Where I Live

by Brenda Rufener

  “So, you and Reed,” Seung says, re-ruining the moment.

  I finger part the back of my hair and scoop it forward. “There’s something you don’t know about our beloved Reed Clemmings,” I mumble, my eyes still shut.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “You might. I mean, it could affect things with your queen.”

  “Would you please stop calling her that.”

  I open my eyes. Too tired for more sarcasm. Besides, Ham hated when Seung and I argued, claimed it was cover for sexual tension.

  I drop my head to the side and whisper, “Sorry.”

  Seung sighs and stares at the road. “So what about Reed?”

  “We had the wrong guy. Reed’s the one who’s been hurting Bea, not Toby. In fact, as surprising as it sounds, Asswipe’s been trying to help her.”

  I fill Seung in on homecoming night, postkiss, and he insists that we talk to Mr. George or Principal Falsetto when we return to school. He’s typical overprotective Seung, but I think he’s right. No matter what Bea says, she needs our help.

  “Is Toby okay?” I ask.

  “Define okay,” Seung says, and chuckles.

  “Not the best time for jokes,” I whisper.

  “Sorry, but yes. Well, Asswipe’s never going to be okay, by our definition, but physically he got off easy. I’d say the crash into the school wall was minor compared to what happened to him earlier.”

  “Minor?”

  “A bit concussed, but he left the hospital with only a bruised chest and ego. Despite a few hair-related items missing from his body, he got off easy.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, enough to start a canker sore. Yeah. Toby got off easy.

  Traffic picks up. Some of the buildings I recognize from my visits to the city—and I use that term loosely because a population over 80,000 in central Oregon equals city—with Seung’s parents. If anyone wants to shop for anything besides milk and bread, they travel the distance to the only mall on this section of the state. I always ride along for the comfort I get from Seung’s family. Today, I am here for Seung. He needs me. I need him. We need to say good-bye to our best friend, together. I just wish Seung showed more grief.

  An urge bubbles up and I blurt, “You know I saw my mother die?” All of a sudden I feel like I need to assist my lungs to function, when all they want to do is close up and constrict. I don’t know why I chose now to tell Seung about my mom. But it feels right to share something personal now, something I’ve kept hidden.

  Seung glances at me, and then the road. He taps the brake and slows. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I stare at the road, lines, bumpers. My head shakes no; my mouth says, “Yes.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually see it happen.” Does it count if I was in the closet, hiding, refusing to look, even though I knew she was there? My mother never woke up. She never moved. She never saw her daughter grow up, get hips, start her period, or take the SAT. It’s what happens when you’re beaten with a fist and the end of something hard and sharp.

  Seung glances over, looking like he does when fighting for answers on trig problems. But all he says is “I bet your mother was beautiful.”

  And all I say is “Bettie Page pretty.”

  Seung drives, without a word. He continues to glance at me, wondering if I’ll share more, but refuses to probe. I decide now is not the time to discuss my mother. This moment belongs to Ham.

  Seung flexes his forearm as he steers and I can’t lure my eyes away. I force myself to stop because I feel like I’m disrespecting the dead. He slows and we turn left, then right. We pass medical buildings and doctors’ offices before pulling into a hospital’s parking lot.

  “Hospital?”

  Seung stares at the building without speaking. Either he doesn’t want to see me cry or doesn’t want me to spot his tears.

  We walk toward the main entrance. Seung takes the lead. Not on purpose, but I’m dragging my feet, shuffling them on the tile, mentally preparing myself for arrows pointing to the morgue. White sheets and metal drawers big enough for mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. Steel tables with metal body scoops that reach down and turn your loved ones. The last time I was in a morgue, I ran. Death doesn’t discriminate against age. Neither does body identification. And when you’re young, and the body is your mother’s, a part of your brain and heart dies. When you see your mom on a stainless-steel table, marked with a tag, you run, hide, and never look back.

  Seung punches the wheelchair button and the doors open. I watch my feet to make sure they’re still moving. We stop at the elevator and I’m breathing like I do after running from security. My chest tightens. My stomach shifts like it’s rising to the top floor. “Seung!” I shout, and cup my hands over my mouth.

  “Linden?” He pushes me toward a drinking fountain and twists my hair around his wrist.

  I wipe my face with my knuckles and Seung hands me a ball of paper towels he grabbed from the restroom. I rub the sandpaper over my chin and dab at my lips.

  “You okay?”

  I shake my head.

  “You want to sit before we see Ham?”

  My jaw tightens. I inhale-exhale before another wave of nausea hits. Then I shoot Seung a thumbs-up.

  “You sure?”

  I nod. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  The elevator opens, and a man steps out with a yellow bucket and biohazard bags. Sorry, dude. I lean against the wall and grip the rail until we stop. “This can’t be the basement,” I say, following Seung off the elevator. “We went up instead of down.”

  Seung says nothing, and I’m too focused on not puking to argue. We pass the nurses’ station and round an open room lined with carts and IV stands. We walk toward the back of the wing until we reach the last door on the right. Ham’s grandparents are sitting in the hall on stools. His grandmother’s face is dark and droopy, and his grandfather looks like a gloomy gray sky. The sides of their mouths hang. Grandma Ham swirls her forehead with her index finger, probably sketching a cross.

  “Seung!” Grandpa Ham shoots out of his stool and drapes his arms over Seung’s shoulders, squeezing him like an orange. “Good to see you, boy.”

  Seung says, “Okay to go in? Is now a good time?”

  As if any time is good. But at least Ham is in a room and not somewhere cold, like the basement. I promise myself I’ll focus on Ham’s sweet round face and big heart, not the tag on his toe or the gauze clamping his jaw closed. I’m happy Ham’s family is Catholic, offering access to him for long good-byes. At least I think Ham’s Catholic. He mentioned chatting with Jarrell at Mass once.

  We walk into the room and I stare at the back of Seung’s shoes. Mrs. Royse reaches for Seung while tears cover her cheeks. I’m motionless and dizzy at the same time. My head spins. I stumble backward. I want to run, hide, go anywhere but here. I want to replace the images of Ham in my head, but I’m afraid the new ones might be worse. I slap both hands on my mouth. Damnitall. I leap into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind me, and spill my guts into the toilet.

  The heaves pause, and I’m breathing regularly again, so I shuffle to the door and let my hand linger on the handle. Ham would want me to hold my head high and march with shoulders back. I’m the vertex of our triangle, not the leg. It’s time I act the way Ham saw me. The way I pretend to see myself when others are watching. I swallow, twist the knob, and face the most wonderful friend I’ve ever known.

  And . . .

  He faces me back.

  Eyes wide, chest moving, breathing, doing everything it’s supposed to do.

  “Ham? Ham. Ham!” I scream, shout, roar.

  “Linden,” Ham whispers. “You came.”

  I hop on the bed and straddle his waist. I squeeze Ham’s face, then mash mine against his cheeks. I crawl alongside him and pat his chest. It’s too much, I know, but whothehellcares.

  “Ham. Ham. Ham!” I’m on repeat. His laugh is Chopin to my ears, and I can’t stop singing his name an
d listening when his mouth makes a melody of words, with air in his lungs and a beat in his chest.

  “What the fuck, Linden?” Ham says, his face flinching, showing signs of terror.

  “Franklin,” Ham’s mom says, “your friends are happy to see you.”

  Happy? There’s not even a word to describe the emotion I feel. I can’t stop squeezing Ham’s body to make sure he’s alive and well and here in this world with me.

  After many seconds of pawing and pinching and patting, Ham swats my hand and tells me it’s enough. I ignore, squeezing his belly one more time, and he yells, “Ouch! Not my side! It’s still tender.”

  “Oh, Ham. I’m sorry. But I thought you were dead. I thought you left me. Left us.” I glance at Seung and he’s wiping his eyes.

  Seung says, “Would have brought you flowers, buddy, but you know I’m broke.”

  Ham smiles. “I prefer candy, anyway.”

  I flop against Ham’s pillow and snuggle next to him in the hospital bed, careful not to bump his side. I rest my head in the crook of his neck and my tears soak the pillow.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Linden,” Ham whispers.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too, Ham.”

  “Revenge plot backfired. But I guess you already know that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHEN WE PULL INTO TOWN, it’s dark. I insist on spending the night at Seung’s. Mrs. Rhee deserves to know what happened to the dress and heirloom necklace, and I need to make plans to pay her back.

  I start in about my fight with a tumbleweed and Mrs. Rhee holds up a stiff hand and refuses my apology.

  “But Mrs. Rhee,” I say, “I’m so sorry about the necklace. I want to repay—”

  Mrs. Rhee wraps me in a hug, her arms made of honey that soaks into the cracks and holes in need of patchwork. For a moment, I remember what it’s like to have a family, or at least the structure of one. To feel loved, cared about. Connected to at least one other person you trust with life because they gave you yours.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Seung’s mom slides my hair behind my ear and whispers back, “Don’t be. It was an accident. My friend’s a jeweler and she owes me a favor.”

  She unwraps her arms from mine, punches a throw pillow back into shape, and grabs a blanket from the closet. She leaves a stack of bedding on the couch and walks upstairs. Seung follows his mom, but midway up the steps, he turns and announces he’s going to crash on the couch, as long as I don’t mind. Mind? Since when does Seung ask for permission to sleep on his own couch, in his own home?

  We start a movie but turn it off twenty minutes deep. We watch TV but decide we’re bored with network television. We settle on staring at our feet while listening to music. Tonight, talking is overrated. Besides, I’m still reeling about Ham’s resurrection.

  After Seung sighs three hundred times, I finally say, “What?”

  He flinches.

  “Your sighs,” I say softly. “Do they mean something other than you’re tired?”

  Seung tilts his head. “They mean something,” he whispers, and returns to staring at his feet.

  I know what’s bothering Seung. It’s obvious. I wish he would just ask me about the Reed Clemmings kiss. What it meant, if I liked it. I figured once he learned what a dick Reed was, is, has always been, he would forget all about the kiss. But his lips have tightened, his arms crossed. He’s even tucked his feet beneath a pillow to avoid touching me.

  We fall asleep on the sectional sofa in the shape of the letter L, our feet inches apart.

  When I wake in the morning, I pat the couch, expecting Seung to be asleep, but he’s in the chair reading something on his phone, sunshine-eyed with wet hair falling into his lashes. The aroma of warm biscuits and dryer sheets makes it impossible to even pretend to sleep.

  I exaggerate a sigh, hopeful Seung’s forgiven me for kissing Reed, but he doesn’t look up from whatever he’s reading. He furrows his brow and grunts, so I swing a blanket over my back like a cape and march toward the bathroom.

  At the door, Seung snaps, “Who the hell is ‘Anonymous’?”

  I whirl and the blanket flaps. “Huh?”

  He holds his phone into the air. “What is this shit?”

  Seung looks like his ghost, the color drained from his face. His lips twitch and his hand, the one gripping the phone, trembles and shakes. I stomp toward the chair and snatch the phone from his fingers, then rub the corners of my eyes into focus. The headline on Hinderwood’s blog reads:

  What You Don’t Know, by Anonymous

  “What’s this?” I ask, rereading the title. My eyes scan the text, then the comments that mention my name. “What the hell is this?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  BY THE TIME WE ARRIVE at school, the blog published by Anonymous has been deleted from Hinderwood’s Facebook page, Twitter feed, and Tumblr. Thank you, Seung, for believing me over blog comments. But just because Seung logged into a few social media accounts and deleted the article doesn’t mean the entire school didn’t swallow its words. Lies at a small-town high school travel at warp speed. Even late risers know someone who memorized key points.

  Reed Clemmings = Monster

  Anonymous = Victim

  The article punches Reed where it should, but the comments don’t. They split the school in half and say things like “She should have signed her name. Owned up to shit.” Owned up? Some call the article blasphemy. Others call Anonymous a hero. “Burn the jerk at the stake.” “Take him to the chopping block.”

  The article shares what kind of person Reed used to be. In his past life. Before he became a monster. There’s mention of his tender touch and the first time he and Anonymous had sex. Then there are the words describing the first time he slapped her face, seven times in a row, each hit with more force. The article reads, “How could someone so flawless become so fucked up?”

  But there’s also that comment at the top. The one responsible for the rumor rage and giving Anonymous her name. “Linden Rose didn’t seem to mind kissing Reed Clemmings at the dance. Who’s the monster now?”

  When Seung and I plow through the front doors of Hinderwood High, we’re met with a frantic principal and rabid school counselor. Apparently they read the comments, too, and have arrived to rescue me. News flash. I don’t need a rescue mission, or at least not for the reason they think.

  Seung loops his arm through mine and waves his hand like he’s swatting away paparazzi cameras. “She can’t talk right now!” he shouts. “She needs to see Mr. George.”

  As we storm the newsroom, Principal Falsetto’s sister walks out.

  “Hey,” she says. Not the most professional salutation for a journalist.

  “Not now,” Seung snaps, struggling to shut the door on her.

  The journalist smiles and grips the handle. “Nice article,” she says, “Anonymous.”

  “No further comment!” Seung shouts, and slams the door in her face. He twists the lock, then rushes Mr. George’s desk.

  He logs on to the computer and pounds keys. Mr. George isn’t in the room, but I’m certain he’ll be here soon, ready to talk.

  “Everyone thinks it’s me,” I say. “Even Miss Sunshine.”

  “Miss who?”

  I shake my head at Seung. “Never mind.”

  “It’s because of that comment,” he says, his voice climbing. “One comment spawned fifty more. What the hell is wrong with people? Don’t they know the rules? You never read comments. Ever.”

  I step beside Seung and accidentally bump him with my hip. His eyes open up and I smile to myself. Seung notices, too. Right away.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” he asks. “You should be mad, not smiley.”

  I tuck my lips around my teeth. It’s hard to stop grinning when you thought your friend was dead, then find out he’s alive. All else seems trivial. “I know the truth,” I say. “Why be mad?”

  “Because everyone thinks you wrote the article,” he says. “E
veryone thinks you’re Anonymous.”

  “Well, it’s not me. You and I both know that. Obviously, it’s Bea.”

  “And you’re not mad at her?” Seung rubs his forehead, confused.

  “Why would I be mad at Bea? She can’t control the comments.”

  I don’t feel anger toward Bea. If anything, I’m relieved. She finally stood up for herself, even if she did it anonymously, even if I was indirectly implicated in the process of telling the truth. This has nothing to do with me.

  I neaten a stack of notebooks on Mr. George’s desk, unsure why I’m compelled to organize shit. I suppose I could be raging mad, pissed at Bea for eliminating her name from the article or forgetting to disable comments. But why? I know the truth. Seung knows the truth. Everyone at school now knows the truth about Reed. Who cares if Bea refused to sign her name and shine a flashlight in her face? Maybe she wanted to fly beneath the radar. Maybe it’s her way of getting revenge.

  “You don’t care if everyone thinks you had sex with Reed?” Seung asks, and I can’t help but notice him recoil and squirm.

  “I can’t control what others think.”

  Seung cares more about my reputation than I do. But he believed me without question. And I’ve done my fair share of lying. Everything else seems minor-league.

  I bump Seung with my hip again, only this time I don’t hit his hip, I hit the front of his pants. By accident. My head is instantly twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the room.

  “I’m glad you don’t care,” Seung says, and bites his bottom lip. “And I’m glad it’s not true. I mean, not you.”

  “Did you think it was?” I match Seung’s move by chewing my lip. Only when it makes a slurping sound do we both smile and stare at each other’s face, lips, feet.

  “Never.” Seung taps my thigh with his knee, then clears his throat. “You snored last night.”

  I chuckle. “Well, of course I did. I was tired.”

  “It was cute.”