$81,200.00
Digger phoned on our way inside: 5:58. “See, now, here’s the problem, we need a part we can’t get till morning. Hole up somewhere nearby, and we’ll have you back on the tarmac bright and early.”
I muted the call and translated Digger’s news to the group. “We’ll see you at eight a.m.,” I promised, and clicked the red End button. Becky yelled toward the phone, “Don’t you wash that arm tonight, Digger.” He probably heard her across the Shoney’s parking lot.
Caroline was already online renting us a room at the Comfort Inn. I told her I’d pay our part and was relieved when she said it was no biggie. Gas expenses had put a serious dent in my wallet. Plus, I expected to take another hit from Auto Fix Nation the next morning. I’d have to use Gran’s credit card, and I knew my parents had put new truck tires on it last month.
Because my family rarely ventured off-Hive, the last time I’d stayed away from home was in New York, and that was in a hostel. Here, there were two queen beds, a minifridge, and a closet safe. I explored the corners while Caroline flung herself on the bed. “You don’t get out much, Jennings?”
“And you do?”
“I used to get out a lot.”
She situated pillows against the headboard and settled in. TNT had a Princess Bride marathon and that fast became the soundtrack of the room. Becky perched on the corner of Caroline’s bed, and then slowly scooted back to watch the movie. Within minutes, Caroline had her head in Becky’s lap and Becky was removing her purple headband and claiming everyone should feel how soft her head was. Rudy announced he was finding the gym, and I opted for a long shower. We were stuck, and there was nothing we could do about it until morning.
After showering, I slipped from the room, rode the elevator to the eighth floor, and cruised to the end of a long hallway. Two windows looked over a great wide nothing. A glorious spring exploded right to left in the fading daylight. Back home, the tallest thing we had other than the old fire tower was my grain bin. I’d climbed the bin many times, Chan on my heels. Sitting high in the sky, away from everyone, watching the land wave in the wind. Touching heaven with our fingertips.
“Can’t do this in a city!” Chan would say, resting his hat on his knee.
“Can’t do what?” I’d asked, though I already knew.
He’d closed his eyes and taken a deep life-giving breath. He’d watch the world below us the way adults watched their children speak for the first time. Finally, he’d said, “You ever think we’re sitting in the orchestra pit and those fields over there are the violins and the creek is the cello—”
“And the deer hooves are drums—”
“And the cicadas are—”
“Castanets?” I’d finished.
We’d stared at each other, and there’d be plenty of longing—the sort that bubbles up when you feel known.
“I’m glad for this place,” I’d said.
“I’m glad for you,” he’d said. And then he’d pulled our fingers to his lips and kissed the back of my hand . . . my wrist . . . my elbow . . . my collarbone . . . jawline . . . lips, all while I lay there tingling, the metal roof hot on my back and Chan’s breath heating everywhere he touched. I’d never felt so warm.
If he were on this trip, he’d have found his way here too. Chan loved people and camaraderie, especially on the Hive, but he was equally connected to the land. He was always the guy saying, “Let’s get outside this weekend.” We’d be standing in an overcrowded room of bees milling around some queen, and he’d find my eyes. Out he’d go. Into the trees. Along a cornrow, his hands grazing silky stalks as he ran. Up the grain bin with a telescope. Countless times, I excused myself from conversations and followed him. Or he followed me. That was how we first kissed. Not because we were running to each other, but because we were escaping at the same time.
Frequently, my inner voice told me there was no one better than Chan. But sometimes there was another thought—how would I even know? I’d never looked farther away than a house I could see from my kitchen window. Would it be luck that I was born a thousand feet from where I was meant to be? Did God not trust me to explore? Or was Chan a gift and should I shut up and be thankful?
Mom used to say, “Honey, you’ll know forever material when you do what you want to do and then look to your right and left and see who else is doing it.”
I stared at my ring—society’s metaphor for love—and wondered if loving someone was a reason to stay with him. And . . . if love wasn’t enough, what was? How did anyone ever stay together?
I felt shallow for being angry with Chan when I was also angry with myself. I’d passed out this afternoon a foot away from a bus. When I stared at his refusal to leave the Hive, it probably wasn’t an unwillingness to come with me. He was scared of the city the way I was scared of buses. That made me an arrogant ass, which made me bone-sad. And tired. I’ve always been my greatest critic, and when I looked at my recent behavior, there was hardly anything here to be proud of.
I remembered Rudy’s wisdom from the beach that morning—I can come along if you capture it just right—and I texted Chan a photo of the snaking river outside the window, hoping he’d know I was somewhere he would like and I was thinking of him.
Maybe he’d buy a plane ticket with thoughts like that.
Or maybe he wouldn’t.
36. WHAT HAPPENED IN SIMON WESTWOOD’S BRAIN?
$81,210.00
According to a map on the elevator door, the fitness center lived on the lobby level. I rode to the main floor, stole two oranges from the breakfast nook basket, and followed the chlorine smell of the pool, hoping to find the fitness center nearby. Rudy was there, hair slicked back and handsome in that post-practice way football players always are.
I tossed him an orange.
“Hey, thanks.” His fingernails dug into the pulp. “You needing a workout?”
“I’m needing not to be in a small room with Caroline.”
“Yeah. She’s hard.”
“I’m glad she came with us, but she worries me.”
“Simon messed her up way before he messed us up.”
“I’m sure. I keep trying to imagine who I’d be if Chan treated me the way Simon must have treated her. It’s not pretty. Chan’s not perfect, but he’s good, you know? He’d never hurt someone on purpose. Much less me.”
Rudy half laughed, half sighed. “I was actually just thinking about the way I treat people.” He held paper and a pen. “I stole this from the business center printer after my workout and was writing a little before I hit the shower.”
“Can I read what you wrote?”
Rudy chewed an orange wedge. He looked torn, and I understood that whatever was on the paper was personal.
“I don’t have to,” I said. But he rolled closer and trusted me with his words.
“It’s not finished. See you back in the room.”
I stretched out on a treadmill to read.
When I was twelve, I broke up with Kelly O’Leary because she got on my nerves. She didn’t shed a tear at my departure. I didn’t shed a tear at hers.
When I was thirteen, I broke up with Abby Bell, Rachel Feinmach, and Kayla Somebody. (I can’t remember her last name, but we met at the skate park.) Abby cried and called me a faggot. Rachel and Kayla were hanging off other guys within the hour.
Fourteen was a backward year. Four girls broke up with me, and none of them gave reasons.
When I was fifteen, I fell “in love” for the first time. Her name was Honey Granger. We went out the whole year, said I love you, fooled around, and nearly had sex (but she was thirteen and thought she should wait until fourteen). I bought her a cool watch for Christmas, and she got me new jeans. Expensive gifts for poor kids. In April, she told me she didn’t love me anymore. When I asked why, she said, “I don’t know. I just don’t.” That was that.
I got over Honey by dating Taylor, who I promptly dumped, because she had a thing for my brother, Victor, and we don’t jack around.
Th
at was when I fell in love for the second time: Crystal Abernathy. If she said “Jump,” I didn’t ask, “How high?” I hard-lined the moon and hurled my body at the sky. For seven months, I thought: I’m going to marry this girl someday. I fantasized about it too. The house where we’d live. Our kids with her eyes. Making Hamburger Helper in our kitchen.
Christmas Day she accidentally swapped my gift with her other boyfriend’s. Victor hauled me over to Parkers and got me smashed. I stopped taking her calls and felt like an Olympian for my discipline.
By the time I was seventeen, I’d sworn off serious relationships. High school girls were players, I told myself. High school girls liked breaking hearts. High school girls wanted to stay in Orlando, and I was moving to Boston. Love and dating were brutal and tragic, and I accepted that they were brutal and tragic, because that was high school. And perhaps my heart was an organ that would function better with age. College, that would be my season. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.
Here is what I don’t understand: Why do some people, who are in the same circumstances, respond so differently?
What happened in Simon Westwood’s brain when he found out Caroline had cheated on him—same as Crystal Abernathy cheated on me; same as lots of people cheat—and he thought the solution was to kill a bunch of people? To bomb a busload who weren’t involved?
Hurting Crystal never occurred to me. Ever.
Hurting Tommie the sleazebag burnt-orange Civic driver did. But not seriously. I might have bloodied his nose if I’d seen them together right after we broke up, but I wouldn’t have hurt him or anyone else. I was altogether happy to let them hurt each other (which I was convinced they would do. And I was correct).
What makes people snap? Do they know it’s happening while it’s happening? Did Simon, for instance, believe his brain was firing along, business as usual, and that blowing the bus was a logical punishment for Caroline?
I want to understand how the world that produced Carter Stockton also produced Simon Westwood.
CAROLINE
We lie in a queen bed in the Comfort Inn.
My head is in Becky’s lap. Her fingers massage my scalp. She is singing a song for me, so my heart will not race. But it races.
Becky is unafraid; Go is a wonder; Rudy is a marvel.
My brain is a chorus.
I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. I like them all. Dammit, dammit, I like them all.
37. BUTTER ON A SKILLET
$83,250.75
I stayed in the gym for a long time, rereading Rudy’s words. All the lights were off except for the bathroom’s. The Princess Bride started again. Caroline and Becky occupied one bed and a single lump filled the other. I stumbled toward the television, nearly tripped on a shoe, and groped for the remote. The picture shrank, and I followed a sliver of light to the sink, where I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and tried not to think about getting into bed with Rudy Guthrie.
Maybe he’s asleep. Chan often fell asleep before his eyes closed.
When I crawled into bed, Rudy whispered, “We can swap them.”
They were snoring. “It’s only sleep,” I said.
“I don’t want you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” I said, but we both fidgeted. “I liked what you wrote. What’s it for?”
“My sanity.”
I’d expected him to say Ms. Jay. When I turned slightly, the outline of his nose and the curve of his forehead were in dark silhouette. That incredible mop of hair fell onto the pillow and I resisted the urge to part it the way I would if he were Chan.
“Give me a micro-moment?” he asked.
“From when?”
“From whenever.”
I chose a time I’d rarely spoken about.
“Carter Stockton was my medic. He loaded me into the ambulance, started an IV, wiped the trickle of blood from my ears. He wrote Bellevue on a clipboard pad because I couldn’t read his lips. I asked him to call my mother.”
“I don’t remember my ambulance ride at all.”
“Most of the sounds from that day are dulled, practically wiped, but some of the images are seared. When I close my eyes, Carter’s smiling at me.”
“I . . . that’s amazing. I’m still remembering things from that day,” Rudy says.
“You can’t blame your brain for protecting you until you’re ready.”
His head bobbed against the pillow. He curled more to his left, more toward me. He was shirtless, which wasn’t surprising, but it was distracting. I made sure to stay flat on my back and stare at the ceiling. But no matter how much distance I kept between our bodies, my voice betrayed me. “I didn’t know you’d lived,” I said.
Mom tried to hide the special edition People magazine under a newspaper in her hospital chair. When she left for a coffee refill, I forced myself to search for Rudy’s face. The issue reminded me of the coverage of Sandy Hook. Nineteen square photos on a black glossy cover. A yearbook of Bus #21. There was a boy that could have been Rudy. For twelve long minutes I imagined him in a sleek black casket. I lay there praying and squeezing the rails of the bed, unable to read the article. When Mom came back with a Danish and decaf, I begged her to check the names.
“I was so relieved you weren’t on that list. I didn’t even know you and . . .”
“Ms. Jay did the same for me. I listened for you, Golden, and I thought about you when I was in rehab.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.” He coughed quietly, self-consciously. “Tell me more about Carter the medic.”
“We managed a decent conversation between lip reading and his clipboard. I probably screamed at him.” It had taken days for the ringing to stop. “He’d been a medic for twenty years and he swore he’d never seen anything like our bus. I told him I’d been in New York less than twenty-four hours and I wasn’t impressed. I tried to laugh, but I coughed myself into a fit. Carter squeezed my hand and walked me through my injuries. Burned feet, fractured jaw. I lost a lot of blood from a laceration near my hip.” I remembered thinking about how much money all that blood would cost my family. That Mom and Dad might not be able to work if I lived and were seriously injured. And they’d have to afford a funeral if I died. I thought caskets were fairly expensive, but the Hive would pitch in and help.
>
“Did you think you were going to die?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“I prayed.”
“Me too.”
“Who told your dad?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a cop? Maybe Caroline? I never asked. I only have a twenty- or thirty-second memory following the bombing. Seeing . . . bodies. Caroline on the ground. Screaming that I couldn’t move my legs.”
We were stilled by this memory.
He asked, “How come you didn’t tell me you knew Stock?”
“I don’t know him know him. He was just there.”
“What made you reach out on Tuesday?”
“Chan’s engagement request. Stock announcing opening day. What made you?”
“No one else to talk to.”
“How do you feel about Accelerant Orange?”
“You’ve seen the videos; you know what Stock’s doing is a tribute to us and the others. I trust that. His heart is first-class. I guess . . . apart from that . . . I’m nervous. It’s not just the bus itself; it’s all those people. I’ve played soccer in front of several thousand, half the stadium hoping you fail, half wanting you to succeed. Guess which side is more pressure?”
I already knew. “Your fans.”
“You bet. A hundred percent of the time. Because you go home with them. Because they’ll see you again. They’ll follow your story. Accelerant Orange doesn’t feel very different from running out on the field, hearing the crowd scream, and knowing you’re playing a team full of Goliaths.”
“Does the money make it worse?” The number was still climbing: $83,250.75.
“Not really. That money is the only way college is an option now. Does it for you?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe. Pretty unnerving to think about. I watched my gran put a hundred dollars in the till, so I have an image of people seeing our story and deciding they’ll give to our futures. It makes me think that’s a shit ton of money . . . I’d better build a future they’d like. If I have another day like today, they’ll ask for a refund.”
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