Gravestone

by Travis Thrasher

Someone else said those very same words to me.

  “Yes,” I say.

  But I don’t understand, and I’ve never understood.

  That’s part of being a teen. Not understanding, trying to figure it out.

  “I mean it, Chris,” he says. “I really mean it. You go about your business, and you leave your stories and your troubles to your imagination. I’m not saying that it’s easy being a newcomer, but you gotta go with the flow.”

  “Okay.”

  Yeah, I get it.

  Stay quiet and stay put.

  Walk around like everything’s okay.

  Wipe the blood off my hands and mind my own business.

  The sheriff pulls the car back out of the driveway and heads toward my cabin.

  12. Options

  The reminders only bring me down.

  The leather wristband that I’m wearing.

  The photo printout of the two of us on Christmas Day.

  The last letter she wrote to me. Maybe the last letter she ever wrote.

  I want a new story, a different installment, a new character, a change of scenery and score. How about a new producer and director as well?

  That night after Sheriff Wells takes me home with a good-ole-boy threat, I try to figure out my options.

  I torched option A, which was remaining quiet.

  I burnt option B, which was telling someone I trust.

  Option C, the Newt option, is gathering my things and running away.

  Option D is doing nothing. Doing what pretty much everybody’s been telling me to do from my very first step into this tiny town.

  I’m going to write a book called Choose Your Own Misery. If you choose to go walking in the woods, go to page 54. If you choose to spy on the creepy neighbors, go to page 72. If you choose to sit alone in your room, go to page 38.

  All the pages will have the same result, of course.

  Misery.

  I don’t want to listen to any music tonight. I don’t want to do my homework or read anything or try and see if the Internet is finally working.

  I’m petting Midnight and realizing he’s the only living and breathing thing I can trust.

  I’m not scared.

  Jocelyn’s words are an anchor in this murky wilderness, weighing me down, imprisoning me.

  This whole dark world needs hope.

  I don’t trust anybody or anything, and that includes the hope that she spoke about.

  It’s a nice little thought. It’s sweet for a Sunday morning to tell to a bunch of kids right before giving them candy. But this is the real world, and it’s not for babies. It’s time I grew up and smelled the scent of reality.

  The smoke rises in the distance and the voices hush and the darkness falls and the lies continue.

  This has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.

  So I believe.

  So I hope.

  13. Utterly Ridiculous

  Good-byes never go as well as you’d like them to. I know this from when I left Libertyville three months ago. Three months that seriously feel like three years.

  Half of the guys I was friends with never even officially said good-bye. There weren’t any fond farewells or moving hugs. I mean—we’re guys. A few said things like “see you around” or “take it easy.” Really moving things like that. The stuff of Hallmark cards.

  Right.

  Even Brady, who drove me home from school that last time and dropped me off in front of the house I’d be leaving the next day, had little to say.

  “Well, later, loser. Give me a holler sometime.”

  So I’m not expecting the letter I get in the mail. I’ve already moved on. I’ve already said good-bye in my own guy way.

  But I guess—well, I know—that girls are different.

  The letter is from Rachel. One of the three who came up to me that first day. The most talkative of the trio. The most friendly. And the one who in reality got me together with Jocelyn.

  I’m afraid to open it. I don’t know if she knows the truth. If she doesn’t, then everything I’m going to read will be missing that big, gigantic (and bloody) elephant in the proverbial room. Yet if she does, I don’t want to hear what she has to say.

  I don’t want to hear anybody else’s “sorry.” I’m tired of saying it over and over myself.

  It’s Thursday, and Mom isn’t home. Surprise. I take the letter to my room simply because it feels private. I can shut the door and at least hear someone coming up the stairs.

  Hey, Chris!

  I just wanted to write you a letter to say good-bye. I’ve tried calling half a dozen times and either have the wrong # or something’s wrong with your line. As you probably have heard by now, my family has moved. I never thought I’d be this sad to leave somewhere, but I am. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the chance to say good-bye.

  Jocelyn told me right before Christmas that her crazy aunt had had enough, and they were leaving. She said you didn’t know. I just hope and pray that you’re taking everything okay. I can’t imagine—coming to a school and then having your friends leave so soon after. Having Jocelyn leave.

  I hope you stay in touch with her. I really do.

  I’m going to leave you my email and address at the bottom, so I hope you stay in contact.

  You know what I really hope? I hope you get the heck out of that place.

  I still can’t believe how sudden everything was. As if my parents didn’t see this coming too. But my dad’s getting a huge pay increase and we’re moving back to Colorado. I’ve wanted that for a while. I’m excited. I’ll be able to catch a few great months of skiing.

  Listen—one other thing. About Poe. Behind the dark makeup and the crabby demeanor and all that is a really beautiful girl. Inside and out. I say that because she’s on her own too. She’s not too happy—not with me or with life in general. And I know that for some crazy reason she blames you. But she’ll get over it.

  There’s more to Poe than meets the eye.

  Drop me a line sometime.

  Stay cool. And don’t let the place drag you down.

  Rachel

  I hold the letter and reexamine the words.

  They mock me.

  Just like this place and everybody in it.

  I hope you stay in touch with her.

  It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

  Maybe I need to get a Ouija board and communicate with the dead. Or, better yet, I can find whatever those weird cards were that the students were playing with at Ray’s party and join in and perhaps get a joker card that explains all of this.

  I glance at the address and the email at the bottom.

  Then in one swift motion, I tear up the letter. Again. And again. Until I have it in as many little pieces as possible.

  Then I go outside onto the deck and toss the paper flakes into the angry winds, watching them disappear to the shadowy grounds far below.

  14. The Sighting

  The next day, Friday morning, one more day before a mini-break that to me is the equivalent of a smoke break outside the prison doors, I find a note in my locker.

  Of course I do.

  Whenever I get a cell phone, maybe in like ten years, I’m going to be flooded with creepy and strange texts.

  But for now, it’s good old-fashioned pen and paper.

  Turns out this note is signed. That’s good because most of the notes I get are from Anonymous.

  Take a walk down your street and head toward town tomorrow morning around 10. Maybe someone will come pick you up.

  Jared

  So school isn’t off limits to him.

  I wonder if I can wait until then. I have a lot more questions I want this guy to answer.

  Turns out someone else has some questions for me.

  I’m approached by the poster child for the model high school student. Ray comes up to me and barely says hi before asking me about track.

  “Oh, yeah.” I’d totally forgotten. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”

&
nbsp; “So why didn’t you come? We need you, man.”

  “Next week, then.”

  I’m so assertive. So strong.

  “Monday. Hey, you coming to church?”

  And for some reason, one I can’t really explain, I nod.

  Nod as in saying yes.

  Nod as in saying Yes, I’d love to come back to your place for crazy people.

  He tells me he’ll see me then and leaves. For a moment I wonder what I’ve just done, then I realize that I want to go. I really want to go back to the church.

  Maybe some of my questions will be answered. Maybe they’ll be answered without my having to go search and find them.

  After my class gets out for lunch, I see Jocelyn.

  She’s walking in the crowds.

  I’m not imagining this. I see her. Same height. Same dark hair that falls below her shoulders. The way she moves through the other students.

  I almost shout out her name.

  Instead I grab the arm of the guy in front of me to move him aside, then I bolt past a few girls.

  It’s her, I know it.

  But when I tug at her arm and see the face turning toward me, I know.

  It’s a mirage in the middle of a desert.

  A ghost in the middle of a dream.

  The girl who turns has a more round face, different eyes, different everything. She’s cute, and she looks perplexed and amused. Her hair is different—not even the same color.

  What are you doing, Chris?

  She looks at me like I have a fungus, and I recoil as if I do. I see others looking my way, surely wondering and thinking the same things they’ve always been thinking.

  There’s the new guy, still fumbling around and acting loony, still attracting attention.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to the girl who is definitely not Jocelyn.

  She walks on, and for a moment I stand in the middle of the hallway, a rock in the center of the stream. Then, as I turn to head to the cafeteria, I see Poe.

  Watching me.

  “Hey,” I call out.

  But she disappears down the hallway and into the girls’ room. And as much as I’d like to talk to her, I’ve already made a fool of myself today.

  “Is that yours?”

  I don’t even notice the girl in front of me asking the question. At first I wonder if she’s even talking to me, then notice the eyes behind the little glasses looking my way.

  “What?” I blurt.

  “The painting—is that yours?”

  She’s got her hand on the mess that’s my painting. Monet would roll in his grave.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, thanks,” I say, reaching to grab it.

  She seems to want to help, but instead I jostle it away from her and somehow I end up pulling the canvas over her arm. She’s wearing a very ordinary pink sweater that suddenly doesn’t look very ordinary with the black streaks on the sleeve.

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  Her face is splashed just like her arm, but with a distinct color of red. She shakes her head and acts like a mouse just wanting to scamper away. She takes her painting, which was right next to mine in the shelves, and walks to her place.

  I roll my eyes and sigh. Even when I don’t try, I do things to make people not like me.

  “Can I …” I start to say, but I don’t really know what I can do. She’s not going to take off the sweater. Not in class.

  I watch the girl go to her spot in the room. A few minutes into class, I glance her way.

  She’s a quiet girl. All I know about her is that her name is Kelsey Page and she’s a junior, like me.

  Wonder if she lives in Solitary. Wonder if she knows.

  I wonder if any of these kids know. Maybe they all do. Maybe they’re walking around and thinking, There’s Jocelyn’s guy, the poor sap that was pulled into her little web, the guy from Chicago who doesn’t belong here.

  Kelsey brushes back her blond hair gently with the arm that I painted. I almost want to laugh. I still feel awful. I’m surprised she didn’t go try to clean it.

  My painting is supposed to be of a cabin in the woods, but it looks like a candy bar that’s been sitting in the sun for an hour. It’s one big goopy mess.

  At one point in class, as I get some more paint, I see Kelsey passing by me.

  “Hey, sorry, really,” I say.

  “It’s okay.”

  She looks away. I can tell that she doesn’t talk to guys much. Or maybe she just doesn’t talk.

  “At least it looks better than my painting,” I say, trying to be funny.

  “What does?”

  “Your arm.”

  This gets a smile.

  I notice for the first time that she’s got braces, the clear kind but visible enough to probably cause her to try and hide them.

  It’s more than just a smile, however. For me it’s a peace offering.

  I don’t want every single person in this building to think I’m a moron.

  The glance I get from Kelsey makes me think that no, she doesn’t think so.

  Then again, the smartest thing for her or any other girl in this school to do is to stay far away from me.

  15. Lost

  When I get home, I can’t find Midnight. It takes me five minutes of calling out her name and looking around the house before I admit she’s missing. It takes another five seconds for me to go completely bonkers.

  Mom’s not home. This is something I already knew. I race up the stairs and go into my bedroom again, looking in the closet and under the bed and in the covers. I scan the bathroom quickly again, then look in the small room that’s used for storage, even though we have nothing to store.

  Midnight’s nowhere to be found.

  I call her name. Over and over and over again. Each time I get louder. Each time I sound more terrified.

  “Midnight!”

  I look everywhere. In my mom’s room, in her bathroom, in our kitchen, in the laundry room. It’s not like this is a huge mansion or anything.

  I search the kitchen cabinets. I even find myself opening one above the counter, and then I stop myself when I realize that dogs can’t fly.

  Maybe they can in Solitary.

  “Midnight!”

  I go outside on the deck that is cleared but still a bit slippery, and I call out her name. It’s getting dark. I scan the road below.

  For a second I begin to think bad thoughts. Awful thoughts.

  I picture Jocelyn.

  No please no.

  I begin to hear the thoughts. The judging, condemning words. I see the pointed finger. The eyes of shame and blame.

  “Midnight!”

  The ten minutes feel like my body being stretched out ten more inches. My hands and legs are attached to separate chains, and they’re being pulled separate ways.

  If she got out and roamed away I might never find her again.

  I feel sick. Really physically sick.

  I shout her name over and over like a crazy person, and in fact I’m shouting so loud I don’t hear the noise until I stop to take a breath.

  A scratching sound.

  It’s the last gasp of a dying dog before she departs.

  Then I hear a little whimper of a bark.

  That’s outside. No, wait, it’s inside.

  I go back inside through the open door. The scratching is coming from the kitchen.

  Then I realize that it’s coming from the back door. I grab the handle, and it turns—something it doesn’t do when it’s locked.

  Dogs can’t open and close doors.

  When I open it, I see the black little Shih Tzu standing there wagging her tail and looking up at me with a mischievous face. I pick her up and bring her face to mine.

  She’s fine, besides feeling a little cold. As she licks my face, I realize that she’s also licking tears.

  16. Don’t

  Chris.

  The voice hovers, yet isn’t audible. It’s in my head, in m
y dream. I open my eyes to familiar darkness, to familiar silence. I move and sit on the edge of the narrow mattress—one day I’m bound to turn and fall right off of it. I sit and wait.

  Chris.

  It’s Jocelyn’s voice, crashing in like a wave at high tide. I’m half asleep still, my eyelids shutting and staying shut, then opening again.

  I need to talk to you.

  I get up and walk down the stairs. Somewhere in the darkness at the foot of my bed, Midnight must surely be wondering what I’m doing. I wouldn’t be able to tell her if she asked.

  The steps creak, but creaks can’t awaken the dead or the drunk. Actually, I’d bet that I’m more likely to talk to the dead. Ritualistic killing is one thing, but bad vodka is another.

  You’re growing so cynical and so mean.

  It’s her voice, but it’s really mine warped into the memory of her words. It has to be. I’m awake, and I know what’s going on.

  You don’t have a clue.

  I stand for a second, wondering if I’m supposed to go out. She sounds like she’s outside on the deck, outside in the cold night.

  As I reach for the handle, I feel a gust of wind, and I shiver.

  Get a coat, stupid. And some shoes.

  So I do.

  Then I go outside.

  The air isn’t just cold. It’s hard and empty. It’s so cold that it’s hard to breathe, hard to think.

  I can see the deck and the dropping terrain underneath me just fine in the light of the liquid moon. I don’t see a ghostly apparition hovering anywhere. I don’t see someone flying on a broom. I don’t see anything unusual.

  Except the shadow of the approaching figure.

  And I turn and see Jocelyn walking toward me.

  “Jocelyn?” I ask.

  Her face hides under a fur-lined hood, the smile impossible not to see. A scarf covers her neck, her face so beautiful and angelic. I guess ghosts or visions or dream dates still have to wear warm clothes. Wouldn’t want to catch a cold.