by Tom Leveen
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
“Ah,” Andy says. “So who is he?”
“Just a friend. His name’s Noah.”
“Yeah? Is he hot?”
“Why, you want me to hook you two up or what?”
Andy laughs. It’s about the most genuine laugh I’ve heard from him thus far. “No, that’s okay,” he says.
“What about Kayla? Was she hot?”
“What?”
“Your girlfriend,” I say. “Was she hot?”
Andy goes silent for a few seconds. “I guess,” he says. “I didn’t think of her that way, though. I mean, I didn’t think of her exclusively in terms of how attractive she was. That’s not why I liked her.”
He hesitates.
“So you and this Noah guy . . .”
“I’m not dating Noah.”
“Well, that’s what you say, but—”
“No, I mean, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. He’s my friend. It would be weird.”
“Ah,” Andy says. “Okay. So then is there someone else?”
“Why?”
“Because the story I’m going to tell you is a bit on the dark side,” Andy says, and I think, Surprise, surprise. “I want to know where you stand with relationships. You’re not seeing someone now?”
I blow a hair out of my face. “Not for lack of trying, I guess.”
“Yeah? So you’re crushing on someone?”
“I was.” I am, is more like the truth, but with each day passing that I don’t get to see or talk to Lucas, I worry that any chance I might have had is slipping.
“What happened?” Andy asks.
“I thought you wanted to talk about your girlfriend.”
“I thought you said you’d do whatever it took to get me home safe.”
This is a mind game. There’s no doubt about it, as far as I’m concerned, but, dammit, I can’t figure out what it is, and I can’t risk just hanging up. I feel like I’m a teller at a bank robbery and the robber only has a note saying he’ll kill a baby or something if I don’t hand over the money.
Hostage. That’s what I am. A hostage.
“Yes,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “That’s true. Whatever it takes.”
“I appreciate that,” Andy says, and his voice sort of changes for a second, like he’s shifting his sitting position or something. “So tell me about this guy you like. What’s his name?”
Great.
“Lucas,” I say.
“Uh-huh, and where do you know him from . . . ?” Andy sings, like he’s having a grand old time.
“School.”
“He like you back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah, you haven’t told him yet.”
“Not exactly. I was hoping to, but.”
“But?”
“Some things came up.” Being charged with felonies has that effect, but I don’t say it to Andy.
“What do you like about him?”
“He plays baseball,” I say, trying hard not to let my voice go all gooey-girlie. “He’s really good. And his arms are just . . . yeah.”
“Huh,” Andy says. “So he’s a good-looking young chappie.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He is. It’s true.”
“But what else?”
“What else, what?”
“What else do you like about him? Please don’t tell me it’s all about his looks or the fact that he’s some sporto hero.”
“I just . . . like him,” I say. And it sounds stupid. I can hear it in my own voice.
“I’m disappointed,” Andy says. “I’d expect you to go after someone who believed in truth, justice, the American way, all that stuff. But he’s just a pretty face, huh?”
I squeeze my eyelids shut for a long moment to try to get some moisture back into them.
“Maybe,” I say. But what I think is, I don’t know. Is he? I mean, when I’ve gone out with that group, like up to the lake, I felt like more of an initiate than a member. The JV team, sort of. Like they were trying me out. I’m not blind; I’ve seen how Lucas is around the other girls, even my teammates. But they didn’t get invited to the lake, or to Lucas and Marly’s table for lunch. That’s not my fault. And I’m pretty sure that if I was to throw myself at him—you know, open wide—he wouldn’t hesitate to take it.
I don’t want that. I want everything: talking and laughing and hanging out, plus kissing and all the rest of it.
“Well, you should tell him,” Andy says. “If he’s just eye candy, you got nothing to lose.”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.” I hate that I’m even thinking about this. My whole life is going to change tomorrow. Lucas Mulcahy should be the last thing I’m worried about. But then, shouldn’t that be true for Andy, too?
“Tori, let me tell you something, as I sit up here looking at the stars above this back-asswards little town and into the gloom of certain death just down the highway from me,” Andy says, and for some reason, I visualize his eyes closing, not open.
“Okay?” I say.
“Life is short,” Andy says. “Am I right?”
I answer cautiously, “Yes . . .”
“You should make a move. As soon as possible. You never know what tomorrow’s going to bring.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“You sound tired, Tori.”
“Listen,” I say, “please don’t get upset or anything, okay? But why are you doing this? I don’t want anything to happen to you, okay? I really don’t. But if you sincerely did just call me at random, how come? Because I’m really confused about what the hell it is we’re talking about here. Why are you asking me about Lucas?”
Andy is quiet for a second. When he speaks, his voice is all business again. Firm. The fun-loving tone he had while asking about Lucas has evaporated into nothing.
“All right,” he says. “This fine evening, after pulling off to the side of the road, I was just about to shove the gas pedal down as hard as I could, and instead, I got this idea that if—and this is a big if, all right?—if there is a God, or even a Flying Spaghetti Monster, and he didn’t want me to die, then I’d just dial a number, and if someone answered, someone who then bothered to give a single, solitary droplet of shit about me, then maybe I wouldn’t do it. That’s pretty much it, sweetheart. So you’re the lucky girl, and so fucking help me, I’m happy to get off this phone any time you want and finish the job.”
His tone is so bitter and harsh that it chokes me like a mouthful of baseline chalk.
“Okay,” I cough. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.” It comes out like a bark, teeth bared.
“Why this way? I mean, why not take pills or something? It’d hurt a lot less.”
Andy is quiet again for a minute. “Thing is,” he says, and sounds like he’s back in control of himself, “it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
That sounds promising. If he hasn’t been planning it, then maybe he isn’t committed to going through with it.
“I realized,” Andy goes on, “that, for one thing, it wouldn’t hurt, not really. No more than a gunshot would, anyway. And pills, someone could stop me. Find me before they finished me off. And this way, nobody else gets hurt.”
“How would someone else get hurt any other way?”
“I just mean that this way, it could be an accident,” Andy says. “No one would ever know I did it on purpose.”
“Except me.”
“Well, yes. Except you. Sorry.”
Great.
“What you said before,” Andy goes. “About my ill-fated romance. You really don’t mind listening? Because like I said, it gets a little sappy.”
I check the clock. Holy crud, it’s after two. Except . . . I don’t yawn.
“I’m all ears,” I tell him.
“Promise?” Andy says.
“Promise.”
“You a woman of your word?”
“Uh . . . I think so.”
“Wa
y to inspire confidence, there.”
“Look,” I tell him, “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from doing what you said you were going to do.”
“You’re having a hard time with the word ‘suicide,’ Tori.”
“Well, yeah. Sorry.”
Thankfully, he skips asking for clarification. “Will you promise not to ask if I’m serious again?”
“You can trust me.”
“I can trust you, huh?” Andy says, like there’s a smirk on his face. “Trust you with my life?”
“Well, I mean, I’d rather you didn’t have to,” I say, honestly enough. “I’d really rather you just said, ‘Thanks, I feel better now,’ and then drive home.”
“I can’t do that, Tori. I really can’t.”
“Why not?” I ask him, trying for a logical tone this time. “Why not just go home and get some sleep? Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning. You could talk to your parents, or—”
“I’ve tried that, I’ve tried everything,” he says. “I tried talking to my parents. I tried going to a counselor. They even tried me on medication, and none of it worked. You know?”
Yes, I want to say, but don’t. Not that I have personal experience with it, but. Yes. I know.
“It was just an idea,” I say. “So go ahead. I’m listening.”
Listening is not something I do well, but I’m going to try.
Maybe it will help.
Me, not Andy.
“Okay, so. Where do I start?”
“Kayla,” I say.
Andy hesitates. “You remembered her name.”
“Well—sure.”
“Okay. That’s impressive. I’ll take that. Here we go. I met her at—”
Jack barrels through my door. “Time’s up!”
I almost shriek in surprise, and Jack looks like that’s exactly the reaction he was looking for. Smirking, he scoops up his laptop and hustles out of my room and down the hall.
Fine. Whatever. I kick the door shut, hoping it didn’t wake up my parents.
“Sorry,” I say to Andy. “Small interruption. I’m back.”
“You sure?”
“Totally sure,” I say, peeking through my blinds. “So tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Well, she’s not my girlfriend anymore, for one thing.”
“Okay, so tell me about your ex-girlfriend.”
“She’s not my ex, either,” Andy says.
“Okay, so, what is she?”
“She’s dead.”
Kevin Cooper wrote on your timeline.
September 2, one year ago.
Hey Tori. You want to hang out sometime after school?
Like · Comment · Share
Tori Hershberger I’m pretty busy with softball and everything.
Kevin Cooper K
NINE
“Oh . . . ,” I say.
“She was killed, and there was nothing I could do,” Andy says.
“Andy, I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
His voice turns abruptly ragged and sharp, the serrated edge of a hunting knife. Why does it seem like everyone keeps asking me that?
“Well, yeah, I mean . . . it’s tragic.”
Andy hesitates, then just says, “Yeah.”
“We don’t have to talk about this,” I say.
“No, no,” Andy says. “We got this far. You want to know why I’m ready to put the pedal to the metal, right?”
“Well . . .”
“That involves Kayla, and what happened to her,” Andy says. “Unless you can’t take it.”
I shut my eyes and rub them hard until green spots dance behind my lids.
“I can take it,” I say. “So . . . where’d you meet her?”
“Comic book shop. I got a job working there over the summer. It was pretty cool.”
I’m glad he can’t see me roll my eyes. Maybe he’s not the semi-debonair guy I’d envisioned. Hot guys generally don’t hang out at comic book shops, except maybe Noah, and he’s only hot by comparison. He goes to one for his weirdo anime fix.
“You think I’m a big nerd now?” Andy asks, like he can read my mind.
“No,” I say. But think, Yeah, kinda. Not the first one I’ve met. Or lived with.
I check my blinds again and catch Noah coming up the sidewalk. Thank God. I raise the blinds and slide open my window. By the time he gets there, I’m fumbling with the screen.
“Well, she’d just seen the newest Superman movie,” Andy is saying. “That happens a lot. People see a superhero movie and then suddenly we get flooded with customers. It’s probably why the industry is still alive. But she came in asking about it, and we got to talking, and one thing led to another.”
“So you just took her right then and there,” I manage to say while Noah helps me with the screen. After another moment we’ve got it, and he’s climbing carefully into my room.
Thank you! I mouth.
Andy laughs. Or what amounts to a laugh for him. “No. That part was . . . different.”
“Different how?” I say as Noah slides my window shut and sits on my bed. His eyebrows are squeezed together as he watches me, clearly trying to catch up to the conversation.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Andy says. “Do you remember your first kiss?”
My gut clenches. I look at Noah. What awful, stupid timing.
Noah mouths at me, Put it on speaker.
I wince and shake my head.
Noah points to himself with both hands and mouths, Then why am I here?
“Tori?” Andy says.
“Huh? Yeah?”
“Do you remember your first kiss?”
“Um . . . I’m going to put you on speaker, okay?” I say. “My hand’s cramping up and my ear’s all sweaty.”
“Oh. Sure, yeah.”
“Thanks.”
Because I’m an idiot, I put my finger to my lips. Noah gives me a pitying look that says No shit, Hershy. Then I set the phone down in the middle of my mattress and tap the speaker button.
“You there?” I say.
“Loud and clear,” Andy says. “Now quit stalling. Yes or no, do you remember your first kiss?”
Noah looks confused. I wave it off. “Sure,” I say.
“What was it like?”
I shrug, as if Andy can see me, and start wandering around my room so I don’t have to look at Noah. I can feel him following me with his eyes. “You know. Okay.”
“Do you remember his name?”
As clear as the first time I struck someone out, I think.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Well?”
“Well, it’s not something I want to really talk about.”
“Oh, come on. How hot and sexy can a first kiss be?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just, the other guys put him up to it. So I felt kind of used, to be honest. If you can be used in seventh grade.”
“Oh. Sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed.”
I sigh, and don’t bother making it silent. I want him to hear it. “It’s okay. What about yours?”
“With Kayla?”
“Or whoever.”
“Kayla . . .” Andy trails off. I imagine him staring into the distance through the rainy windshield.
“It took a long time,” he says finally. “To kiss, I mean.”
“That’s a bummer.”
Noah makes a scribbling motion with his right hand. I point to my desk. He gets up, rummages around, and finds a notepad and Sharpie. On the pad he writes, “This is suicidal?”
I hold up a finger to indicate Just wait.
“It was okay, though,” Andy is saying. “She was really . . . you know, affectionate? And I liked that. We went pretty slow. And I didn’t know until then that that’s kind of what I wanted.”
“Are you sure you’re a boy? Because the guys I know are not into slow going.”
Noah offers me a big jokey shrug as if to say, We can’t help it.
Andy give
s another low laugh. “Pretty sure,” he says.
“So—I mean, not to be crude or anything, but did she cheat on you or something?” That seemed to be the way these things went. So I’d heard.
Andy is silent again for a bit before saying, “No. But nobody knew. Nobody knew we were together. Everyone just thought we were friends. Really good friends, but nothing else. Even her mom didn’t know. Still doesn’t know we were together, really.”
“Why didn’t Kayla tell anyone you were together? Was she . . . embarrassed by you or something?” I ask. Suddenly I wonder if Andy is this disfigured monster or something, that my long-hair, high-cheekbones imagining of him is merely wishful thinking. Comic book nerd notwithstanding.
“I don’t think so, not specifically. But . . . maybe. Yeah. I didn’t blame her. It was kind of a first for both of us. I mean, we had to make it up as we went along.”
“You never dated anyone before?”
“No one like Kayla.”
I sit on the bed, beside but not too near Noah. He’s leaning over with his elbows on his knees, face tight in concentration.
“What was it about her?” I ask. “What made her so special?”
“She . . . she completed me,” Andy says.
Noah’s serious face breaks, and he makes a jerk-off gesture. I almost laugh out loud, and smack his shoulder. It’s such a relief having him here, but I also need him to understand just how much of my ass is on the line. He grabs the notepad again and scrawls, “Not buying it!”
I write a question mark. He writes, “This kid is not going to kill himself.”
“God, I know how awful that sounds,” Andy says. “It’s so cliché and lame, but I don’t know how else to put it. I could be who I am without worrying about it for the first time in my life, when I was with her.”
He pauses.
“She made it okay to be me.”
Some smart-ass remark whistles through my brain, but it’s gone before I can really seize it. Then I’m grateful it’s gone. I don’t want to make fun of something like that. Even Noah lets that one go.
“Then my dad started getting suspicious,” Andy goes on.
“Suspicious about what?”
“That we were doing a lot more than staying up all night watching movies or whatever,” Andy says. “Which is exactly what we were doing.”
“And makin’ out,” I can’t help but say.
“Sometimes.”
