Wish You Were Here

by Barbara Shoup

  Oh, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have the guts to shoot the lights out, even if I did have a gun. Ted was right about that. I have no talent for being bad. And why am I getting all bent out of shape because I’m not happy?

  If Brady were here, he’d say, “Jax, you’ve got to be simpleminded to be happy. Look at the world, man—kids kill each other for basketball shoes. It’s irresponsible to be happy when stuff like that is going on.”

  I wish I knew if that was true. If I believed it was, maybe I could begin to figure out what it’s reasonable to expect from life. What’s possible.

  Just stay sane, I tell myself. That’s good enough for now. I concentrate on going through the motions, doing the right thing.

  Mom says, “Jackson, let’s have a graduation party.”

  “Great,” I say, even though all I really want to do about graduation is get it over with. And I go through the last week at school as if I actually care: a yearbook signing party, awards night.

  On senior cut day, it rains, but we all go out to Eagle Creek anyway and huddle in one of the shelters, laughing about things that happened when we were freshmen, or even in junior high.

  Brady’s name comes up. Someone says, “Remember when he let the boxful of crickets loose in the girls’ gym?”

  This gets Tom and Eric talking about what our senior prank should be. Last year, some guys broke in and shot superglue into every single keyhole in the building. The beauty of it was, nobody even noticed till it was almost time for school to start. The teachers were drinking coffee, gossiping in the teachers’ lounge till the last possible minute. Then they headed for their classrooms and couldn’t get in. Chaos. Security had to herd everyone to the auditorium to wait until a locksmith came. A tough act to follow.

  “We could poison the food in the cafeteria,” Tom says now, “but who’d be able to tell?”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Hey, they’re still mad about last year,” Kate says. “You guys had better be careful.”

  We settle on everybody buying a dozen Ping-Pong balls, marking “’94” on each one, and dumping them from the stairwell into Grand Central, where all the hallways cross, two minutes before the last bell rings tomorrow morning.

  It’s a mess, of course. People crashing into each other, into the lockers. Girls screaming and acting crazy when the balls bounce down on their heads. Later, the principal gets on the intercom and tries to lay a guilt trip on us. “Someone could have been seriously injured,” he says. But everyone knows that Grand Central is so congested in the morning that you couldn’t fall down if you tried.

  “Pretty pathetic prank,” Brady would’ve said.

  It’s over with, though. Another thing to check off the list.

  forty–two

  Next on my list is Layla. I pull up and she’s out on the front porch, in the swing, reading. She waves wildly when she sees me, jumps up, and gives me a big hug. “Your dad’s not here,” she says. “He’s working.”

  “I came to talk to you,” I say.

  “Really?” she beams at me. “Well. Come on in then. We’ll sit.” She heads for the kitchen, where we always used to talk.

  I still haven’t gotten used to seeing Dad’s things there. His baseball caps on the hat rack, his favorite coffee mug in the sink. It’s as weird as seeing the old snapshots of Brady and me on the refrigerator door.

  Layla pops the tab on a Coke and hands it to me. “So, what’s up, honey?” she asks.

  I take the two postcards from Brady from the back pocket of my jeans and hand them to her. “I got these a long time ago.”

  “Jackson—” she says.

  “I know I should have told you when I heard from him. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I was screwed up, I guess. I know that’s no excuse—”

  Layla sits down at the kitchen table and stares for a long time at what Brady wrote.

  I say, “I don’t blame you if you’re mad.”

  “Mad.” Layla shakes her head and gives the cards back to me. “There’s nothing in them, is there? I mean, not really. Nothing I had to know.”

  “That he was okay,” I say. “I knew you were worried.”

  “Those postcards don’t say he’s okay,” Layla says. “He’s not okay, Jackson. That might be the only thing about this whole mess I understand. That and the fact that, aside from Jerry, who’s such an asshole that nobody would care to be in touch with him, I’m the last person Brady would want to connect with. It’s my own fault. I loved Brady; I really did. I do. But I failed him, Jackson. I very nearly loved him to death.”

  “Layla,” I say. “It’s not only the postcards I didn’t tell you about.”

  For a second she looks scared, like I’m going to tell her something else about Brady, something terrible.

  “It’s me,” I say. “Something I did.”

  “What?” she asks. “Jackson, you’re not in some kind of trouble again?”

  “No. It’s something I did a while ago. Before you and Dad got married. I used that key you gave me a long time ago and came in here when you were gone. Once with Stephanie, a bunch of times by myself.”

  “Oh, honey, I know that,” she says. “It’s all right. Mr. Beaumont next door saw you. Old Mr. Nosy. I told him just to leave you alone—I figured you were still trying to work things out about Brady.” She laughs. “You’re just lucky he recognized you. Lord, he’d have been on the phone to the police in ten seconds if he hadn’t. He’s better than an alarm system. Jackson, listen—we’ve both had a lot to work out about Brady leaving. I’d have told you to come over myself if I’d’ve thought it would help … ”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Do you have it all worked out now?”

  I shrug.

  “Well, I sure haven’t,” she says. “Boy, I can’t believe I used to be so smug when you kids were little. So superior to those picky mothers who got all bent out of shape about homework and chores. Oh, Brady’s so creative, I thought. I’m not going to spoil that by making him worry about the kind of stupid things my mother made me worry about when I was a kid. I’d think of all the things I could’ve been if only she’d encouraged me. It’s no wonder Brady hates me,” she says. “I had my heart set on him being what I’d failed to be myself. I see now he must have felt like I was trying to eat him alive—I should’ve remembered that the more you want a kid to do something, the more likely he is to do the exact opposite just so you’ll know for sure you don’t own him—”

  “Like me,” I say. “The way Dad’s always telling me to relax, go with the flow, and I’m terminally uptight. Totally uncool. Brady used to say we should trade dads.”

  “Honey, don’t even say that,” Layla says. “There’s no way your dad would trade you for anyone—especially not Brady. Those two are so much alike they’d drive each other crazy. And, my God, Brady was more out of it than either of us realized if he really thought you—or anyone—deserved Jerry.”

  I have to laugh at the way just mentioning Mr. Burton can still get her in a huff.

  She leans over and gives me a hug. “You’re more my other kid than ever, Jackson,” she says. “I love you. God, you probably think that’s the kiss of death, don’t you? Well, how about this: I love you from my new, extremely realistic point of view?”

  “Good enough,” I say.

  forty–three

  Graduation day we meet in the gym for rehearsal at eight in the morning. There are two hundred and twenty-three of us, all in our own groups, all whacked out and edgy. Mrs. Blue tries to get us organized. But as fast as she gets one group dispersed and moving, the group she dispersed two seconds before re-forms and starts talking again.

  She stands in the middle of the floor for a long moment, looking frazzled, then she steps up onto the stage, puts two fingers to her lips, and whistles a whistle any
ten-year-old kid would be proud of. Some of us applaud.

  She bows, grins. “Listen, guys,” she says. “I want to get out of here as much as you do.”

  After that, things go relatively smoothly. We practice our entrance and exit without too much confusion. The principal appears and drones at us for what seems like an eternity about how graduation is a serious, solemn occasion and we and our friends and family should behave accordingly. He doesn’t come right out and talk about last year—the fact that Tyrone Meeks’ girlfriend blasted the theme from Rocky on a boom box when his name was called and Tyrone strutted across the stage with his arms raised in a victory salute—but we know that’s what he’s referring to when he clears his throat and says, “Unfortunate episodes in the past cause me to make this reminder, which I hope you’ll take to heart.”

  We’re dismissed a little before noon. “Six sharp!” Mrs. Blue yells one last time as we rush for the door.

  “Hey, where was Steph?” I hear Kate say.

  “Not doing commencement,” says Beth. “Do you believe that? I mean, wouldn’t you want getting out of this place to be official?”

  I feel a twinge of guilt. It seems to me I ought to go look for Steph, but what if I found her? It’s none of my business, her cutting commencement. Maybe she’s the smart one, after all—seeing all this phony crap for what it is. So I duck away before Kate and Beth notice me and ask me if I know what’s going on with her.

  At home, Kristin and Amy are waiting for me. Kristin hands me an envelope. “This came in the mail,” she says. “It’s from Amanda.”

  They both stand there expectantly.

  “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours,” the card says on the front, a quote from Thoreau.

  If only I could imagine a life, I think.

  Inside it says: “Good luck, Jackson. Love, Amanda.”

  I can feel Kristin and Amy looking at me. “Nice,” I say, sticking the card back into the envelope, pretending the sight of her handwriting hasn’t affected me at all. “It was nice of her to send it. Weird it would’ve gotten here on exactly the right day.”

  “You’re dumb, Jackson,” Kristin says. “I told you before. She could be your girlfriend.”

  I yank on her long hair gently, tease her. “You know, I used to think I wanted a sister.”

  When I get to school at six, Mrs. Blue is standing at the back entrance of the gymnasium, smiling, making wisecracks, directing people to gather in the wide passageway between the locker rooms and the gym itself. She laughs when Tom and Eric turn and flip up their gowns as if to moon her, revealing madras shorts with “FREE AT LAST” on their rear ends. As the time for the ceremony nears, she wanders through the sea of black, straightening caps, adjusting tassels. She lines us up in two lines, one at each door.

  We can hear the buzz of excited voices as the crowd settles on the bleachers. Laughter, babies crying. Then Pomp and Circumstance begins.

  Mrs. Blue stands in the doorway of the line I’m in, pacing us, counting one-two-three after each person’s exit so that we won’t go out all in a clump.

  When it’s my turn, she leans close. “You’re a wonderful person, Jackson Watt,” she whispers fiercely, giving me a quick hug. “Don’t you forget it. Go now—” I feel her hand on my back, pushing me forward, and I step out onto the basketball floor, my eyes burning with tears.

  It doesn’t take long to spot my family. They take up most of a row: Mom in a pretty new dress, Ted in a dark business suit, Kristin and Amy in party clothes, Grandma in one of her church outfits. There’s Dad in jeans and a sport coat and Layla looking like a high-class gypsy. Her bracelets twinkle when she stands up and waves her arms at me as if flagging in a semi. Grandma casts her an embarrassed glance.

  We sit through the predictable valedictory speech by the class nerd, about what a big responsibility faces us: the world. The senior choir sings a song about kissing today good-bye. Then a school board member takes the podium to address us.

  It’s hot in the gym. All over, people are fanning themselves with their programs. There’s a collective sigh of relief when, finally, it’s time for the presentation of the diplomas.

  Things start cranking up around the Gs. A sprinkle of confetti in the bleachers, a burst of applause. Then Governor Grant’s name is called and a bunch of girls start screaming. He’s cool, though. He walks across, takes his diploma, shakes the principal’s hand.

  But it’s all over. The rest of the way through, people express themselves. Eric Harmon lifts his gown going down the steps, revealing his hairy legs. Jarmel Hart gives a deep bow when he takes his diploma. Betsy Nielson does a series of pirouettes across the stage.

  The principal’s voice grows deeper and more controlled with each act of defiance. “Benjamin Perez.”

  “Yo! Benny! You free!” someone shouts, and the whole audience laughs. Well, the whole audience, except Grandma.

  Even I can’t resist a thumbs-up sign as I start back to my seat.

  When it’s over, we stand, and in one fluid move, the last thing we’ll all do together, we raise our hands and place our orange or gold tassels on the other side of our caps. We were instructed this morning not to throw our caps at the end of the ceremony, but like Tom Best said, “What are they going to do, make us go back to high school?”

  We toss them as high as we can, and for an instant, it’s as if the gym is full of wild silk bats.

  It takes Grandma an hour to get over the rowdiness. Back at home, about every ten minutes, she sputters, “Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. No manners whatsoever. Jackson, what’s wrong with those kids to make them act like that?”

  Finally, when even Ted laughs at her, she gives it up and busies herself helping Mom put all the food out. There’s ham and a half-dozen kinds of salad. Rolls and bread for sandwiches. Baked beans. Layla’s famous broccoli and cheese.

  Their timing is perfect. They put the napkins with silverware rolled up in them on the buffet, and the guests begin to arrive. We eat, and after I’ve opened my presents, Amy and I find a jar in the kitchen, punch holes in it, and the two of us go out to catch fireflies. Kristin has made friends with Tom and Mary Beth’s kids, and they get a game of hide-and-seek going in the side yard.

  “Want to play?” I ask Amy. “The two of us can be one person, then we can hide together.”

  “Yeah, okay!” she says.

  We find a dark corner near the garage, sheltered by a lilac bush, and she tucks her thin body into mine, her heart pounding. I can see Kristin, the first fireflies of the summer blinking all around her, as she crisscrosses the lawn, searching for a place to hide. Her white dress shines in the moonlight. I can see her face plainly, the trouble she works so hard at keeping secret showing itself now in the little worries of the game, and I think, God, I’d die if I were that age again, all the broken pieces of my childhood still jagged and sore inside me. I’m about to go after her and bring her back to share the hiding place I’ve found, when she disappears into the shadows. So I wait, pulling Amy closer to me, holding her tight.

  Through the leaves, I see Mom at the kitchen window. Dad appears, gets a can of beer from the refrigerator, and says something that makes her laugh. A car horn honks, a neighbor’s screen door slams. Soon I hear one of Tom’s kids shout, “One hundred!” Then the voices of the others as they’re discovered, one by one.

  “Ready, Amy?” I whisper.

  She nods against me.

  “Okay, here goes!” And I leap up, run for Home—the oak tree in the side yard—carrying her under my arm. Her legs flail, her arms clutch my waist. Pretty soon, she’s upside down, screaming at the top of her lungs, “They’re coming, they’re coming!”

  The others stream after us, but even carry
ing Amy, I’m bigger than they are, faster. They can’t catch me. I touch Home, laughing like a maniac.

  “Daddy, we won!” Inside, Amy throws herself at Ted, who picks her up and holds her in midair until she calms down. Kristin and the others burst in seconds later, their nice clothes all askew.

  “Jackson,” Grandma hisses at me. “You’ve gotten those kids all wound up now. Look at Kristin’s pretty party dress, all muddy.”

  I turn and scoop her up like a bride.

  “Jackson Watt,” she demands. “What in the world do you think you’re doing. I’m your grandmother, for goodness’ sake. Put me down this instant. I said, put me down!”

  She’s as light as a feather. I could hold her like this forever, no problem. The kids start giggling. Dad’s laughing his head off.

  “Jackson,” Mom says, but she has to put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

  “Grandma,” I say. “I’ll be glad to put you down as soon as you say, ‘As God is my witness, Jackson Watt is the best person I’ve ever met.’”

  Even Grandma starts laughing then. She says it. When I put her down, she tries to act huffy again, straightening her skirt, patting her hair. “Jackson,” she sniffs. “Honestly!” Then, in spite of herself, she reaches out and gives me a big hug, patting me on the back like she used to when I was little. “Honey, I just can’t believe you’re all grown up,” she says.

  forty–four

  I’m in a great mood when I get to the graduation party at Eric Harmon’s house. I just laugh when I see the cluster of girls in the driveway, still boo-hooing about what great friends we’ve been and how it’s all over now. And then Beth turns and says, “Oh my God, Jackson’s here.”

  I stop cold. “What’s up?” I say.

  “You’re not going to believe this, man,” Tom says, coming down to meet me. “Steph. We just found out. Pills. She OD’d. Jesus, she’s dead.”

  I want to believe he’s making another one of his lousy jokes. I wait for him to grin his gotcha grin. But he doesn’t. He walks over to Kate and puts his arm around her.