“You don’t need to worry,” my mother said. Her frozen hand grazed my cheek. “It’s just a side effect. Everything is under control.”
The rain continued for a week. The following Monday, during morning announcements, we were told that there had been a mudslide out in Silverado Canyon, and a junior named Annie Young had died. The principal omitted the details over the loudspeaker, but soon enough, the facts dispersed: a boulder had crashed through the roof of her bedroom, crushing her instantly beneath its weight.
Though I had never met Annie, her death struck me hard. I was used to the ground trembling beneath me and had prepared for fire, spent hours considering what possessions I would grab if the winds ever changed and the flames swept toward me. But this—how could anyone prepare themselves for this?
The school held vigils and grief counseling sessions on campus. Ms. Grobler even offered to excuse absences for any advisees that came in to talk. I didn’t go. I didn’t think I had the right to mourn someone I’d never met, to walk around with my head slung or huddle in the groups that hugged and cried, spilling tears into each other’s hair. I couldn’t even picture her when the principal said Annie’s name, or in the minute of silence that my homeroom teacher requested in her honor.
But by lunch, I saw nothing else.
“It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it?” Lynn asked when we met at her locker.
Sometime after the announcement, the school had been plastered with photocopies of Annie’s yearbook picture. The rain had finally eased and everywhere I looked, through the vaporous air, she smiled.
“Yeah,” I said, turning in a slow circle. There she was, staring out from the doors of all the classrooms she wasn’t in, from the concrete walls and the bulletin boards. She had a round face and thin lips, a single freckle on her left cheekbone. She wasn’t looking at the camera, exactly, but just beyond, over my shoulder. As though she saw something I didn’t. I shivered.
“It’s really surreal,” I added. “I wish the copies hadn’t been made so big.” The breeze clipped the corner of the paper and in that instant, it looked like she was moving. “Did you know her?”
Lynn shook her head. “Never seen her in my life.”
For some reason, this made me more sad than anything else.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lynn said then, turning away from Annie Young. “I can’t handle this place right now.”
Traffic was sparse as we zipped down the 55 South, and I was glad to leave the grieving campus—even more so to miss choir. Just thinking about the harrowing evening I spent across the table from Roger Tipton filled me with dread, and seeing him every day made it impossible to forget. In class, he tried to remain impartial toward me, but that only made me feel worse. I resented the casual sound of my name in his mouth, as if I were any other student passing through his classroom.
At the beach, we parked on a residential street a few blocks inland and wandered down to the ocean. The wind was rougher than it had been in Orange; every few seconds a massive gust kicked up and the seawater sprayed our faces, lacing our skin with a delicate coating of salt. I wondered if we were at the same beach we’d visited the night Cameron and I first kissed.
“Looks like we’re the only ones twisted enough to be out here in this weather, huh?” I said. The shore, as far as I could tell, was empty.
Lynn nodded at the sea. “There are others.”
Even from where we stood, the waves towered over us. They were huge and vicious, each break thundering down with so much force that it was almost impossible to see them at first: surfers. There were a dozen at least, maybe more scattered down the coast. Their shiny black wet suits glistened beneath the veiled rays of sun.
Lynn spread a blanket on the sand and we sat down. “I think there’s something really peaceful about the ocean on days like this.”
“You mean days when the waves are deadly and it’s freezing cold?” Teeth chattering, I pulled my knees to my chest.
“When there’s no one here except the surfers.”
We both turned our attention back to the ocean. Not a single body had moved since we arrived; they simply floated up and down, bobbing over the waves.
“I’m terrified just watching them,” I said. “Terrified and mesmerized.”
“Do you ever think about how you’ll die?”
“What?”
I looked at Lynn, but she was still focused on the surfers.
“Sure,” I said when it was clear that she would not elaborate. “I spend so much time trying not to think about death that I end up thinking about it constantly.”
She said, “I’ve always had this feeling that I’m going to die young.”
“Why would you think that?”
Lynn shrugged. “I’ve just never seen it for myself, that life that you’re supposed to have. A husband and a house. Kids.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine any of it.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything. You can’t see your future because it hasn’t been decided yet. That’s all.”
“I guess,” she said, but I still felt flooded by some grim feeling.
“Is something else bothering you?” I asked.
She offered a thin smile and said, “No.”
Despite Lynn’s reassurances, I knew Annie Young’s death must have rattled her, too—reminded her that we were all breakable. That at any moment a boulder could crash through the ceiling of our small, safe world and end everything.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I felt the soft edges of my father’s matchbook.
“I want to find Jason,” I said. “The other Spade.” A moment passed, but she didn’t respond. “You don’t think I should?”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Digging up the past rarely leads to anything good—and that’s if he even still lives at the same place.”
“But he might. And he might know something important. I have to at least try, before . . .” Before it’s too late, I thought.
Seagulls floated along the shore, cawing as they searched for stray crabs or scraps of food. Beyond them, a surfer paddled into a forming wave, climbing with the crest. I could feel my muscles tightening as I watched his arms struggle to gain momentum, but the wave built too fast. He couldn’t catch it. My body unclenched as he disappeared behind the swell.
“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” Lynn said. “Death.”
“Yes.” My answer was hardly more than the whisper of wind.
She turned to me. “What if he’d survived? Have you ever really thought about it? He could have ended up in a coma, or on life support. He could have drooled from a wheelchair for the next twenty years. Would that have been better?”
I’d never considered the other possibilities. Of course I hadn’t—there was only the man my father had been, and the lack of him.
“Trust me,” she said. “Sometimes death is a preferable alternative.”
The breeze picked up again, spritzing us with saltwater. Lynn lay down on her back and closed her eyes. I kept watching the surfers. I thought about the rainwater that had pooled across campus, drowning the flowers my mother had planted in our backyard. I thought about the picture of Annie Young and the way she smiled from every surface of the school, her eyes seeing something that the rest of us could not. Words nudged me; I pulled a notebook from my backpack and began to write.
I won’t believe it. No, I won’t believe
that all eternity can be spent looking
for the soul you lost after a single mistake.
A single regret is all I can take.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the 55 was jammed as we headed back to Orange. Because it rained so infrequently, most Californians never learned how to drive in it. The asphalt was still slick with oils, the cars skating on tires that were old and worn. There must have been an accident somewhere up ahead. We merged into the carpool lane, but even then our progress was sluggish.
I sank into my seat as we crawled forward, my mind
hazy with thoughts of Cameron and the Troubadour. I’d been desperate for details, or at least a date, but since the party Cameron had only texted me twice—once to inform me about band practice, and once to cancel it because of the weather. When I tried to turn those dregs of contact into conversation, the messaging quickly fizzled and died. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember if our earlier texts had been all that interesting, or if the fact that he had messaged me with any frequency at all made me think there was something special between us.
“Can I ask you something?” I said after another futile cell phone check.
“Shoot,” Lynn said.
“What would you do,” I began, and then stopped. Above the cramped lanes of the freeway, a plane coasted toward the Santa Ana Airport. It grew bigger and bigger until I thought it might land right on top of us. “What would you do if you were involved with someone who didn’t want the relationship to be public?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but didn’t Cameron practically swallow your face the other night at that party?”
“I wouldn’t have put it that way, exactly, but yeah. You saw that?”
Lynn lit a cigarette and rolled down the windows. “I know he can be a bit sloppy when he’s drinking, but the instinct was there.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said through a sigh. The confirmation of our kiss seemed satisfying enough, and I would have left it at that—gladly. But Lynn continued.
“Look. I’ve known these guys for years,” she said, “and I’m not suggesting that I agree with it by any means, but I’ve learned to accept it.”
“Accept what?”
“Their need to . . . exude a certain image.” She waved her fingers. “They’re incredibly talented, but that’s not enough. Even if you’re the best band out there, it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing anymore. You need buzz. You need people talking about you, coming to shows, spending their money on your tickets, your albums, your fucking T-shirts. And the boys know that, so they project themselves in a way that makes them seem attainable, even if they aren’t. It’s part of their intrigue.”
“What about Alex?” I said.
“What about him?”
“He’s been with Josie for five years.”
She exhaled a hard, straight line of smoke. “I’m assuming she’s the one who told you that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Let’s just say that neither one of them has the greatest track record when it comes to fidelity.”
I felt something creak through my gut. But hadn’t Josie also warned me not to believe what everyone else says? Only the two people in any relationship ever knew the truth about it—and sometimes, I supposed, only one.
Sighing, I dangled my arm out the window. “What was it like when you were with Cameron?” I asked.
“I wasn’t with him,” Lynn said, tossing me a thorny glance. “We didn’t date or anything. Just fooled around a bit.”
“But you slept with him,” I said, hoping to sound indifferent.
“A few times,” Lynn admitted, and my heart dropped. “It wasn’t a big thing. We just drank too much.”
The carpool lane began to move, and Lynn pressed lightly on the gas. We must have only been going thirty, thirty-five at most, but the way we raced past the other cars made our acceleration seem much faster.
“Cameron’s flighty,” Lynn said. “Easily interested, and easily spooked. The best way to keep him is to be comfortable letting him go.”
“And if I don’t want that?”
“I guess you have to ask yourself what you’re willing to sacrifice. But if you can’t sacrifice him, then he’s probably already gone.”
“So I lose either way.”
“What did you expect? To marry the guy? If that’s what you want—and God, please tell me it isn’t—then this thing you have going with Cameron will never be what you want anyway, and you shouldn’t waste your time waiting around for something that will never change.”
Leaning my head back, I gazed up through Lynn’s windshield. The sky was an ashy gray smudge of blank, undefined clouds, and for some reason then, I thought of my parents. I wondered if my mother had spent all these years waiting for my father to change, to deliver on the promise he made when he left the Vital Spades and came back to her, or if she’d been forced to slacken and shift, accept that she was the only one who could save them. There in the passenger seat of Lynn’s car, one hand coiled around my quiet phone, I finally began to understand what my mother must have felt living with my father, always outnumbered by the phantoms of what had been and what could be. I understood what it must have felt like to love someone who was only ever half present. And I couldn’t decide which would be worse: having only a piece of something, or having none of it at all.
“I guess it must be true, then,” I said. “You’re the second person to say so.”
“Who was the first?” Lynn asked.
My phone vibrated and I yanked my hand from my purse, stomach tumbling through tangled nerves. But the text message wasn’t from Cameron.
Oh Susannah, Susannah—wherefore art thou, Susannah? Deny thy caffeine indulgence and refuse to ever go to the Last Bean again if that new girl doesn’t figure out how to serve a freaking iced coffee . . .
A smile fought its way to my lips. I typed, Oh, Nick—you’re kind of like a rainstorm, and just as unexpected.
Lynn spoke again. “What?” I asked.
“Who was the first person to say that?”
“Luke,” I told her.
“Luke?” Lynn turned to me, confusion furrowing her brows.
“Yeah, it was the weirdest thing,” I said, slipping my phone back into my purse, but before I could explain, a car slammed on its breaks in front of us. “Lynn watch out!”
Our car screeched to a stop, bodies whipping forward against the seat belts before knocking back again. My heart skidded through my chest but we were static—no crash, no clang. We must have only been centimeters from the bumper in front of us, and I just kept breathing, gulping in air, staring at the bright red sticker in the car’s back windshield: Do you follow Jesus this close?
Only once we’d exited the freeway did one of us dare to speak.
“I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about with Cameron,” Lynn said lightly, as if our conversation had never been interrupted. Her voice was unconvincing, quivering. “But you probably shouldn’t be taking relationship advice from me. It’s not like I’ve figured any of this shit out.” She glanced at me just long enough to confirm that I noticed the sad way she tried to smile.
My hands were still trembling when she added, “Sorry for the scare. This day has completely fucked with my nerves.” She shook her head. “Goddamn Boulder Girl.”
A few days later all the rain clouds had cleared but the school was still shrouded in the death of Annie Young. Students continued to wear black, and at lunch, a hushed, collective calm swept across the otherwise boisterous quad. Even the teachers remained somber—a fact that, Lynn and I realized, rendered many of their ironclad attendance policies temporarily flexible. Knowing there would likely be no consequences, we decided once again to skip out at lunch. This time, though, we drove in the opposite direction.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked Lynn as we pulled away from campus. “I can find another way out there. You already drive me around enough as it is.”
“You know how much I love driving,” she said. “There’s nothing better than the freedom to go wherever the hell I want, whenever I want. And maybe today, I want to go to Venice.” She flashed me a smile. “Besides, it’s your gas money.”
“And your time,” I said. “So thank you.”
We took the 405 North, toward Jason Miller.
The address Kurt Vaughan had given me led to an old, grungy apartment building hidden at the back side of a gas station—the kind of place time had neglected, with rusted bars covering the windows and exterior walls patchworked with paint in a vain attempt to remove old tattoos
of graffiti. Lynn and I climbed to the second floor, curving around the balcony until we reached number 6B. I knocked on the door.
Inside, something clanged. “Yeah, coming,” a raspy voice grumbled through the wall. I looked to Lynn.
“At least he’s home,” she said, “whoever he is.”
A strange amalgamation of hope and unease pounded through me. The door flung open.
“Oh, hey,” the man said, leaning against the door frame as though he’d been expecting me. At the same time, though, he looked like he’d just woken up. He was half-dressed in a tank top and boxer shorts, with unkempt hair and murky brown eyes that appeared somehow sunken as he squinted against the sharp gleam of sun. He snapped his fingers, searching for a word that dangled just out of reach. “Vanessa.”
“Susannah,” I said, stunned.
“Susannah,” he repeated. “Right, yeah. I meant to call.”
My mouth fell open. “You did?”
“I think you have her confused for somebody else,” Lynn interrupted, severing the connection, and only then did I understand what was happening.
I decided to start over. “Are—are you Jason Miller?”
“Maybe.” A sudden suspicion tinted his tone. “What’s it to you?”
“My name is Susannah Hayes. My father was James Hayes. From the Vital Spades.”
He straightened up at the names, a short laugh springing from his mouth as he said, “No shit.”
Jason’s apartment was tiny: a one-room studio with a detached kitchen at one end, a pullout sofa bed that he’d hastily pushed in at the other. Takeout containers decorated the tabletops, along with ashtrays and empty bottles and a grimy glass rimmed with red lipstick. In the far corner, I noticed crates of records stacked next to scattered music equipment: a mixing board, a Gibson SG, an amp. The air smelled faintly of sweet-and-sour chicken—emphasis on the sour.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, opening the fridge. “I’ve got . . . beer. You guys want a beer?”
The Midnights Page 24
