by E. M. Kokie
“On your desk. And clean that room. It’s a sty. If you want to be treated like a man, start acting like one. Take responsibility. Follow through. And don’t think I’m gonna let up on you. Not for one minute. I’m not gonna let you float through next year and then get some job after graduation and piss away your money and live here free. You can forget that.”
God, I hope I’m not still living here a year from now. That will be priority number one: find a job that pays well enough so I don’t have to live here.
“Understand?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not going to let up about college, either. You are going to make something of yourself, if I have to stay on your case twenty-four/seven. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I’ve taken the battle, but the war’s far from over, and next time he’ll have reinforcements and maybe even forget that he’s happy I’m home. Yeah. I get it: Embrace the suck.
I stare at the stuff in front of Dad. A few weeks ago, I would have done pretty much anything just to hold this stuff, maybe have the knife, the dog tags. Now as much as I’d still like to have these things, they’re nothing compared to what I already have. Except for one thing. And it’s not for me.
I reach out and pick up the medallion from in front of Dad. Close my fist around it so the cord hangs free but the medallion presses into my palm.
His hand slaps over my wrist like a vise.
I don’t let go.
“Drop it.”
No. Not even when it starts to hurt.
When he twists my wrist, I yank back, hurtling out of my chair, which clatters to the floor behind me.
“We owe it to him,” I say, trying to hold my ground. “To T.J. and to Curtis.”
“I don’t owe that . . .” He swallows the rest, but doesn’t let go.
“What, Dad? That fag?”
“Shut your mouth.”
He wrenches my arm, tries to get it behind me, but I won’t let him, twisting with him, like T.J. taught me to. It hurts. It hurts like hell. But I’m not letting go.
Too much. I yelp.
Dad lets go. I stumble to the table, the medallion still in my hand. I stand up, catching my breath, looking at the medallion on my palm.
He leaps at me but I jump back, clutching it.
“Don’t make me fight you, old man.”
He stops cold, and stares like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“I will, if I have to, for T.J.” I shift my feet, try to get a better stance. And when I realize he’s not coming at me, I carefully put the medallion in my pocket. He watches my hand and then looks at my face again, blinking a dozen times.
“It doesn’t mean anything to us,” I say. “But it will to him.” And so will that box, black-and-white, meant for that apartment in Madison.
Dad deflates. And I’m still standing.
The clock in the living room dongs, and time starts again.
My stomach growls loud enough for even Dad to hear.
He shakes his head. Laughs a little. Then his face shifts into a sneer. A growl rumbles deep in his throat. “I can still take you. Anytime I want. Don’t think I can’t.”
I laugh, out loud, for the first time in this house in as long as I can remember — maybe since T.J. last sat here at this table with us — because the thought never crossed my mind.
Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. His grip is too hard, his fingers too rough, but it doesn’t make me flinch. Not at all.
Pizza has never tasted so good. Not even the silence at the counter, both of us eating standing up, can ruin it. And when Dad retreats to the living room, I hear him pause, curse under his breath, and then head upstairs. I bet he gets a new TV tomorrow.
I drag my duffel and backpack down to my room. I could sleep for a week. But I’m only gonna get the one night. Gotta work in the morning. And before sleep, I’ve gotta call Shauna.
But before all that, there’s one more thing I have to do.
I dig through my backpack until I find the envelope of pictures from Curtis. I flip through them until I get to the one of T.J., on the hike, looking so much like he did on that mountain fourteen months ago.
I walk over to my desk and turn on the light. I fish three of the pushpins out of my drawer. I push the green one back into its ghost-hole at the start of the trail in Georgia. I trace my finger over the trail of holes up the map, and then push the red pin into the hole marking the end of the trek in Maine.
Next to it, I tack the picture of T.J.
A debut novel is a milestone, an event to be savored and shared. I am grateful for the love, encouragement, and support of many, many people, most of whom know who they are. Special thanks are due as follows:
First, I wish to thank all those who have served in our armed forces, and their families. I especially wish to thank those LGBTQ service members who served under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” including the over 13,000 military personnel who were discharged because their sexual orientation became known. I owe special thanks to those who have written and spoken publicly about their experience serving under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” I also thank those who have shared their experiences, publicly and privately, as casualty assistance officers, casualty notification officers, staff of the Joint Personal Effects Depot, and as the family or friends of deceased service members. They helped me understand the amazing work done by those charged with handling the persons and effects, as well as notifying and assisting the families of service members killed in action. They have my profound gratitude for their work, for their service, for their sacrifices, and for their willingness to share their experiences. While I have made every effort to accurately reflect how T.J.’s family would have been notified of his death, how his remains and effects would have been handled, and to show (within Matt’s very limited point of view) some of the assistance that would have been offered to his family, I have, of course, fictionalized those events. Any errors, shortcomings, or aberrations are mine.
My agent, Chris Richman, Michael Stearns, and everyone else at Upstart Crow Literary.
Everyone at Candlewick Press, most especially my editor, Andrea Tompa; Pam Consolazio, who designed the cover; Nathan Pyritz, who designed the interior; my copyeditor, Kate Herrmann; the copy chief, Hannah Mahoney; and the entire marketing and sales teams.
My critique group while I was writing Personal Effects: Kashmira Sheth, Judy Bryan, Georgia Beaverson, and Bridget Zinn. (Bridget won’t get to read this note, but she knew how much I valued her friendship, her unique worldview, and her support. I wish she were here for this last step and for the celebratory cake).
My early readers, including Robin Smith, Dean Schneider, and Andrew Medlar.
All of my writing friends, with special thanks to my friends at the Absolute Write forums (especially all those who have shared the journey in Purgatory), my fellow members of the Wisconsin Chapter of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and the members of the Apocalypsies.
My family’s love and encouragement makes everything about this sweeter. Thank you, Mom, Dad, Scott, Mary, Amanda, Peg, and Ian — and even Tyler, Emily Ruth, Douglas, and Samuel, who I hope someday, when they are older, will read this book.
Finally, K.T., there are not words enough to say thank you, for all you do and all you are. Every day and for many reasons, I am thankful for having you in my life. (And, because it really must be said, thank you for enduring countless reads of slightly tweaked paragraphs without asking too often, “What’s different?”)
E. M. KOKIE is a lawyer who has long had an interest in literature for teens. She says, “Being a lawyer isn’t so different from being a writer — the same observant and analytical nature that helps me see a dispute from multiple points of view also helps me get inside the head of a character and see the world through his eyes. From the beginning, Matt’s voice felt so strong and real to me — I could practically taste his anger and frustration. I wrote the rest of the novel to get to know him better, to figure
out why he was so angry.” E. M. Kokie lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by E. M. Kokie
Cover photograph copyright © 2012 by Adam Hirons/Millennium Images, UK
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2012
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Kokie, E. M.
Personal effects / E. M. Kokie. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Matt has been sleepwalking through life while seeking answers about his brother T.J.’s death in Iraq, but after discovering that he may not have known his brother as well as he thought he did, Matt is able to stand up to his father, honor T.J.’s memory, and take charge of his own life.
ISBN 978-0-7636-5527-3 (hardcover)
[1. Brothers — Fiction. 2. Grief — Fiction. 3. Fathers and sons — Fiction. 4. High schools — Fiction. 5. Schools — Fiction. 6. Soldiers — Fiction. 7. Iraq War, 2003–2011 — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K83132PER 2012
[Fic] — dc23 2011048364
ISBN 978-0-7636-6203-5 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
