That Night

by Cyn Balog

  I stare at him. How does he know my name?

  He must read my mind, because he points to the form. Then he grins and extends a hand. “I’m Silas.”

  I shake it. “Yes, I’m new.”

  He lifts his bag onto his shoulder. “Need someone to show you around?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Here we go, English Literature,” the woman behind the counter says, handing me another paper. And just like that, I’m enrolled in my first college-level class.

  “English Lit? Seriously?” Silas asks, holding a Jane Austen book. “That’s the class I’m adding.”

  I smile.

  “It’s fate,” he says.

  And maybe it is.

  7 Days Before

  Deer Hills was like a minefield. Before, I’d barely ever see Luisa or Declan in the hallway, but now I started seeing them all the time. The two of them didn’t flaunt their relationship with massive PDAs. Neither of them was like that, unlike Kane, who’d have his hands all over her. But they did hold hands. Once I came around the corner and saw them staring into each other’s eyes, not even speaking. They looked deep, meaningful, like a picture postcard. Where I used to think Kane and Luisa were enviable as a couple?

  It was nothing compared to this.

  They were both brilliant. They were both talented. It almost seemed as though Kane and I were roadblocks on their path to true love.

  “Well,” Kane said to me one day, coming up behind me and resting an arm against the locker besides mine. “I feel like shit. How about you?”

  “Same,” I muttered, following his line of vision to where Luisa and Declan were walking down the hall, holding hands. I slammed my locker without thinking and almost snagged my finger. “You spoke to him?”

  He shrugged. “I told you. He said we’re not brothers anymore. And I said that was fine with me.”

  “How can you live under the same roof like that?”

  “Because I know something he doesn’t know.”

  “Which is?”

  “That she may look like she’s with him, but I was the one she was drunk-texting last night.” He held out his phone triumphantly.

  “What?” I grabbed his phone and scanned the messages. It was all a lot of bullshit, like “What are you up to/Nothing, what are you up to?” at first, but then it got more personal. The time stamp on it was after one in the morning, and she admitted she’d been taking sips of the wine her mother had left in the fridge. Kane was his usual distant self, and it was clear she’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, because at the end, she’d typed, “I miss you,” and he hadn’t responded.

  God, he was a champion.

  I wished Declan had drunk-texted me. Not like that would ever happen, since he didn’t drink. But I wanted some signal, any signal, that he still thought about me. As it was, he hadn’t even looked at me. No, I’d looked at him enough for the both of us, and not only that, but I felt bad for him. That’s how much I loved him. I felt bad that Luisa was playing him, and he didn’t know. I wanted to warn him. “Maybe I should tell him.”

  Sensing my desperation, Kane wrapped a hand around my upper arm. “Hailey. Don’t. Stand strong. Don’t get pulled back in.”

  That’s easy to say when you’re standing at the edge. I’d already slipped and was falling, headfirst, no idea if there was even a bottom to land on.

  I felt the tears welling in my eyes for the thousandth time that week. I watched Declan as he tucked a strand of blond hair behind Luisa’s ear and stroked her cheek. I could almost feel his callused, gentle Californian finger stroking my cheek. “But…does he even think about me, you think?”

  “I’m sure he does,” Kane said, which was too vague for me.

  I wanted to know. I didn’t want to feel like Declan had left me in the dust to rot. I wanted to know he cared. Even a little bit. “You think so?”

  Kane nodded. “Yeah. He does. Give him time, okay? It sucks now, you’re right. But he loves you. So give him his space. All right?”

  I watched as Luisa slammed her locker door and they started to walk away, pinkies intertwined. Giving him space? Easier said than done.

  Thursday, July 4

  Someone’s setting off fireworks outside.

  I don’t have to look to know who it is. People always seem to fall in one camp or the other when it comes to DIY fireworks, and while I was always in the Hate camp, Kane had always been in the Worth-It-Even-If-I-Blow-Myself-Up camp.

  I look at the latest text from Silas and smile. Can’t believe you didn’t like it. Do you have no heart?

  He’s talking about Harry Potter. None of the novels are part of our English Lit class, and yet he’s Hufflepuff forever and insists that the books should be a part of the curriculum. I’d read the first one, but ugh, it wasn’t the easiest to slog through. I’ve definitely liked other books better. When I told him that, he said, Well, it was nice talking to you, but we can’t be friends anymore.

  But I think we’ve become more than that. It’s been three weeks, and we’ve been texting a lot. He’s into literature, writing, and reading the way that Declan was into all things science and engineering. Silas’d wanted to go to a four-year college, even got accepted to Penn State, but he thought he could save money by doing his first two years at community college and then transferring. We haven’t kissed, haven’t really touched, funny enough.

  But I’m starting to wonder what it would be like to.

  The fireworks are going off like crazy around here, I type after tenting our latest assigned reading on my stomach. Sense and Sensibility. We’d started by comparing observations about the books, but now we text about everything.

  Same here. Giving up for tonight and joining the festivities. Talk later?

  I text back: Yep. Have fun.

  As I hit Send, I hear Kane’s whooping, followed by a loud whizz-pop. I tilt the blinds. He’s crouched alone in the center of the court, a bunch of spent firework debris all around him. From what I can see, he has a full crate of them. I push open the window and shout, “Keep it down out here!”

  He gives me both fingers and says, “It’s the Fourth of July! Have some patriotism!”

  I decide to go down and watch the show, which may or may not include him blowing a limb off. It’s only when I get outside that I see Luisa is sitting on the steps to his house, watching, her fingers in her ears. “Hey,” she calls to me.

  I haven’t talked to her since before school let out, and even then, it was a forgettable exchange, like nice-weather-we’re-having. But she hasn’t scowled at me, so I guess we’re cool. I wave and sit on my steps to watch. She gets up, comes over to me, and sits beside me, offering a bag of microwave popcorn. I take a handful. “How are you?” she asks.

  “Fine. You? I hear you’re off to college soon.”

  She smiles. “Miami.”

  “That’s good. Close to Kane, at least.”

  She chews on some popcorn and shakes her head. “He told you that? Moron. It’s an eight-hour drive. He’ll be all the way across the state from me.”

  Well, that’s Kane. To Kane, an eight-hour drive is a minor detail. “Should be nice, though.”

  “Yeah. I’m excited.” She’s wearing a little sundress, and she hugs her bare knees to herself. She’s not one to get sunburns, but all the weekends going to the beach with Kane have given her a bit of a tan. “So are you going to school?”

  “Just community college for now. I’ll transfer to four-year in two years, maybe,” I say.

  Kane lets off another one, which is more of a noisemaker than anything else. It soars up into the sky, and we keep waiting for the pretty bloom of light, but nothing happens except an enormous pop that makes both of us jump. Kane fist-pumps, like it’s excellent. Luisa looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  “I wanted to tell you, before
I left,” she says, leaning forward. “I didn’t mean what I said. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I wave her away. “It’s okay.”

  “He loved us both,” she says quietly. “And he felt like no matter what choice he made, he was betraying someone. He hated letting people down. It made him feel so guilty.”

  A kernel of corn is caught in my throat, so I cough it loose, turning her words over. Yes, he felt guilt deeply, though something about that doesn’t seem quite right. After all this time, it also doesn’t feel right to argue. I nod as a memory comes to me. Me and Declan, in my bedroom.

  She continues: “I remember the last thing he told me, the night before he died. He wasn’t happy. He told me wished he’d never moved here. He felt like everyone had turned against him. I told him it’d be better in college, but he was still upset. I only wish I’d known how upset he was.”

  He’d never told me that. No, whenever we spoke about him moving here, he’d said it was the best thing that ever happened to him, for the sole reason that it brought us together.

  But water under the bridge. I may never know why he killed himself, but I think I can live with myself.

  We watch the rest of the fireworks explode in the air without talking. Some of them are actually worth the effort Kane puts in. By the time he’s done, it’s getting chilly, so I say I’ll see them around and go back inside.

  The Day Before

  That week, I cried rivers.

  In school, everyone was excited about either one of two things: Valentine’s Day or the approaching snowstorm. I couldn’t get excited about any of it. I’d foolishly handed in my stupid Valentine’s note to the Key Club a month earlier, and I was told by the board that there was no way I could get it back. I was embarrassed enough by that, but even more embarrassed by the fact that I’d made a holiday I’d previously deemed stupid mean so much. Just because of a damn guy. How dumb could I be?

  I never talked to Declan anymore. Instead, I stalked his social media. Where he used to clog his feed with pictures of us, now the pictures were gone. He filled his feed with mundane and infrequent posts about his life. There was one from two weeks ago that said, Hello, February. And the most recent had been posted that day. Wawa packed with people getting bread and milk. Couldn’t get gas.

  I’d stared at that tweet for an hour, almost as if it was a code, and cracking it would reveal that he missed me. Of course, it didn’t.

  I trudged home, hoping for a big storm, a really big one that would keep us snowbound until this crappy winter ended. The meteorologists said we were right on the cusp, so it could be a big storm, but there were no promises. I crept into my room, thinking that with my luck, I’d be forced to endure another Valentine’s Day alone. I’d never cared much before, but now it seemed so much worse because I’d had all these expectations for me and Declan.

  I was too sad to do my homework. After dinner, I got into my pajamas and crawled into bed. But I tossed and turned. Then I nearly fell out of it when I turned toward my window and saw a dark form sitting on the overhang of our porch, a ghostly pale face illuminated by the moonlight.

  When it knocked, I startled again. It was Declan.

  I ran to slide open the window. We didn’t have a trellis. “How did you…?” I asked him, looking down.

  “Gutter,” he said, climbing inside. I’d seen him in school only briefly, and he’d been wearing the same clothes: jeans and his corduroy jacket. “And I think I killed that bush down there.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. He had a scrape from one of the branches on his cheek. It was bleeding. I grabbed a tissue and held it up to his cheek. He took it, as if he was embarrassed to have me help him. “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s all wrong. And for the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure out why. I kept avoiding the obvious answer, but I can’t anymore. It’s clearly the only thing that will make things right.”

  “What?”

  “I miss you,” he said.

  My mouth hung open.

  “Listen. I don’t care what you did. I get it. If you really loved being with Kane, you would have been with him. But you weren’t, and there’s a reason for that. It’s because you belong with me. All I care about is what happens from this day on. And if you feel the same way, and if we both promise not to make the same mistakes, there’s no reason it can’t work, right?”

  “But, Luisa—”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. I’m breaking up with her. All I was doing, and all I would ever do for the rest of my life, is compare girls to you. You’re my girl, Hailey. You fit with me.”

  He took my hand. His were like ice, as if he’d walked home from Luisa’s while thinking about that. I couldn’t speak. It was everything I’d wished he would give to me, and maybe that’s why it scared me so much.

  “Let’s do something. Can you come with me?” he asked.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I said. But I would’ve gone anywhere with him.

  We managed to creep downstairs, into the backyard to the broken-down pirate’s ship. We climbed up into the clubhouse, even though it was clumped with old snow. He said, “Remember that night?”

  Of course I did. The night we kissed for the first time.

  I wanted to go back. I wanted to start again. “If I could, I would have told you everything, Declan,” I said to him. “I promise.”

  “I know,” he said, wrapping an arm around me to ward off the cold. “I know.”

  Monday, July 8

  Morning

  Finished!

  The text comes in at seven in the morning. I rip the pillow off my head and groan as the bright summer light assaults my eyes. Then I look at my phone and smile.

  I type in: Scumbag. I’m still on page 280.

  Home stretch. Text me after you read the thrilling conclusion.

  I check my phone again to make sure I hadn’t read the time wrong. No, it seriously is only seven in the morning on a summer Monday. Being up this early is probably against the law in some cultures. It’s too early. My mind doesn’t process anything until 9 at the earliest.

  Text me at 9:45.

  Sorry. Have to work today.

  I kick out of bed, get dressed in my summer uniform of jean shorts and a tank, and braid my hair. After breakfast, I head across the street to the Weeks house, where I’ve been acting as mother’s helper to Mrs. Weeks for the last few days.

  “Hello, little Mr. Cooper,” I say to the smiling infant in the bouncy seat, giving the seat a nudge so that the lights and music above will go on. He squeals with glee.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, staying here with me?” Mrs. Weeks calls as she cleans out bottles in the kitchen. “Kane and the others are going to Long Beach Island for the day. I don’t want you to miss out on summer on account of me.”

  “No, I’m good,” I tell her. I wasn’t invited, not that I would’ve gone anyway. I know that everyone’s going their separate ways at the end of August, but it already feels as though I’ve left that part of my life behind. I needed to. I only see Juliet once a month now, but when I do, she tells me that separating from my old life was probably the best thing I could’ve done.

  On cue, Kane jogs down the stairs. He’s wearing swim trunks and an Under Armor shirt and has a beach towel stuffed under his arm. He puts his sunglasses on and snaps at me. “Hey. You here to babysit the Pooper?”

  I nod, as Mrs. Weeks gives him a look. “What did I tell you about—”

  “I know, I know,” he says, muttering under his breath, “Even though the kid is a poop machine. Catch you.”

  He leaves, and Mrs. Weeks shakes her head. “Like he’s ever changed a diaper. So”—she looks around—“now that he’s out of the way, I wonder if you could help me with a job.”

  I nod.

  She brings me upstairs into Kane’s disa
ster of a room. “Yesterday I found ants in here. Crawling up the baseboard,” she says, shuddering. “He throws things around, and I don’t think it’s been thoroughly cleaned in years.”

  I clench my teeth. “You want me to clean Kane’s room? Won’t he be upset about that?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to clean. I want you to indiscriminately throw out stuff in there. I’ve warned him to do it on his own. This is war.”

  She slides open his closet, and I stare in horror. There are no clothes hung in there. It’s like a Jenga tower of assorted belongings, all crammed in tightly. If it wasn’t all so tightly jammed in there, we’d be buried under an avalanche. “Oh my.”

  “Just toss it. Toss it all.”

  “Even the—”

  “All of it.”

  I stare at her. Going through Kane’s private things seems like snooping through a diary. And throwing it all out? I have to remember that Kane was never one to be sentimental. He keeps stuff for one reason only: he’s a slob. He’ll probably be glad if I help him to clean his closet.

  She gives me a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags, and I get to work. I throw away more recent junk, like the crown he got as prom king, the cheap, gilded aluminum bent beyond recognition. I look in a shoebox and toss the flowers he got for Valentine’s Day, all of them nothing more than brown, shriveled petals. The cover had been on so securely that I don’t think he looked at the messages again after that day.

  By afternoon, I’m finding stuff that probably hasn’t seen the light of day since elementary school—vocabulary books, a cracked Frisbee from a restaurant that closed down ten years ago, a leash for Mimsy, the dog he had that ran away when we were in kindergarten. I have to hold my nose to keep from gagging, because the closet smells a little like Kane, but mostly like body odor and rot.

  Sitting back, I stretch and massage my aching back, surveying my progress. My stomach is growling. I’ve spent hours on this and have three giant bags of garbage, but looking at the closet, I’ve barely made a dent. And what’s that thing on the floor? An ancient, calcified cheese stick? Gross.