by Jenn Bennett
Hesitant, I prop the heel of my shoe on his thigh, and he inspects the bandages on my ankle. “I think it’s going to be fine. Just leave it here,” he says, stopping me from moving away with a gentle hand on my knee. “Keeping it elevated will help with the swelling.”
“Or force germy snake saliva to make its way up into my bloodstream.”
“That’s already happened.”
“Oh, good.”
“Actually, that’s the biggest worry with nonvenomous bites. Bad bacteria. You don’t know when his last meal was, and he could have chowed down on something rotten or diseased.”
“Are you trying to freak me out?”
He smiles. “Sort of. I like watching your face twist into horrified expressions. Everything shows on your face. You know that, right?”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. I can read you like a book.”
This embarrasses me a little, and why is his hand still on my knee? Not that I’m complaining. It feels . . . nice. “Well, I can’t read you at all, because you’re expressionless.”
“That’s my poker face.”
This makes me laugh. “You’re a terrible poker player. Remember when your dad taught us to play? You lost so many Oreos to me that night.” I haven’t spent a lot of time with Lennon’s dad, Adam, because Lennon mostly went to visit him in San Francisco instead of Adam coming to Melita Hills. But every once in a while, his father would come into town to visit, and last summer he brought playing cards and a supersize pack of Oreos to use for bets. We sat around Mac and Sunny’s dining room table playing Texas Hold’em until past midnight. My mom had to cross the street and come get me because I’d turned my phone’s ringer off and hadn’t realized it was so late. Then she’d ended up playing a few poker hands—until my dad called at two a.m., and Mom and I both got in trouble.
Lennon smiles. “That was so fun. I remember laughing so hard, I sprained my side.”
“It made us laugh even harder.”
“Your mom cleaned up, didn’t she? She took the entire pot. Who knew she was such a vicious poker player.”
That surprised me, too. She was so loud when she won. Probably woke half the neighborhood with her victory shouts. “Your dad was hilarious, showing up in that casino poker dealer outfit with the green visor. When he does something, he goes all out, doesn’t he?”
A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “Yeah,” he says softly.
Sunny and Mac have framed photos in their hallway of Lennon and Adam dressed up for Halloween in superdetailed complementary costumes. Milk carton and cookie. Batman and Robin. Mario and Luigi. Surfer and shark. Luke Skywalker and Yoda. This went on from the time Lennon was a baby until the year I moved to Mission Street, actually. Lennon was too old to go trick-or-treating, and Adam went on some punk reunion tour.
“I never figured out where he got that giant package of Oreos. There were hundreds.”
“I think he stole it from work. Or ‘borrowed,’ according to him,” Lennon says, one side of his mouth turning up. “Mac gave him hell for it later when she found out. You know how she feels about stealing.”
She has zero tolerance for it. I think it has something to do with her being homeless when she was a teen. May God have mercy on anyone who tries to shoplift vibrators from Toys in the Attic, because they will end up getting a tough-love speech from her while she calls the cops.
Now Lennon seems bluesy. I’m not sure what I said that made his mood go downhill, but before I can ask, he shoos away a moth that’s flying around our fire, attracted to the light, and grabs my knee harder, shaking my leg to get my attention. “Hey. I just remembered. I have cards in my backpack. For Solitaire. You want to play poker?”
“With what? We have no cookies. And Joy would kill me if I bet the emergency money she gave me for the trip.”
Lennon thinks for a moment. “We could use the M&M’s in your trail mix.”
We could.
“Just a couple of games before it’s black out here,” he says. “Then you can break out your telescope and do some stargazing.”
I chuckle. “All right. You’re on, buddy. Prepare to lose!”
It’s getting too dark to see all that well by the fire, and the bear canisters aren’t big enough to play on. So we decide to shove both of our packs in Lennon’s tent and play cards inside mine—it’s the bigger of the two—where we can spread out the cards. The palm-size LED light Lennon loaned me provides illumination, and we open the outer door flap and zip up the mesh screen to allow airflow while keeping away the bugs. It takes a while to pick out all the M&M’s from the trail mix, and then takes a couple of hands to remember how to play. I keep getting a straight flush confused with a full house, and Lennon forgets half of the rules. We’re probably still playing wrong, but neither of us cares. We’re too busy laughing.
And it feels natural and good. Easy.
We play until the moon rises outside and stars dot the black sky. The campfire nearly burns out. I even forget about my snake bite until he accidentally bumps into my ankle, apologizing profusely when I cry out. Then he rubs my leg, asking about my hives. I took a mild antihistamine at dinner, so they aren’t bothering me too badly at the moment, or maybe it’s just that his warm palm gliding over my bare skin is distracting me from the itching. It’s definitely making me forget about the snake bite all over again. I forget about everything, actually, including my current hand of poker. He wins the entire pot of M&M’s.
Despite the leg rub ending, I’m still happy. I smile to myself as I gather up the cards and stack them neatly in a single deck. “This is so not fair, you know.” I was distracted.
“Totally fair,” he says, carefully bagging all the M&M’s to put them back in the bear canister. “Tomorrow you’re going to be eating boring nuts-and-fruit trail mix, and you’ll think, Self, why did I go crazy with all those ridiculous bets? Sure wish I had some chocolate. And I will just laugh like an evil overlord.” He demonstrates said laugh in his deep voice.
“Okay, okay,” I say, pushing his shoulder. “Your dad will be proud that you lived up to your poker potential. You’ll have to tell him that you finally won next time you see him.”
Lennon sniffles and rubs his nose, dark eyelashes fluttering. He keeps his eyes on the deck of cards as I’m sliding it over to him. “Yeah, that will be difficult.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes lift to meet mine. “Because he’s dead.”
18
* * *
I freeze. “What are you talking about?”
“My father died.”
“When?”
“Last fall.”
How could this be? Last fall? “But . . .” I can’t even talk right. “What do you mean? How?”
“He killed himself.”
Without warning, tears flood my eyes. “No. That’s impossible.”
Lennon slips the cards into their cardboard sleeve. “He attempted once and failed. His girlfriend found him and got him to the hospital in time for doctors to pump his stomach. He said it was just an overdose of pain pills, and that he didn’t mean to, but his girlfriend didn’t believe him. And she was right. Because a few days later, he did it again. Successfully.”
I’m crying now, not making any noise, but stinging tears are tickling my cheeks, plopping onto the nylon floor of the tent. “I didn’t know.”
Lennon’s expression is somber. “I know you didn’t. Almost no one at school noticed. I mean, I thought you might hear. . . . It was in the paper. It trended online for a few hours.” He shakes his head softly.
“I didn’t hear,” I whisper, lifting my glasses to swipe away tears. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t understand why I didn’t hear. And I don’t understand. . . . Your dad was happy. He was so funny, always laughing. How . . . ?”
“He’d been on antidepressants for years and didn’t tell anyone he’d stopped taking them. He started obsessing about his music career being over. He was depressed that no one cared or
remembered.”
“That’s not true! People still buy their records.”
“Barely. And he had a skewed idea of his success. I mean, how many people can say they had their songs played on the radio? But he didn’t see it that way. He wasn’t making much off royalties anymore, and the band was never huge—not like others. I don’t know. I guess being forced to work a nine-to-five job was failure to him. He couldn’t handle being normal.”
“Oh, Lennon.”
He nods, eyes downcast.
Did no one in our group know? The way Brett and Summer were talking about his dad when Reagan drove us to the glamping compound—and what was said about him during the big fight last night—I’m almost positive they didn’t realize.
I know Lennon didn’t see his father every day—or even every month—but Lennon was closer to Adam than I am to my dad. And now I’m thinking about Sunny and Mac, and how they must have been grieving too. And I never acknowledged it. What kind of monster do they think I am?
“When was the funeral?” I ask.
“Last October.”
When everything fell apart between us. The homecoming dance. The sex shop opening. My dad fighting with Sunny and Mac.
Is this the reason why?
It makes no sense. Why would he shut me out? “I should have been at the funeral.”
Pained eyes flick to mine. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His face turns rigid, and he grabs the bag of trail mix. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, I do! I should have been there. Didn’t you want me there?”
“Yes, I wanted you there!” he shouts, startling me. “My dad died. It was the worst time of my life. Of course I wanted you there, but . . .” He squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his voice. “Look, it’s getting late, and we’re both tired. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Lennon!”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it right now. Goddammit, Zorie. What don’t you understand about that?”
This smarts. I’m shaking now, still fighting tears. And I’m utterly confused. But Lennon is unzipping the mesh door, and he ducks out of my tent before I can think of the right words to stop him.
Dazed, I try to sort out the events that transpired last year. Try to make sense of them. To understand Lennon’s anger. On the final week of summer vacation, Lennon and I kissed. We conducted the Great Experiment in secret. We decided make our first public appearance as a couple at homecoming. Lennon stood me up and stopped talking to me. The Mackenzies’ sex shop opened. My dad started fighting with them.
New information: Lennon’s dad died. He didn’t tell anyone.
Where does this fit into our friends-to-enemies road map?
All this time, I thought he’d freaked before the homecoming dance and decided that he didn’t want to go public with our relationship. That our experiment had failed, and he was too much of a coward to tell me to my face.
And yet he just blew up at me about not being there at his dad’s funeral. Now I feel like he’s bitter about our breakup—that somehow this is my fault.
What am I missing?
I crawl outside my tent, but Lennon isn’t around. The light inside his tent shows the dark silhouette of his backpack. He’s dumped my pack in front of my tent, as if to signal that we’re done talking for the night.
Well, I have news for him. We’re not.
I’m too chicken to trample after him in the dark and definitely don’t want to catch him heeding the call of nature behind the bushes. So I wait by the fire’s glowing embers, hugging myself to keep the chill away. He was right. The stars are amazing out here. I find the constellation Cygnus, and then Lyra right next to it, but I’m too upset to appreciate what normally brings me joy.
Several minutes pass, and Lennon doesn’t come back. Now I’m worried, and a little angry. We need some kind of system. He should tell me where he’s going so I don’t sit around wondering if I should go look for him. What if he’s attacked by a bear or falls off the cliff?
Anxious and irritated, I retreat into my tent and roll out my sleeping bag. Take off my shoes. Put them back on. Take them off again, because my ankle feels better with them off, and then decide to change quickly into my loungewear for sleeping. Halfway through, I remember that the light in the tent shows everything, so I turn it off and dress in the dark.
Guess he’s getting the last word after all.
I don’t hear Lennon until I’m zipped up inside my sleeping bag, wishing that we were sleeping on softer ground instead of the unforgiving rock of the cave floor. I listen to his movements, and hear him doing something to the campfire’s embers—putting them out, I suppose—before he enters his tent.
The cave amplifies every sound. Zippers zipping. Plastic crinkling. Rummaging. He clears his throat, and it makes me jump. Then his light goes out, and after some rustling, all the noise stops.
And the silence is oppressive.
This is crazy. I can’t sleep while I’m upset. And what’s worse, my mind begins pulling up other anxieties. My swollen ankle. Snakes. Shadows moving inside the caves. Lennon’s stupid manga story about people-shaped holes in the side of the mountain. And then I can’t take it anymore.
“Lennon?” I say quietly.
No answer.
I try again, this time louder. “Lennon?”
“I heard you the first time.” His voice is muffled yet close. I imagine where he is in relation to me and wonder if I could stretch my arm out and touch him if the tents weren’t there.
“Remember when you thought you saw a shadow move in the caves? What if there really was someone creeping around and that someone comes out here?”
“They probably already would have if they were going to.”
“Or they could be waiting to murder us in our sleep.”
“Or that.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him.
“What do you want me to do about it, Zorie?”
He doesn’t have to be so grumpy. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, when you think of something, let me know.”
I blow out a long breath.
“Hey, Lennon?”
“Still hearing you,” he says.
“Are you sure there aren’t any tiny holes in this cave?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Holes snakes can slither through.”
I hear him cursing under his breath. “I’m sure. No holes. Go to sleep, Zorie.”
Yeah, that’s not happening.
“Hey, Lennon?” I whisper.
“Oh my God!”
I wince and grit my teeth in the dark. “So, I was just thinking. Since there’s a possibility that shadowy cave trolls may sneak out here to murder us, you should probably keep your hatchet handy. Just in case.”
“I sleep with it next to me.”
“You do?”
“Just in case.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I argue. “That makes me feel like there really are threats out here at night.”
“Of course there are. Do you see any door you can lock? We’re completely unprotected out here. Anything could happen.”
I sit up in my sleeping bag. “Hey, listen.”
“I didn’t know I had a choice,” he mumbles.
I ignore that. “I think you should sleep in here.”
Silence. For several seconds. Then he says, “Um, what?”
“This tent is for two people,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to exchange body heat, as you so eloquently put it earlier. It’s just that I would feel better if you were in here when I get murdered by the cave troll.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Lennon?”
“I heard you.”
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
I wait, heart hammering. After some rustling, I hear a zipper, and then a silhouette appears outside my tent door. It zips open, and Lennon’s dark he
ad pops inside. “Give me your pack.”
I pull it across the tent floor and shove it toward the door. It disappears and thuds nearby. I think he stashed it in his tent. Another zipping sound. Then my mesh door parts and something unrolls next to me. Some sort of foam sleeping pad. The one that stays rolled up, strapped to the bottom of his pack. It’s followed by a sleeping bag, which he throws on top.
Lennon crawls into the tent and zips the door to close it. And before I know it, he’s slipping into his bag, a flash of black boxer shorts below his T-shirt, muscular legs . . .
Then he’s lying next to me. The tent is suddenly so much smaller.
“Happy?” he says, sounding vaguely sullen.
I smile to myself. Yes. “That depends. Did you bring your hatchet?”
His sigh is epic. “I’ll just have to choke the life out of the cave troll. Good enough?”
“Yes, that’ll do, pig,” I say in my best James Cromwell. “That’ll do.”
The hood of his sleeping bag looks fluffier than mine is, and he punches it around until it makes a pillow. Then he lies on his back, one arm over his head. Facing him, I curl on my side and stare in the murky light until my eyes adjust to him, my own gaze tracing over the sharp, straight line of his nose and the spiky fringe of hair over his brow.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I whisper in the dark.
“I needed you,” he whispers back. “It was so terrible, and I needed you.”
An image of his father fills my head, and then unexpectedly, I think of my birth mother. Her face. Her laugh. How empty I felt when she died. I know exactly how Lennon feels, and that makes it all so much worse. Because I’d never in a million years want him to hurt that badly.
A strange, stifled noise fills up the space in the tent, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s crying. Lennon never cries. Never. Not as a kid, and not when we got older. The sound rips my heart to shreds.
On instinct, I reach out for him. When I lay my hand on his quaking chest, he seizes it with steely fingers. I can’t tell if he’s about to push me away, and for a brief moment, we’re frozen midway between something.
A tense sort of twilight.
