by A. R. Kahler
“I already am. I want to know what happened to her. Whatever’s going on, something isn’t right here.” He looked to the boys, both of whom were completely transfixed on his and my conversation. “I think we can all agree that neither Mandy nor Jane had any reason to kill themselves. The only possible cause is stress over their theses, but that doesn’t make sense because they were already done with the projects. Something else is linking them and I want to know what. Before it happens again.”
His statement was met with silence.
“Wow,” Ethan said after awhile. “I feel like I should give you a standing ovation.”
“Shut up,” Chris muttered, chucking a tot at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right,” I said. “What we’re about to do is pretty against the rules. If we’re caught, we’ll be suspended. Or worse.”
Chris just grinned. “Please, I was an only child. I’m the master of slinking around unnoticed.”
I rolled my eyes.
“When are we doing this?” Ethan asked.
“Dinner,” I replied quickly. That was the one part of the plan I had down—the actual logistics were easy. It was convincing my cohorts that I’d thought would be the hard part. “When it’s dark and everyone’s distracted.”
“Legit,” Ethan said. He looked to Oliver. “You in?”
Oliver sighed. “I have trio practice at five thirty. If I miss it they’ll be pissed.”
“Seriously?” Ethan asked.
“Seriously. Besides, you’ve all seen horror movies. The black guy always dies first.”
“Since when was this a horror movie?” I asked.
Oliver looked me dead in the eye. “Since our friends started dying.”
• • •
We agreed on a plan of attack and parted ways after breakfast. I headed back to my room to change into something that wasn’t pajamas, and the boys went off to do whatever boy things they had to do. Elisa was already in the room, lying on her bed with her legs crossed and a book in hand. It was surprising to see her there, working. I kind of expected her to still be in mourning.
“How was Cassie?” I asked.
“Managing,” she replied. She looked over the book at me. “How were the boys?”
I shrugged. Saying planning to spy on Jane’s death scene seemed a little too blunt. “Managing,” I said instead.
My plans for today were pretty straightforward: Since we had an unexpected day off, I was going to spend most of my time working. I’d probably focus on finishing some small silversmithing pieces for the coming week, what with the painting studio closed. I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to talk about art or Jane or gods or anything else; I wanted to get shit done, bury myself in my work and hope that I found my way out on the other side. No tutorial with Jonathan. No hanging out with friends. Which meant starting in on the American Civ reading—I’d hold off on art until later, as a treat. It would be a day of solitary productivity. I needed it.
Which is why, when my room phone rang and I answered, I was surprised at how happy I was to hear Chris on the other end.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” I lied. “Where are you?”
“Lobby,” he said. And sure enough, I heard some girls giggle on the other end of the line. “What are you doing today?”
“Working.”
“Sounds fun.” Once more the line was interrupted with giggling. “Hey, do you wanna come down and talk? They’re watching something in the lounge and it’s pretty hard to hear.”
What do we have to talk about? I wanted to ask. But then, like a light switch, the idea of doing more work just to distract myself seemed unbearable. Didn’t I deserve a break? Chris knew nothing about me or my past, which meant we could have some nice idle conversations about music or movies or whatever normal kids talked about.
I needed the normalcy. Probably more than I needed a good grade in silversmithing.
“Um, yeah, sure.” So much for being smooth.
“Bring your coat,” was all he said.
“Okay, down in five.”
“Awesome. Gives me just enough time to get enthralled with this show. . . .”
“Who was that?” Elisa asked when I put down the phone.
“Chris,” I said. And she did the obligatory OooOoo. “Shut up,” I said, throwing an old sock at her.
She just giggled and went back to her reading. I ran around the room, putting on my boots and grabbing my keys and coat and wallet and oh hell I should have just put it in a purse but too late now and then went for the door.
“Have fuu-unnn,” Elisa taunted.
“You’re incorrigible,” I replied.
“I don’t know what that means!” she called as the door shut behind me. I just smiled.
Chris was waiting in the lobby, sitting on one of the tall stools and staring at the wall. The RA on duty must have been watching a movie in the lounge with the girls, as there was no one behind the desk. I paused coming down the stairs, taking a brief moment to do one of those stalker-y once-overs of him. With his duster and boots, he kind of looked like a longhaired David Tennant, or some gearless steampunk aficionado, minus obligatory goggles. I could just imagine painting him standing on the edge of a canyon, everything red and ocher, a dirigible silhouetted in the setting sun.
He turned and caught my stare. His face lit into a smile. And as much as I hated to admit it, that smile made me smile back. I continued down the steps like I hadn’t just been staring.
“Hey,” he said, hopping off the seat.
“Are you stalking me now?” I asked.
His smiled dropped.
“I mean, we did just see each other like twenty minutes ago,” I continued.
“I know. But I got back to my room and realized that being alone was very boring. So I thought I’d hang out with you.”
I pushed down the bubble of happiness that I was the first person to come to mind.
“Okay then. What’s the plan, Stan?”
He shook his head. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who talks like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you,” he said. He chuckled. “Anyway, I didn’t really have any ideas. Maybe a movie or . . . ?”
I buttoned up my peacoat. Sitting down with him to watch a movie ventured into dangerous romantic territory. I needed to keep this light. Friendly. Normal. And perhaps most importantly, I needed to keep moving.
“We’ll do what we always do at art school. We’ll walk.”
We wandered down the lane, past the art building, away from the lake. The woods and Writers’ House were both ahead, neither as inviting as they used to be.
“Probably not as exciting as what you’re used to back west,” I said. I wouldn’t lie; a small part of me was a little jealous of him for getting an urban childhood. My own small-town upbringing had been far from exciting and far from inclusive. At least, if I’d grown up in a bigger city, I might have had more opportunity to . . . what? Find more kids like you? That’s not really a thing, you know—not many kids talk to birds.
“I only lived in Seattle a few years,” he replied, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded. “My parents move around a lot. Before that it was Vermont. Then Massachusetts. Then Wisconsin. Before that was . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Needless to say, it made settling in difficult, but I’ve sort of gotten used to being a guest in other people’s lives.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being morose or if this was him opening up. Guess it didn’t really matter either way.
We passed the concert hall. Music drifted from many of the practice rooms—snippets of Bach, strings of jazz, even a hint of funk. I wondered if Oliver was in there, practicing his way to eventual fame. At least the place wasn’t silent like before. This was a sign that Islington was moving forward. Slowly, but surely.
“What brought you to Seattle?” I asked.
“Sam
e thing that brought my parents to Detroit. Work. Honestly, I think they just kept changing locations so they won’t have to focus on . . .” His words caught, and he looked away, which pretty much said everything he couldn’t say. “On other things.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer.”
I laughed. “Clearly you’ve been hanging out with me too much. Pretty certain I’m the only person under eighty who uses that phrase anymore.”
He chuckled too, and when his gaze darted to mine I felt a new, not altogether uncomfortable knot form in my stomach.
“Okay then, my anachronistic friend. My turn for the questions. Why painting?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
We were passing by the Writers’ House, and I almost nudged him in, but I knew the moment I stopped walking was the moment I started thinking about other things. Especially in there; it felt like Elisa’s questions were haunting that space. If we walked in, I’d be able to think of nothing beyond the question I didn’t know if I wanted answered: Had Jane and Mandy actually killed themselves?
“I mean what got you into it?” he asked. “Every artist has a story.”
“True,” I said, guiding him toward one of the forest trails. Even though I was still a little on edge over being alone with a guy, being on campus made me feel safer. This was my territory. I could tell we were both skirting Jane’s death and our night’s plans. It felt like being an actor in a play, only I was also part of the audience, watching it all with detached interest. “I like painting because it’s so mutable. Everything about it changes. A shift in light or shadow might mean you need to remix all your colors. One stray brushstroke can alter the whole composition. It’s like people . . . or life, if you want to get really deep and pretentious. It’s different every day.
“Besides, figure painting means I get to stare at naked old man penis, and who doesn’t love that?”
He laughed so loud, I honestly think he surprised himself.
“What about you? What got you into painting?”
“Parents,” he said. He sobered immediately.
“Ah. Not old man penis then. Let me guess: brush in your hands before you could talk sort of thing?”
He shook his head.
“Not quite. I started painting about five years ago, the first time they almost got a divorce. They separated for a few months—over my birthday, no less—and that was how I coped. We’d just moved to Vermont and I didn’t know anyone, so I signed myself up for a painting class at a nearby studio. It was my therapy.”
“That’s . . .” Horrible? Poetic?
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I dunno. It’s kind of like you said—painting always changes, but it let me change my world. If I was lonely I could paint a bunch of people. If I hated the snow I could paint a beach. And it also meant I got to play with colors, which was pretty cool, since I’d spent most of my life afraid of them.”
“Afraid of colors?”
“I’m colorblind,” he said. He gave me a small grin. “Kids made fun of me a lot when I was really little, when I drew the grass the wrong color or made people blue, but the painting world kind of embraced it. It was nice having something I’d always seen as a shortfall heralded as innovative.”
“I hadn’t ever really noticed. And I definitely don’t think I’ve ever been heralded for anything.”
He chuckled. “Overstatement. I was always a loner, so there wasn’t much heralding in my world either.”
“So is that your cross to bear?” I asked. I don’t know why I was pushing it, but I’d always liked learning people’s secrets. It made them seem more human. And if I focused on this—on Chris, who was very human and very normal—I could stop focusing on Jane and Brad and the parallels my unconscious mind wouldn’t stop drawing. “You’re the misunderstood colorblind artist?”
“Not quite,” he said.
“Well then, what’s your deep dark secret?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, not yet.” His voice became firm, though not exactly angry. I knew that tone—it was precisely the same one I used when someone was prodding into my past a little too much.
“Gotcha,” I said.
We walked deeper into the woods, the only sound our footsteps on the gravel and the occasional gust of wind through the bare trees. When we reached the lake we stopped and stared out, our breath coming in silent little puffs. It was comfortable. In a way, it felt like all the times I’d come out here with Ethan—the closeness, the openness. I don’t know how the hell Chris managed to make me forget all the shit going on and everything we were going to do tonight. Being with him just felt natural.
The moment I realized that, though, I felt my walls inch up. The crows watching from the trees weren’t helping. He isn’t Brad. This isn’t all an act. I don’t need you to protect me from him.
Unless he’s the one who needs to be protected from me . . .
Immediately I stepped to the side and forced down whatever feelings of comfort I’d had.
“Whoa, what just happened?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you just went really cold. Did I say something to offend you?”
“No. It’s just . . .”
“Just?”
“This whole thing doesn’t make any sense. I shouldn’t, I mean . . . you shouldn’t fall for me.”
He chuckled humorlessly and started walking again, trudging a new path through the snow.
“Don’t worry, you already told me a dozen times we weren’t going to date. I’m not a masochist.”
“It wasn’t a dozen.”
“Maybe not verbally.”
I glared at him. He put his hands up.
“I get it, really. It’s okay. But I’m trying to get to know you and you keep pushing me away.”
“It’s safer that way. Trust me. You don’t want to get to know me.”
He took me by the shoulders. He did that eye thing, that you will look me in the eyes and see I’m really listening thing.
“I do,” he said. “What do I have to do to make you trust me?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I said, looking down. The fact that I wasn’t lying made it harder to stomach—I shouldn’t trust him. But it was me that I had to keep at arm’s length. “It’s just . . . there are parts of my life I don’t talk about. Can’t talk about. And that makes being my friend hard.”
My dreamtime sketch flashed through my mind—Jane sprawled and staring, charcoal splattered like blood across the page. If you knew half of the things that make me who I am . . .
“We all have secrets, Kaira. We all have things that make us feel fucked up. But those are the things that make us human.”
He took a deep breath.
“Fine. We’ll do this. I had a little sister,” he said. “Her name was Bri.”
Was? Had? He didn’t give me time to ask. He also didn’t let go of my shoulders, though his grip was gentle. His eyes never left mine.
“She was a year younger than me. She loved me, and I loved her. We did everything together—built forts, played games, went on adventures. We were living in Maine. Little town on the ocean.” He glanced away and bit his lip, letting his hands slip from my shoulders to his pockets. He looked unbelievably sad, and I wanted so badly to make it go away. “I don’t know why my parents let us go on our own. I was only six. But I think they were tied up in work or just tired of us pestering them. So Bri and I went to the beach. Alone.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t really know,” he said. He brought his gaze back to me. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes wavered; he looked lost. “I was building sand castles. I remember that. She was playing in the waves. I told her not to go out. I told her to stay close. One minute she was there, laughing and splashing around, the next it was silent.”
“Jesus . . .”
“It’s so cliché, isn’t it? Swe
pt away by the tide. They didn’t find her body until a week later. I guess she was caught in some fisherman’s net. Like a tiny drowned mermaid.”
I put a hand on his arm. The indignation from before was gone. It was impossible to be angry. Not when he was this vulnerable.
“I still remember how quiet it was,” he said. He looked away, toward the lake. “Almost like this. Like there was this great void in the world, like the weight of her soul was a tangible thing.”
“I am so, so sorry,” I said.
He took another deep breath and stood up a little straighter.
“Don’t be,” he said. “As you said, it’s my cross to bear. I’m the reason my sister is dead. Every time I paint, I wonder if she’d like it. I wonder if it would make her happy.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” I said. “You were just a kid.”
“I can. And I do. If I had been watching her, if I’d heard her call out, if I’d done a hundred other things differently, maybe she’d still be here. Hell, maybe she’d have come to Islington with me, studied dance or writing or something. I didn’t even notice her leaving, though. She’s dead because of it. But it taught me a lot about life, you know? How you just have to take each moment as it comes because at any time, it could all be taken away. And it has, many times. My parents moved a few weeks after that. That’s what started the fighting and the moving. As they’ve said, I’m the reason their relationship went downhill—they couldn’t stand living with her ghost. And although they never said it, I knew they could never stop blaming me for it.”
“Then your parents are assholes,” I said.
He gave me a side smile. “They try.”
I knew that this was the moment I should open up and tell him about Brad. Everything about Brad, and what had happened after. There was a large part of me that wanted to believe Chris and I could bridge this gap and move forward and maybe this time I wouldn’t get hurt by a boy I wanted to care about. Maybe I wouldn’t end up hurting him. But that was just a pipe dream. No one would want to be with me when they knew the truth. Hell, not even I wanted to be with me much of the time, but I was kind of stuck.
“Mind if we start walking again?” I asked. “My toes are starting to go numb.”
