The Language of Silence

by Tiffany Truitt

  I nodded for him to continue. I nodded mostly because I didn’t know what to say. Something had changed. In the smallest of moments, the air in the car became stale and empty with unfilled promises. Disappointment.

  “I’ve been having these urges. Feelings. I don’t really know what to call them. I tried to force them away. I swear, Ed. I really tried. God, part of me thinks I’m sick. Like mentally fucking sick. God’s up there laughing at the broken thing he created. But, then, I think more about these things, and I know God had no part in making me.”

  The words flew so fast from his mouth, a speeding train of existentialism that I could barely keep up.

  “So, I decided to give myself one night. Just one. I would do it once, and then I would be done with it. I would have my whole life to fix it. I just needed to know what it felt like. You’d be surprised the kind of things people put in a Craigslist ad.”

  I gulped. My hand moved to the back of my head and I began to scratch. I didn’t know what else to say or do. It felt like we were both stuck inside some indie teen movie except I didn’t know my lines or my blocking.

  “I took a taxi to the meeting place and paid the boy to…do things…to me. I brought money, but then the other guy showed up demanding more. I would have used my debit card, but then my parents would see the charge, and I couldn’t bear any questions. I’ll pay you back, Ed,” he promised, his words slurring through the tears that now overtook him.

  Tristan had paid a male prostitute to pleasure him. That was the gist of it. The summary on our “My Life Sucks” movie poster. I was beyond shocked. Not because it disgusted me. I could give a flying fuck if he was gay. I just knew what it would mean for him. The pride of the Jensen household. People like the Jensens didn’t mind gays on their sitcoms, but they sure as hell wouldn’t want one in their family.

  Tristan brought his hands to his face and sobbed harder into them. I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “So, did you like it?” I asked gently. Tristan merely nodded. I squeezed his shoulder again. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. You know I don’t give a shit, right? I need you to know that.”

  He lifted his head and ran a hand under his runny nose. “Why do you think I called you?”

  Tristan stayed at my house that night. After he showered, he sat at my dining room table and just stared at the wall in front of him. I tried to give him his space, leave him alone, but I couldn’t. It didn’t feel right. I burrowed in my book bag for the novel my English teacher assigned me to read for class. It was a book on the eighth grade reading list, so, of course, I cussed her out silently in my head and stuffed it in my backpack when she gave it to me. Sensing my anger, the teacher explained that she merely assigned the book to me because she thought I would like it.

  I spent ten minutes sitting at the table with Tristan, silently reading The Outsiders. But as I read the story of Ponyboy, I realized I really did dig the book. It was about a group of boys who the world abandoned, a group of boys who would do anything for each other. I looked up at Tristan only to discover tears streaming down his cheeks. So, I began to read the book aloud.

  We stayed up all night reading that damn book. Around the time the church burned down, Tristan grabbed the book from my hands and read the next chapter aloud. That’s how it went the remainder of the night. We took turns reading the story that sounded so different and so much like our own at the same time.

  The next morning, we downloaded the movie and watched it. When the credits began to roll, I turned to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  Tristan’s lips pulled tight. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I should have made him talk. I should have kept asking. But I didn’t.

  “Where did you get that hundred dollars?” he asked me.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled.

  He should have made me talk too.

  “We’re both such fucking cowards. Maybe we don’t deserve to be loved,” said Tristan.

  “Maybe we don’t.”

  I never did get that hundred dollars back. Like the rest of that night, Tristan pretended it never happened.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ed:

  “Upstairs,” I call out. My heart beats a little faster as I hear Brett climb up the stairs. She flashes me the biggest grin when she enters my room, and all I want to do is grab her and kiss her.

  “It’s actually pretty cold out there. Did you know they’re calling for snow?” She looks pretty damn adorable. She’s wearing a pink knit hat, her heavy plaid winter jacket, and two scarves.

  I chuckle. “It might be cold, but I doubt we’re suddenly experiencing Tundra-like weather in Georgia.”

  “Hey! Don’t mock! I get cold easily,” she replies, taking her hat off and throwing it at my face.

  I catch it and toss it back and forth between my hands. “So, what do you want to do today?”

  “Kick your butt at video games?”

  “Um, have you been paying attention the last couple of weeks? I’ve schooled you,” I remind her, raising an eyebrow.

  “Maybe I’ve been letting you win,” she challenges, returning said eyebrow raise.

  “Brett Jensen let someone win? Hardly. Not the girl I know.”

  And we’re both grinning at each other like if we stop for even one second, the world will end.

  Has there ever been a more awesome winter break? For once, happiness feels like a possibility. When I convinced myself to start seeing Brett, and it took some convincing, I was afraid our relationship was going to become one big cry fest over the waste that was Tristan Jensen. But she never brings it up.

  She’s great.

  In fact, the past couple weeks have been damn near perfect.

  It’s weird and scary to have things going so well right now.

  Both of us skipped school the last two days before winter break. Neither of us felt a need to see Wendall’s best and brightest assholes after the party. Brett also went back home. I didn’t fight her on it. I thought we needed some distance.

  You know, since we spend pretty much every waking minute together.

  In some ways, it’s no different than what it was like when Tristan was alive. In other ways, it’s totally different. Different worlds. Apples and Oranges. Republicans and Democrats.

  I call Brett every morning when I wake up. She’s not one of those girls who starts texting you at some ungodly hour wanting to know why you haven’t called her yet. It’s pretty cool. Her only request is that I never call the house phone. Something about wanting to keep her mother out of this. And we never hang out at her house. Which is fine by me.

  We spend most of the day doing the things we would have done if Tristan were with us. She reads some book I’ve never heard of, and I read comics. We go to the movies. We listen to music. All the stuff you’re supposed to do when you’re young and all couple-y. Things I thought I would hate. Things I find I rather like.

  In fact, during the day, it’s so much like old times that I forget that we’re dating. We never touch. It’s almost like we are both afraid Tristan is going to walk through the door and catch us.

  It’s great having a friend again.

  At night, things get a little different.

  She stays till her curfew, which her father set at eleven, meaning she usually leaves around one in the morning. Most of the night we spend fooling around. God, she gets me going. It takes everything in me not to push for sex. Not that I think it would take much convincing. I think she wants to have sex.

  I definitely want to have sex with her. Just thinking about it is painful. Just kissing her drives me completely insane. But I don’t let it get very far. I don’t even let her reach for me. I can’t. I want to please her.

  She’s so damn good. So pure. I haven’t quite convinced myself I deserve it. I can see her frustration when I push her away when she tries to return the favor, but I don’t care. I’m trying to maintain some sense of control. If we
have sex, I can never take it back. I’ll always be her first. And if this doesn’t work out, if I screw it up, I want to make her ability to move on as easy as possible.

  There have been a few road bumps along the way. For one, my mom keeps hovering. It’s pretty annoying. Especially since she’s waited till now to start acting like she’s a member of the abstinence committee. When I went to the bathroom this morning, I found that the box of condoms I keep in the medicine cabinet was suddenly missing.

  Also, I lied to Brett. Last week, I received my letter of acceptance for the University of Georgia. I didn’t tell her. I guess, technically, it’s a lie of omission. Doesn’t mean I still don’t feel bad about it.

  “Hey! I know what we can do,” she yelps, jumping next to me on my bed. “We can pull out your mom’s old karaoke machine!”

  She means my mom’s stereo with a mic jack. Got it when she was dating a manager from Sears. One day, after getting my tail whooped by Tristan while playing the new Batman game, I came down to find my mom and Brett singing Petula Clark’s “Downtown.” They sounded horrible. When Tristan and I joked on them, Brett dared me five bucks to sing as well.

  I wasn’t that brave, but Tristan was. He joined his sister in a tongue and cheek rendition of “We are Family.” I remember wishing in that moment that I had a brother or sister.

  “You’re joking, right?” I ask her.

  “Nope.”

  “No dice.”

  “Come on. It will be fun. You have known me for like four years. Think I haven’t heard you sing before? Besides, I’ll let you pick the song.” Her earlier eyebrow raise has now turned into eyebrow waggling. She follows it with the cutest bouncing up and down that I have ever seen, and I know the decision has already been made for me….

  She’s singing The Smiths. I’m in love. I’ve been telling Brett for years that The Smiths are the greatest thing to happen to music. She always argued against me. Probably just for the sake of taking me down a few pegs. But here she is, singing the damn Smiths right in my living room. I’m sitting on the couch loving every minute of it. She’s completely off-key, but damn if it’s not cute. Even the way she holds the microphone and rocks back and forth, making silly faces when she messes up the words.

  I love this girl.

  I absolutely love this girl.

  She offers me the mic when she’s done, but I decline. She starts singing again. This time, she’s punishing me. She’s singing The Spice Girls.

  And I’m grinning like a damn fool.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Brett:

  I count to ten before jumping in the shower, knowing full well I’ll probably be dirtier by the time I step out of it than before I got in. Even after applying the strongest cleaner I could buy to the hotel’s excuse for a bath, I imagine the millions of germs crawling around the pale yellow surface. I should call the Center for Disease Control. They would probably find a new disease living amongst the grime and genetic footprints of the many humans who inhabited this space before. Maybe they would even name it after me. I’d like something so powerful connected to my legacy. The only thing I’ll be remembered now for is being the sister of the dead kid.

  I want/need to be more than that.

  I use the towels I bought from Walmart, not daring to trust the towels the maid leaves for me every morning, to scrub my skin dry. Seriously scrub. Almost scrub to the bone. I long for my own shower and towels. I miss the high thread count of my sheets at home, cursing the gods that I’ll spend another night in a discount sleeping bag I use on top of the bed. Cursing my AP Biology teacher for putting The Hot Zone on our reading list. I want to go home, but I can’t.

  My father has returned.

  The day after the event in the shower with Ed, and my subsequent run-in with his mother, I no longer felt like it was appropriate to crash at his house. Besides, even if I hadn’t had the worst heart-to-heart of all time with Ed’s mom, I still would’ve left. Everything in both of our lives had been chaotic and disjointed since Tristan’s death. This new development between us with the first bit of hope I’d felt in ages, and I wasn’t going to complicate it any more than it needed to be.

  When I pulled up to my house and saw my father’s car in the driveway, I couldn’t turn the engine off. All I could think about was what happened only a few weeks ago. The night was seared into my memory, a night that I’m not sure even Ed knows about.

  The reason I will always hate my father.

  And so, I left. I’ve been using his credit card to hide out in a shady hotel outside of town.

  As I stare at my face in the smudged mirror, I remember that day.

  I stayed after school that day. Funny, but I can’t even remember what club it was for. I’ve joined so many over the years, it’s hard to keep track. When my friend Kate, the senior who offered me salvation from the activity bus filled with freshmen carrying the largest band instruments they could find, dropped me off, my brother was sitting on the curb outside of our house. The sun had disappeared hours before, and Kate’s headlights cut across my brother’s face. Tristan raised his hand to shield himself from the bright glare, but I saw something before he did. Something. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew how I felt seeing it.

  Ashamed. Dirty.

  The muscles in my stomach tightened. My eyes darted to Kate, who didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. She shifted her car into park and looked out the passenger window toward my brother. I nervously turned my head to look too. I didn’t know what I was so afraid of. All I knew was I didn’t want her to see him. Tristan sat with his arms resting on his knees with his head down.

  “What’s up with Tristan?” Kate asked.

  I forced a laugh, praying she wouldn’t hear how empty it sounded. “Who knows? Probably on his man-period.”

  Kate’s laugh echoed mine, and I could hear how good I had gotten at pretending. “You certainly have a way with words, Brett. See you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I replied quickly, already halfway out of the car. I plopped down on the curb next to my brother and offered Kate a wave before she drove off. I waited until her car was safely around the corner before I nudged my brother with my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

  “You know people only ask that out of courtesy, right? ‘Do you want to talk about it’ clearly translates into ‘I don’t want to hear it—I don’t even want to ask you about it—but if you have to talk, I’ll just God damn suck it up,’” Tristan scoffed.

  I clenched my jaw and shook my head. I had grown tired of my brother’s moodiness. He had become increasingly dark and brooding in those last weeks. “You don’t have to be a jerk, Tristan. And you can at least look at me when you’re accusing me of being fake and unsympathetic.”

  “Just go away, Brett, and leave me alone,” he mumbled.

  I wanted to leave. I was tired and had a ton of homework waiting for me, but Tristan was my brother. I leaned my elbows back on the sidewalk and looked up into the night sky. “You know, Tristan, people who want to be left alone don’t sit on a curb outside their house waiting for their little sister to return home,” I countered quietly.

  “I…I wasn’t waiting for you.”

  “Weren’t you?” I asked the stars above. I understood them only slightly better than I understood the boy next to me.

  Tristan sniffled and I bolted up. Stars be screwed. I reached my hand under his chin and forced him to look at me. I gasped. The skin below my brother’s right eye was swollen and the angriest red I had ever seen. My heart pounded against my chest. My skin flashed hot. “Who…who did this? What happened?” I panted. I was small, but I was going to murder the person who did it. I was a clever girl. I could be inventive.

  “Does it matter?” My brother shrugged carelessly, wiping his hand under his nose.

  “Does it matter? It sure as heck matters. Now, tell me. You wouldn’t be out here if you didn’t want to tell me,” I reminded him, holding on tightly to his chin
so he couldn’t look away from me.

  Tristan let free a broken sob. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to tell you. I just have to.”

  I nodded furiously, my own eyes burning with tears. “Then tell me, Tristan.”

  My brother opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He tried over and over again, but all he could give me was silence. It was all he could ever give. Tristan exhaled shakily and looked back toward our house.

  And I knew.

  “He did this,” I whispered, somehow fearing the neighbors could hear us, ashamed that I cared if they could. Tristan nodded and his tears came more freely. “Why?” I asked. My father was and had always been a jerk, but he had never raised a hand against me. Not once. He yelled, screamed, cursed, berated, but never hit.

  “Because he hates me,” Tristan managed.

  “He doesn’t care enough to hate us,” I replied dryly. That was the truth. The one thing that had always connected me and my father was our mutual feeling of indifference.

  “Fine. Maybe he doesn’t care enough about me to hate me, but he sure as hell hates…he hates that I’m…”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I replied, trying to make logic of the situation before me. I always had to rationalize everything. “People don’t hate people because of that anymore. We’ve evolved. Who cares if you’re—”

  “Don’t be so fucking naive, Brett. What? You think because there are characters on sitcoms and movies now that are gay, the world’s alright with it? Sure, the world approves of safe caricatures of them that appear on shows far away from their living rooms. It’s fine as long as it’s not their son or their daughter. You’re not fine with it,” he accused me.

  I yanked my hand from my brother’s face. “No, you’re not fine with it. Don’t put that on me.”

  We sat there staring at each other. One of us should have said something, forced each other to talk about it. All of it. But we were never taught that skill. He never told me what happened with my father. I never asked. We sat there for hours in silence. The stars looked down and judged.