by Amy Faye
"I never saw you practicing or anything."
"No, I wasn't."
"So, what? Something change after I left? Or was it after—" He didn't finish the question, and she didn't need him to.
She shrugged. "I don't remember, any more. It was a long time ago, alright?"
Why had she come here? Why had she gotten a ride with Brett? Why was she torturing herself? It wasn't like there was going to be some sort of happy family reunion. And as he pulled into the funeral parking lot, it just hit her all that much harder.
She wasn't going to know anyone here. This was all Brett's side of the family. And if the stories they had gotten here half as bad as the stories that her dad had told, then they weren't going to be looking at her side of the family as particularly friendly.
She steeled her jaw and looked over at him. Brett had an expression like he wasn't looking at anything, and he didn't move his hand to turn the car off. Just stared. "You ready?"
"I guess," he said, and his hand dropped automatically to pull the key out of the ignition. Amy took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. It was do-or-die time, then. Great. All she'd hoped for, and all she'd been afraid of, all wrapped up in one.
She went ahead. She wasn't really there with Brett, after all. He was a ride, because she was riding his couch, and that was all it was. They had been flirting once, and then they were brother and sister, and now she supposed that legally speaking, they still were.
In reality, they were little more than strangers, and it was better the more that she could keep that in mind. Better for her, better for him, better for everyone. Otherwise, she wasn't sure who it would be, but someone would just end up with their feelings hurt, and as much as she didn't want it to be her, in the end, it wasn't hard to imagine how things could go wrong.
She stepped inside; they weren't early, which she was thankful for. Maybe it had been imposing to ask him to wait until there were some people there, but it made it easier when friends of friends and distant relatives were coming in and out for Amy to keep her anonymity as long as she could.
Even still, as she stepped inside the little room, she could see Dani's eyes on her. She kept her distance as Amy said her goodbyes.
Helen didn't look older than Amy remembered her. That made sense, though. She'd had Brett young, and she'd passed on young. She was younger than Dad, and the gray in his hair was just beginning to spread past his temples.
She seemed like she was sleeping, in the coffin. Pillow under her head, wearing a pantsuit, but not for a second did she look like she'd died. The only hints were the fact that she took no breath, and that she looked like she weighed less than the cello that Amy had hauled into the house last night alone.
Cancer would do that to you, Amy thought. She took a breath in. She wasn't really sure what she was going to say. Not to Helen, not to Dani, and not to Brett. And then her eyes started to sting and to her great surprise, she started to feel wetness well up in her eyes.
God damn it.
2003
Amy stared at the wall and tried her best to ignore the rolling in her gut. It turned out, surprise of surprises, that once you totally bombed asking a boy out, they didn't just change the seating arrangement the next morning. It was a real peach. Now if only she knew what the fuck she was supposed to do or how she was supposed to act.
The bell rang and what few students hadn't found their way to their seats started meandering in the right direction, to their place around the thick 8-person tables. And Amy kept that look that she hoped didn't reflect her terror half as well as it almost certainly did.
They had finished the paintings, and now it was moving on. In other classes, that might have meant a day or two of killing time while the next project wound up. But apparently, not this class. Or, at least, not this time. Because the woman at the front of the class—the only teacher, Amy noted, who had given her a good and proper thumbs-up over the hair—was telling them all what they'd be doing next.
And it was life drawing, which was the worst idea that Amy had ever heard. Because it was a partner project, and partner projects were her kryptonite. People get good partners when they go looking for good partners. When they sit in the corner, they don't.
Nobody went looking for her, and she didn't go looking for anybody, so it always ended up with Amy being the one who was stood up in the middle of class with the teacher asking 'does anyone want to work with Amy' and having someone begrudgingly agree to be paired off with her.
To her surprise, Brett turned to her with a raised eyebrow.
"Do you want to—"
She nodded. Too eager. "Yeah, sure."
He smiled faintly and leaned his chair back to press against the wall.
"You don't have to freak out, you know. It's no big deal."
"Just shut up," Amy answered, her voice as pleasant as she could make it. She wasn't particularly successful.
"I'm just—it's not like I don't like you or something. You're cool and all."
"I said shut up, Brett. Shut up, okay?"
"Sure."
He shut up. Laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. She let herself steal a glance at him. He looked completely at rest, there. He always seemed like he might be able to sleep, anywhere. Because no matter where he was, no matter who he was with or what was going on, he was completely comfortable.
She was the opposite. Never comfortable. It felt like everything that she did was all a way to get around her nerves. None of it worked. The stupid hair sure hadn't worked. And it hadn't gotten her the results she wanted, either. Maybe if it had, then that would be a different story. But it hadn't.
With his eyes closed, like that, she wanted to draw him. She picked up her sketch pad and pencil and started the broad strokes. A few quick and easy lines and there was something that could have approximated a face. It was the details that she would have trouble with.
Well, that and her lack of talent. She kept at it, and for his part, he gave her time. She noticed more than once him opening an eye and glancing over at her. Brett thought that he was being sneaky about it, stealing glances, but she knew. And she let him.
Whatever was on his mind, whatever he thought, she knew one thing. She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to see her. Wanted him to think about her. She looked down at her pad.
He didn't look anything like that. There was a good reason that she hadn't ever thought about becoming an artist in the real world. She wasn't any good at it. She could draw about well enough to sign her name, but no better.
She turned to the next page and started again. She wasn't going to flunk this stupid class by handing in a bad drawing. Not that she would. But effort counted, and she wasn't going to put serious effort into something that wasn't good at the beginning stages.
That was one difference, she thought. One difference between this project and the rest of her life. Staring at his face, trying to memorize and copy every strong line, every bit of his powerful body at rest, to create that impression of a sleeping jungle cat…
That was something she needed to get right the first time. She needed it to be right from beginning to end, or it wasn't going to turn out right.
But there were some things that she couldn't bring herself to throw away, in spite of knowing better. And one of them was the idea of going out with Brett Page. She wasn't going to get another chance, and she was going to make him notice her if it killed her.
She looked at the drawing in her lap. It was crap, objectively. But it was the best crap she could come up with. She slid it into his lap, and then suddenly seemed to realize exactly how weird that was and had to stop steam from blowing out her ears. Cool. Be cool. It seemed so natural to Brett, but for her, it was a job and a half.
"What do you think?"
He opened his eyes and let the chair fall forward, then pulled the pad out of his lap. He glanced over it quickly, but the intensity in his eyes told her that he was paying close attention even if it were a lie.
/> "You're a good artist, you know that?"
"No, I'm not. Don't lie."
"No, I mean it. You're good at this. Better than me, anyway."
"Thanks," she said, uncertain.
"Now I'll do you." He set aside her pad and picked up her own, and he turned to face her. His eyes bored into her, studying. And all of a sudden, every nerve in Amy's body fired at once, and it was all she could do not to be reduced into a puddle of goo. Jesus, she thought. Whatever I can do to get him to look at me like this again—
She'd do whatever that took.
6
Brett
Present Day
Brett's head hurt. It hurt from a long day, it hurt from trying to give Amy as much space as a thirty-by-twenty alcove in the funeral home would allow, and it may have hurt from the seasonal pollen.
He poured himself out a drink. The good news was, at least, that he didn't have to worry about his sisters getting into a god damned fist fight any more. That was past. Now they weren't going to see each other again, in all likelihood, and that would make it all that much easier.
She would probably leave tomorrow morning–no, he suddenly recalled, she said she had something. A rehearsal. Was she planning to move back to Detroit if she made it? He frowned. That was interesting, but it didn't sound right. That, all by itself, set him on edge. Maybe he'd misunderstood.
There were things he could handle, and most things that Brett considered even vaguely likely were among them. He was fairly capable, after all. What he couldn't handle was her coming back to stay, not without figuring out whatever the hell their 'thing' was from high school and making sure that whatever it was going to be now, it stayed that way.
He peered into his glass. That was certainly odd. His scotch had taken on the strange color of not being in his glass. A wild hair overtook him and he peered through the bottom, around the room, as if it were a magnifying glass.
Like a magnifying glass, from any distance beyond immediately nearby, he couldn't see a God damned thing. That combined with the drink he'd already put away was why, when Amy walked in, he didn't notice right away. He didn't notice until he set the glass down, a little smile daring to peek onto his face.
She was giving him a wide-eyed look as she settled into her seat, making her surprise perfectly well-known.
"You wanna talk about whatever that was?"
He slumped back against his seat. "It's a magic x-ray lens," he said, keeping his tone confessional. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone. "Lets me see anyone who isn't attracted to me. But I didn't see you come in, so–"
He watched the smile spread across her face. "Are you flirting with me, Brett?"
He shrugged, pouring out a glass for himself. He held the bottle up as if to ask if she'd care for some. Apparently, she would, because she gave him a thumbs up. He poured some into a glass.
"What's the problem with flirting with a pretty girl?"
"Well, I'm your sister, for one thing."
He took a drink. "Nah, that was just on paper. Let me tell you, I know all about just being on paper. There's a difference between paper and real life. You don't believe me, let me show you some of my designs some time, and then walk you through the place. It'll be like a whole new–" he started to giggle. "A whole new dimension."
"Sure, I see what you're saying, but somehow, I don't think that other people would see it that way."
"Fuck other people. I'm really not worried about them."
Brett wasn't sure what the expression she was giving him was supposed to mean. But he wasn't about to ask. Still, this little joke had gone on perhaps a bit past its welcome, and if she was uncomfortable with it then he understood that perfectly well.
"But seriously," he began. And then he stopped. What was he even supposed to say? What was he thinking about saying? "Ignore me," he finished finally. Whatever was on his mind, it was probably best that it stay to himself.
She looked at him, drinking her scotch quietly. "So, what's the problem?"
Brett's head hurt, and it must have been a problem, because he was almost certainly imagining that part. The way she said it didn't sound like she was blowing him off. Indeed, it sounded she was asking.
He would pretty much come off like a pompous ass if he actually bought that line. Which brought up the problem. Maybe he bought it, or maybe he wanted to buy it. But in the end, what was the big difference supposed to be? He wanted her to know, and he–
He really shouldn't say anything, some sober part of his brain reminded him. Late-night confessions were a mistake. Drunken confessions were a mistake. If he were completely sober and in control of his faculties, he wouldn't do it. Which meant it was a mistake and a half at least.
He took a deep breath. Then again, maybe it wasn't so much a mistake as it was an opportunity.
"My problem is, Amy, that I've been here, with my side of the family, for ten years now, and all I could think about was what you were doing. How your life was going. What you were all about. And the first few years, I ignored it, because you're my God damn sister right? But now you're sitting here, you're in my fucking–" He paused to take a breath. "My fucking guest bedroom, and I thought you were hot in high school, but Jesus Christ I guess I was underestimating you. Cause look at you now."
Amy looked at him flatly. That wasn't remotely how he wanted her looking at him. She looked down at her drink and took the last mouthful. Then she held her arm out, inviting more drink whenever he got the chance.
Brett poured it, then poured one for himself. "So it's been all kinds of weird."
She laid her head back against the couch. "Yeah, weird. I guess it would be."
"So like. Just forget I said anything. But I had to say it to someone, and you were here."
"You mean you'd tell other girls that?"
"No, I'd tell someone else. Probably a therapist," he joked. "Or a priest."
She got up from where she was sitting. And then, all of a sudden, she was right next to him, and his entire body was screaming that it was time to start really seriously considering how far he wanted to take this whole morality angle.
2003
Brett made a habit, whenever possible, to avoid staying in his room. There was something about it, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something he didn't like. Someone had told him once that 'idle hands do the Devil's work'–that might not have been true, per se.
But staying busy kept his mind off things. Questions he didn't want to answer pinged through his head. Questions that didn't really need answers. He had everything he needed answered already. School, training, eating. There were people who needed to think hard about what to do with their lives, but he wasn't one of them.
When he rested too long, without something to do, that was when things got hairy. When questions started getting asked like, 'what's the point?' No reason to wonder. Just keep momentum, make a decision and stick to it. That was how things would all work out in the end.
But what if he went to Homecoming? That was a small change. It didn't make any difference at all–just something to do on an October night. Too late in the evening for any real training. He wasn't going to drive out to the gym at 8 o'clock at night. He wasn't going to go for a run that late. Runs were for the morning.
He'd never thought that it would be hard to get a date. That was the easy part. All he really had to do was think about it, and it was practically already done. But then it would all be a big damn 'political' thing. Girls who were doing it just to show off how big a catch they got.
It was a hassle he created for himself, and with no good reason. Better to stay home. He could study, or watch a movie, or whatever. It'd be a hundred times easier and better than any dance.
So when Amy asked, it wasn't exactly hard to figure out the right answer. 'No.' Hell no, really. He wasn't going. So there was no reason to think about who he was going with. He was going with nobody. Easy.
Somehow, that changed when he thought of the idea that he wasn't going wit
h some vapid, bottle-blonde cheerleader who was hoping to climb the social ladder and get with the captain of the football team. And maybe he had called her totally wrong. Maybe that was exactly what she wanted.
But it seemed unlikely that she was a social climber with the way she dressed. There wasn't any crowd for her to fit into, and dating a quarterback wasn't how she would climb that ladder if there was one to be climbed.
Once the dance wasn't a social minefield, then the entire line of thought seemed to shift. What if he was wrong about all of it? It wouldn't need to be anything more than a chance to hang out. Did he want to hang out with her?
Well… sure, yeah. She was good-looking. She was good people. Fun to hang out with. Which left the one little thing, that he didn't want to give off the wrong impression. Which just got back to the same thing that he'd been trying to avoid by skipping out on the dance in the first place.
He let out a breath. He was going in circles and there was exactly no point to any of it. He stood up and headed for the door to his room. Whatever he had to do, he'd find something. Laying around was giving him too much time to think.
He hit the door with the thoughts already in mind about what he was going to tell Mom whenever her boyfriend showed up. He'd been busy. It wasn't any big deal if he was out splitting logs when a guy came over, wasn't like the ax was going to get used on him.
He was already making excuses when he saw Mom coming up the steps, and through the wildly-refractive lens of the window above the door, he could see others coming up behind. He set his jaw. Alright, fine. Let's see the new scumbag.
Mom came through first, and as the door swung open, he got an instant of a glance at the man. Shorter than Brett, though most men were. Full head of hair, looked healthy. Whatever was wrong with him, it wasn't immediately visible. Those were the worst, because it meant he had to keep looking for more than a moment.
His attention was drawn away, though, before he could get a very close look. That purple hair wasn't the sort of thing that you saw twice, not in this town. And she was standing right there on his doorstep.
