While Mrs. Jensen didn’t mind if I stayed the night, I didn’t do it often. I had my reasons. Tristan often snuck out, and I never wanted to cramp his style. There was also the other reason—Brett. Unlike Mrs. Jensen, I saw Brett. I saw everything about her and she saw me. As a result, I could only handle her in small doses. She was a dream I could achieve, and I did not want to ruin it by actually succeeding.
Tristan shook me awake the next morning. He looked horrible. He had snuck out two nights earlier in the week, and I knew he had gotten little sleep the night before. He had been all over the place since the secret breakup. His spat with Brett upset him more than he let on. He knew he had struck a chord with her, and he was bothered by how quickly she had retaliated. To any other observer, their argument would have seemed petty, not even worth discussing, but I knew it was anything but that. Tristan had subtly pointed out that all Brett’s idealism and speeches would more than likely amount to nothing. You couldn’t change the world. She hated to be reminded of that, but she proved he was just as delusional as she was.
We knew his secret.
How much of himself was a lie.
“What’s going on?” I could always sleep in at the Jensen house. No one bothered to wake me up at ungodly hours.
“You have to see what she has done.”
Brett.
I threw on my hoodie and ran a hand through my unkempt hair. I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Jensen arguing as I trudged groggily down the steps. It was odd to hear Mr. Jensen’s voice bounce off the walls. He was usually much too busy to take part in the family drama.
I always thought it was funny that despite his father never actually being around to see him, Tristan still managed to begrudgingly watch Sunday football as if his mother was keeping a journal of his viewing activities. It was an unspoken agreement that I would always watch football with him on Sundays. I like to think I made it a little more bearable. I don’t mean just the football watching. I mean all of it.
Mr. Jensen was a dick.
I stopped mid-step. Brett was sitting in the middle of the living room on an old beanbag chair. She always had a knack for surprising Tristan or me with suddenly possessing some strange object that clearly didn’t belong to her. I joked with her once that she was a klepto, and she merely replied she was an anthropologist.
She sat on the beanbag with a look that clearly said, “try and prove me wrong.” Every inch of the living room floor was covered with pages upon pages torn from novels. On each page, some section, some quote was furiously circled in red ink. I saw such an unquantifiable amount of passion in the shaky lines of those circles that for a minute, I could not breathe. For a minute, I wanted Tristan and Mr. and Mrs. Jensen to disappear. I wanted to be alone with her. I wanted her in a way that was ungovernable.
I ran my hand over my eyes to shut out her image. I turned to Tristan and asked, “What is this?”
“They’re quotes from the classics about marriage. They’re all there, everything from Jane Austen to fucking Nicholas Sparks. Quotes about falling in love. Quotes about getting married. Quotes about living happily ever after.”
“This is unacceptable, Brett. These were not yours! Think of what this will cost,” her father yelled, his face turning red.
“Have you even looked at them?” Brett asked stoically. She always refused to allow her dad to elicit any emotion from her. Her mom always thought it was because she resented her dad for working such ridiculous hours. I knew it was because she felt nothing for him at all.
“Clean. It. Up. Now,” he snapped.
“Are you still going to make me be a bridesmaid?”
“Is that what this is about?” her mom asked. She really was dense sometimes. “You don’t want to be a bridesmaid? But all these quotes are about love!”
“You just don’t get it,” Brett replied, standing up. “These quotes are from works of fiction. Fiction!” Her eyes shot to me and I looked down. I’m not sure what she expected me to do.
Mrs. Jensen bent down and randomly selected one of Brett’s pages. It was a quote from Shakespeare. I’d seen enough romantic comedies to know it was one of those speeches often read during wedding ceremonies.
Brett threw her hands in the air. “Shakespeare’s Sonnet Eighteen? Really?”
A slight blush appeared on Mrs. Jensen’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Your father and I read this at our wedding.”
Brett started to laugh. Hysterically. “Oh. That’s priceless. You do know the speaker is addressing a man, right? It’s all about getting this guy to make babies.”
“Enough!”
Tristan, who usually avoided these family squabbles at all costs, stood seething in the corner. He no longer found it funny. Brett fell quiet, her eyes on the floor. In fact, none of the Jensen family could look at each other. Mr. Jensen stormed out of the room.
He slammed the front door only seconds later.
****
Like all weddings, the pictures took an agonizing amount of time. This time was made even more enjoyable because Tristan kept asking me how much longer I thought the pictures would take. As if I spent all my hours watching Bridezilla.
“Here,” I said, handing Tristan the flask. “What’s got you so anxious?”
Tristan looked to me and then to the flask. He shrugged. “I got something to do.”
I laughed and patted him on the back. “Well, man up! You’re a son of Wendall, and it’s your duty to be here. So wipe off that silly frown, go ask some second cousin to dance, and try not to let any of the city council members know you’ve been drinking.”
Tristan laughed, but it bordered on bitterness. “Is that all it takes?”
His attitude temporarily sobered me. “You alright, dude?”
Tristan inhaled deeply and looked at me. I could see it, some truth waiting to get out. In that moment, he did not hide from me that he was suffering. I stood up and grabbed his arm, pulling him from his seat in the reception hall. “Come on, let’s go find Brett.”
He nodded.
I felt something settle inside me, something like dread. Or maybe it was helplessness. I began to quicken my pace toward the lobby of the hotel. I knew that I had to find Brett. Whatever was going on, we needed her.
Tristan stopped abruptly. I looked back to see him staring at me, his head tilted to the side. A group of giggling pre-teens made their way past us toward the reception hall. I gave them a wink. Their laughter became even more nauseating, but at least it caused them to scurry.
“Ed?”
“Want me to get you some water?” I asked, for some reason not wanting to hear his question. Something about it felt threatening.
“Ed?”
“Seriously. Maybe you and booze don’t mix. What about some Sprite? That’s my mom’s cure-all after a binger.”
“Ed!” This time it wasn’t a question—it was a declaration. He saw what I was trying to do, and he would not let me escape so easily. I felt myself suddenly grow weak. I leaned against the wall and focused my eyes on the floor. He stepped close to me. His forehead almost touched mine. “You like her, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” I mumbled.
“Mallory.” Tristan only called Brett that once in a blue moon. I wondered why he used the name now. My heart started to pound. Tristan shook his head. He reached a shaking hand up and grabbed the collar of my second-hand suit. “You both are so stupid.”
“You’re being ridiculous. She’s just a kid.” I started to sweat.
He clutched onto my jacket harder and his face became red. “See, this is how it will always be. Lies. Lies. Lies. That’s what she meant with all those quotes. I get it now.”
I felt a wave of resentment fill me. How dare he lecture me on lies, especially with what I knew about him? I shoved him off me. “Don’t. I’m sorry you’re in a crap mood, but get over it. I didn’t even want to come here!” I warned, pointing a finger into his face.
It was a miracle he had convinced me to come
at all. I never went to these things. I only went ‘cause he was having a hard time. Even though Tristan seemed to have been doing a little better since the breakup, I still worried about him.
It was then I saw her. I have no idea how long she had been there, or what she had seen or heard. Brett sat there in that ridiculous burnt orange bridesmaid dress staring at both of us, her arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow. “Now, now, boys, what is this?”
Neither of us answered her. I found myself unable to look directly at either of them. She made her way toward me and I froze. She reached her hand inside my coat pocket, and I thought I might just suffocate from the closeness of her. She pulled the flask out from my pocket. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds. I wasn’t prepared for the infinite sadness I saw lodged there. She brought the flask to her lips and took a long swig. She handed it to me, turning back toward the reception hall. “Let’s go, boys. We have people to please.”
That was the last night I saw Tristan alive.
Chapter Nine
Brett:
School is somehow easier than my early morning confrontation with Ed. Sort of.
It’s my first day back, and I can’t help but feel a little bit of relief that people stay clear of me. I know it’s unfair of me to benefit from my brother’s death, but I can’t deny myself this small consolation. Of course, I still stand out. All the robots around me are wearing black, as if they really are sad he is gone. They only worshipped him because he was a son of Wendall, and it was asked, demanded, of them.
One of them could very well be his murderer.
Murderer? Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe someone found out and took some joke too far? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened in this town. My mind feels like a bad episode of Law and Order.
I’m going to have to rely on television for all of my information about solving this mystery. There’s not a lot of crime in Wendall besides the sporadic domestic dispute. Even the sketchy places in Wendall are covered up with a polished veneer—part of the Clean Up Our Neighborhoods Project.
They voted a few years back to rezone the town limits. Rather conveniently, Lewis St. and Bakers Lane were left out of the new town limits. Say goodbye to subsidized housing in the town of Wendall.
Ed lives in the sketchy part of town—the dreaded middle class section. It’s not such a horrible place to live.
****
I spy Georgina down the hallway. She’s standing next to Ed’s locker. His attention is focused intently on anything but her as he rummages through it for some mystery item. She keeps talking to him, but he remains deep inside the locker abyss. She’s wearing a black knit sweater dress and black stockings. Her hair is tied back with a black ribbon. I can’t help but glance at myself in the window looking into the office—torn jeans, Ed’s oversized black t-shirt, my black hair curling wildly because I didn’t bother to straighten it. I cringe.
Despite my many complaints about the hierarchy of Wendall High, I’m one of the selected. My parents ensured that. My last name gives me whatever I want. It was the same with Tristan. As far as appearances went, we both belonged.
When I was eleven, the middle school asked my father to be the lead speaker at career day. The guidance counselors spent weeks planning the event. A real to-do. You know how goal orientated middle-schoolers are. Food catered from the best restaurants in town. I even heard rumor of a cocktail hour. The morning of the event, I came down with the flu. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to get our family in the paper, my mother convinced the school to postpone the event. The food went to waste. The other speakers had to rearrange their schedules. But for a founding family, no expense was spared.
Georgina spots me and I realize I have been staring. She snaps something to Ed, who tears his eyes from the locker to me. I can’t help but blush remembering our earlier meeting. Georgina walks toward me, a stack of pamphlets in her hands. Ed mutters something and follows quickly behind her. She stops in front of me and smiles. I match hers. It catches her off guard, and she frowns.
I wonder if the rumors about her and Ed are true. I’ve been out of school two weeks and heard everything about the two of them before reaching second period. I don’t feel jealous. Even if they had sex in the bathroom, I know it’s outside of him and me. And while I’m not jealous, I feel sorry for him. I feel anger for him. I feel desperate that he’s so willing to give himself away to people like Georgina.
Ed moves closer to me. He clears his throat loudly before casually putting an arm around my shoulder. I don’t get excited about it. It’s not for my benefit. He does it to tick off Georgina. Apparently, all is not well in paradise.
“Hey there, Brett. What? Are we doing our best Kristen Stewart impersonation today?” he asks as his eyes roam over my appearance.
Ed has always had an addiction to trash television programs like Access Hollywood. If anyone asks him about it, he will quickly deny it. While he makes fun of my love of movies and television, he can drop a pop culture reference quicker than Joel McHale on The Soup. It’s really rather astounding for someone who considers himself so highbrow.
I’m willing to take part in his game. I reach up a hand and run it through his tousled hair. Obviously, my morning visit left him more rattled than he would like me to know. He looks disheveled. “Nice hair. What are you trying to be? My very own Robert Pattinson?”
Georgina begins to tap her foot. It kills her that we’re ignoring her. She couldn’t care less about our fake flirting. “Here,” she says, thrusting two pamphlets into our space.
“Friends don’t let friends drink and drive,” Ed reads aloud.
It’s the first time I have ever wanted to hit someone. She and the rest of them are making Tristan’s death about them. They make it about their crusade, their need to prove they are morally upright citizens of this town. I know there are so many others like her, but something about the way Georgina stands there holding her ideologies in my face makes me fume.
My brother is more than a warning to others. Even if I find out he was drunk, I can’t let them have him. Ed removes his arm from around my shoulder as if he can sense what I am feeling, as if he wants nothing to do with it.
Georgina sees more than I give her credit for. She takes a step closer to me and pulls an obnoxiously bright pink ribbon from her purse. She pins the ribbon right onto Ed’s Clash t-shirt. I vaguely hear Ed inhale deeply as the blood rushes in my ears.
“We’re wearing them in honor of your brother. So that we all remember that his death was not in vain,” she chirps.
Bright pink? Is this a joke? Did they all know? I somehow manage a smile and mumble a, “Thanks.” I walk away without another word.
It seems as if everyone has shown up for school today. None of them want to miss the assembly. They don’t want to miss the freak show. What is it about the human race that so loves to watch the grief of others?
They all want a piece of Tristan. They all want a piece of him that they can twist and distort to fit their own needs. I sit and listen as Georgina and other members of the student council read off facts about teenagers and drunk driving. I sit and listen as members of the faculty talk about what potential my brother had. All any of them talk about is loss.
I search for Ed in the mass of students. He’s not too difficult to find. Like me, he chose not to wear black today either. He sits in the upper section of the bleachers in a light blue t-shirt and dark jeans. He sits in the midst of some of Wendall’s finest—a hodgepodge of debutantes, cheerleaders, and football players.
Wendall High’s dumb-A royal court.
Georgina may have been his way in, but he doesn’t need her anymore. He has his place there now, and all of them are fawning over him. I can see it in the way the boys mimic his movements, and in the way the girls toss their hair when they talk to him. Even their fawning is predictable.
I know what Georgina intended to do. She wanted to be the one to break through his pain. If she could do that, i
f she could make herself mean more than the grief, she would be untouchable. But he used her. All of Wendall High knows it. Even if it goes unspoken. There are some things we just don’t speak of.
Something happened with our parents and their parents. There’s a need to protect our own born within us. When your family has known another family for years and years, you become protective of them because their history is mingled with yours. When almost every family knows each other in a town they have all lived in for generations, the town becomes the shared history. We all want, despite knowing something inside of us is suffering, to protect each other. Even from the truth.
Ed’s eyes meet with mine from across the gym. I raise my hand and give him a weak wave. He squints briefly and turns to whisper something into Evelyn Goodwin’s ear. She nods and begins to rub his back. I’m unable to stop watching as the scene unfolds. She shifts closer to him and continues to whisper something in his ear. He nods, his face grave. He’s so darn good at this that I wonder if it will all backfire on him—will he keep giving himself away till he has nothing left?
I’m not sure who hated each other more before all this. Them or him. But now he has lost himself in their world, and I can’t help but remember that I gave him the idea. Whatever reason he gave himself for doing all this, I know the real reason. He wants to be punished. I’m just not sure why.
I want to stand up and go to him. I want to drag him from this place. I want to save him because I had a brother who I didn’t save. Maybe Ed doesn’t want to be saved. I feel a dull ache take over my chest.
Ed slides his hand up Evelyn’s thigh. She leans her head on his shoulder. She arches her back so her face is close to his. I watch as his lips touch hers. His free hand slides into her hair. They are making out right in the middle of my brother’s memorial/condemnation. Everyone around them pretends not to notice their kissing. They pretend not to notice because they have each made Tristan’s death about what they need, even Ed.
The Language of Silence Page 4
