings. Is this how the lords of the business world start out?
“Alright,” I reply, jerking my head into a nod.
She grabs my hand and leads me down the hallway.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Seven
Brett:
I don’t know what to wear.
Today, the school is having some sort of memorial/public service announcement in order to honor/condemn my brother. I know I could stay home. My mother won’t care. She won’t even notice. She finally has an excuse to ignore me.
But to stay home would make this whole experience about me. And it’s about Tristan.
I make my way to my brother’s bedroom and rest my hand on the doorknob. Before he died, I would often roam his closet for some graphic tee to wear, but today, I can’t open it. I don’t think of it as a shrine. It’s nothing like that. I’m just not ready for what I might find in there. I don’t want to find any evidence to confirm what I already know. Every time I think of him being gone, dead, my mind comes back to this.
This isn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. There has to be someone to blame. My brother’s death was no accident. The longer I wait to start searching for his killer, the more likely it is he or she will be able to get away.
Yet, something inside stops me from rushing into an investigation. Some feeling I am unable to identify, but it’s there. I take a deep breath. I count to ten. I vow to go to school and pay attention to everyone there. Today’s goal? Make a list of suspects.
I throw on my Wendall High School hoodie and grab my mother’s car keys. I see the irony as I take them. The whole town thinks my brother died in a drunk driving accident, and here I am, underage, without a license, driving. If they had a Wall of Shame at the DMV, the Jensen family would be the number one sta
rs.
I don’t care what they think.
I wish.
Ed’s mom lets me in without questioning me. I ask her if I can use her shower. She hands me a towel and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. This is the most unbelievable thing about Ed’s mom—she understands more than most that sometimes words are not enough, and most times, they aren’t needed at all.
After showering, I pull a towel tightly around my chest. I leave my pajamas and hoodie lying on the bathroom floor. My hair is dripping wet. I close my eyes and strain to hear the sound of drops hitting the bathroom floor. I just need a moment that is about me before the chaos that awaits me at school. I hear Ed’s mother running the sink in the kitchen. I sigh.
I walk quickly from the bathroom into Ed’s room. I realize this is only the second time I have been in his room without my brother. The pain overwhelms me. I know Ed has decided to ignore the loss, write it off as some twist of destiny, but I have felt nothing but pain every second since he has been gone.
The cold air causes my skin to erupt in goose bumps. I pull the towel tighter. I only glance at Ed. He’s still sleeping, the blanket pulled over his head, and only his arm pushes out from the covers as if he is reaching for something.
I pull open his closet door and begin to go through his collection of t-shirts. I hear him stir, but ignore him.
“What the hell, Brett?” he yells groggily.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I reply, refusing to turn around.
I hear the bed creak as he moves to sit up. “What…what…what are you doing, Brett?” he asks. His anger suddenly diminishes. I know it’s the shock setting in.
“I need something to wear.”
“Obviously. Your lack of clothing tells me that much,” he snaps. It’s almost funny to see his emotions go so unchecked, unregulated.
I turn around to face him, one hand clutching my towel and one hand on my hip. “Calm down, sugar plum. It’s not like I’m standing here naked. I have a towel on.”
“Just put some fucking clothes on, Brett.”
I sigh. “F-ing clothes? Huh? And here I was thinking no clothes was the way to go about that.”
He closes his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. “Brett,” he warns.
“What? Did you think I came in here to seduce you? Still a member of the boys-do-not-touch club. Not even boys who now date Georgina Fritz,” I squeak, forcing as much sass as I can between my words.
“Please.”
“Fine. I just need to borrow a t-shirt.” I turn back to the closet and rummage through his shirts. I can’t help but laugh as I pull out a t-shirt featuring The Clash. “Really, Ed? How predictable can you be?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Look at me. I’m a non-conformist. I hate anything mainstream. I wear seventies band t-shirts and mock anything popular. If it is mainstream, then F it,” I say, throwing the t-shirt at him and closing the closet door.
“Says the girl who has read the entire Twilight series. If that’s not mainstream, then kill me. It’s too early for one of your rants, Brett.”
“Yes, I have read it. Sits right on my shelf next to Melville and Austen. Unlike some people, I’m multi-faceted.” I move and take a seat on the edge of his bed. He pulls the covers tighter around him. I can’t help but smile. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Ed?”
“Brett, what’s this about?” Something about the way he says my name leaves me empty. Suddenly, I find no reason to joke anymore. Ed and I have been playing this game for years, seeing how far we can push each other. But in this moment, I don’t want to play anymore. I want it to be over with. Even if it destroys me.
I clutch my free hand into a fist to keep it from reaching for him. I bite my lip to keep from asking him to give me what I really need. I pick up his Clash t-shirt and head toward the bedroom door.
“Brett.”
“Sorry I dripped water all over your floor,” I reply, refusing to face him. Suddenly, the idea to come here seems idiotic.
“Why did you come here?” he asks as if he can read my mind. Maybe he can.
“My bathroom is a mess.” It’s not a lie. It’s still covered in two-week-old vomit. My mother is using my brother’s death as an excuse to shut down into herself. She has never been very motherly, and now she can use her child’s death as an excuse for all her flaws. I can’t bring myself to clean it. It’s the only thing that makes his death feel real. “Can I borrow this?” I ask, lifting the shirt in the air, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has us trapped.
“Sure. I’ll see you in school, Brett.”
I nod and quickly leave.
Chapter Eight
Ed:
The night of the wedding, we drank. It was something different to do. We never really fooled around with drinking. Brett once compiled a VHS—you know, those bulky tape-things parents buy for a dollar from the bins at Walmart—of her favorite episodes of 90210, Dawson’s Creek, and Gossip Girl. Each episode involved underage drinking. We mocked the shit out of them. The next day at school, Brett wore a white t-shirt on which she had sloppily written in permanent marker, Donna Martin Graduates.
No one got it.
Needless to say, drinking and making asses of ourselves wasn’t really the way we liked to spend our Saturday nights, but it seemed like the best way to get through this particular one. It was your typical Wendall wedding. It was more about flash than substance.
“I give the couple ten years,” I leaned over and whispered to Tristan as the bride slowly made her way down the aisle in an obvious haze of prescription pills. “Just long enough to forever rid themselves of the stigma they are too weird to connect with another human being, but not long enough to waste away in an institution they don’t believe in,” I continued.
This would usually be the point Tristan would call me self-righteous and pretentious and laugh. Tristan didn’t laugh. It left me unsettled. This was the sort of thing he loved to laugh over. We were experts at mocking. We were jerks.
“Shit, they’re both trust fund babies. They won’t even need a divorce settlement,” I said, fingering the flask in my jacket pocket.
I stole the flask from one of my mom’s pretend-you-don’t-see-me-men that casually came around. I didn’t intend to drink it, but figured the guy was screwing my mom—the least I could do was take his flask. Tristan stayed quiet, grabbing the flask from my pocket and taking a swig. I kept the rest of my thoughts to myself as the ceremony continued.
As I looked up at the happy couple, I knew this was the way to do it, the way to succeed. Wendall would ask for an act of conformity; it would ask you to publicly sacrifice something important to you. It was the only way you could get anywhere, be anyone. This is what it means to live in a town with a long and important history. Wendall immersed itself in its constructed identity, and it would let nothing and no one destroy it. It had survived both the American Revolution and the War of Northern Aggression, and that meant it could survive anything—liberalism, feminism, pretty much any ism.
You know your town has a knack for preserving its identity when the biggest day of the year is the announcement of the lineup for the Fourth of July parade. If you were in the front, it meant you were someone. In the back—we just feel sorry for you. Sorry, hard workers of Joe’s Auto Shop, who despite having an awesome float shaped like a firecracker that shot off candy, you’re spot will always be two spaces from last.
Tristan and I had spent the majority of the remainder of the proceedings sneaking swigs from my flask in the back pew. Occasionally, Brett would look back at us and frown disapprovingly.
They had made her a bridesmaid.
Tristan and I had joked the hell out of her when she told us. Brett didn’t believe in marriage at all. When her mother told her that her cousin had selected her as a bridesmaid, Brett disappeared into her room for three days. She refused to go to school or come out to eat. On the fourth day, she left the house without saying a word and headed to the library.
/> I remember sitting with Tristan watching the Falcons game when Brett busted through the front door. She always made an entrance. It wasn’t contrived. It’s just the way she’s always been. She can’t help but announce herself to all those in her presence.
“Hello there, Brett,” Tristan yelled, waving his hand in an exaggerated fashion, a goofy-ass grin plastered on his face. He was trying to bait her. He hopped up on his knees and leaned over the back of the couch. “I’m so honored that you would grace us with your presence. Aren’t you honored, Ed? Your homage to Gandhi was a hoot. Really. I mean, my life was changed. Wasn’t yours, Ed? Passive resistance. Whew. Wait. What were you protesting again?”
I chuckled and scratched the back of my head. I knew when not to mess with Brett. I knew when she would see it as a challenge and when she would see it as an intrusion. I could always read her. But unlike the rest of the sub-humans around me, I actually liked reading her. I loved reading her.
She stopped and glared at her brother, barely able to carry her book bag on her shoulder. “Oh. Wow. What did I miss? You pretending you actually give a darn about football? Tell me, Tristan, which one of them is your favorite player? Which one do you just gush about? I’m buying Christmas presents and I want to know which poster would get you going….” She stopped and bit the inside of her cheek.
She was pissed. Tristan sighed and turned back around, pretending to enjoy the game. Brett and Tristan fought all the time, but always about superficial things. Rarely did either one of them attack to hurt. Brett was dancing on the edges of that agreement, and Tristan knew he had to back down.
She turned her glare onto me. “What?” I asked with a nervous laugh. She shook her head and went to her room.
That night, I stayed at the Jensen house. Mrs. Jensen never objected to my staying. She’s always had a crush on me. It doesn’t mean anything, not really. She doesn’t even see me. Not the real me. She sees youth. She sees something that will never happen but can be longed for. Those are the only type of dreams that are safe to have, the dreams that you will never fulfill, the dreams that you won’t realize were never as glorious or rewarding as you thought they could be.
The Language of Silence Page 3
