The Last Time We Say Goodbye

by Cynthia Hand

  This is true. So far in this episode Theresa—the medium, who has a thick Long Island accent and huge bleached platinum hair—has felt compelled to deliver a message from beyond to the guy at the Chinese takeout place and a girl she meets at a cooking class.

  “She always bites her lip when she hears the spirits,” Sadie adds. “I love how she tells people, too. She just comes out and says, ‘I’m a medium. I talk to dead people.’”

  I’m not sold. Not that the show isn’t entertaining, because, if I’m being honest, it is. But it seems to me that the medium is simply telling people what of course they want to hear: that the person who died is safe and happy and at peace, and they shouldn’t feel guilty about whatever they feel guilty about, and everything’s okay.

  In my experience, everything is not okay.

  “So,” Sadie says after the show wraps up. “What do you think Ty’s trying to tell you? Why is he here?”

  I hesitate. Then I retrieve my backpack from where I left it in the corner and dump the contents out on my desk.

  “Whoa, is that rose made of paper?” Sadie asks, swinging herself around to sit up. “That’s amazing. Where’d you get it?”

  “Nowhere.” I stab a pin through the wire stem and tack the rose up next to last year’s daisy before Sadie has a chance to inspect it. I really, really don’t want to get into my love life right now. Instead, I pull Ty’s letter out from between the pages of my notebook. I hold it for a minute, feeling its weight in my hand, unwilling to relinquish it, and then I hand it to Sadie.

  “I found it in his desk,” I explain, a detail I’d kind of skimmed over before. “After I saw him—later, I mean, I found it.”

  “Who’s Ashley?” she asks immediately.

  I sigh. “The girl he took to homecoming. Outside of that, I have no idea.”

  I show her my typed list of prospective Ashleys.

  “Damn,” she says, scanning down the page with her finger. “That’s a lot of Ashleys.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “And you don’t have any other clues?”

  I swallow. “She’s blond. I only saw her once, from the back.”

  “That’s not a lot to go on.” She looks at my face and scoffs. “Ah, don’t feel guilty. I never know who my brothers are dating. It’s like an episode of The Bachelor in my family these days. I have to find out what their relationship status is on the internet.”

  This makes me feel about 5 percent better.

  And then the answer hits me.

  I gasp and grab my laptop. “Of course. I’m so stupid sometimes.”

  “What?” Sadie peers over my shoulder.

  “The internet. Ty could have posted about homecoming.”

  I don’t spend any real time on social media, but I do have an account for most things. I log in to one of them. I go to Ty’s page. It’s flooded with posts from other people, messages like We miss you, Ty and Why’d you have to leave us so soon? and We won’t forget you.

  We really should close this down, I think. I can’t put my finger on why it bothers me, the idea of Ty’s internet presence still being active when Ty himself is not. But it bothers me.

  “When was homecoming, again?” Sadie asks. “September? I never go to the stupid dances.”

  “October.” I scroll down to the bottom, press OLDER POSTS, then scroll to the bottom again, back and back through his timeline until I get to October.

  And suddenly, just like that, there it is. A picture of Ty and his date at homecoming. He’s standing behind her in front of a blue satin backdrop, his hands on the waist of her gossamer pink gown, smiling wide. She’s turning her head, looking up at him, her mouth slightly open like the camera has caught her in a laugh.

  I wonder if she noticed the makeup.

  Her hair is long and blond, like I remember, and I can’t tell the color of her eyes from this angle. But I recognize her instantly.

  She must have cut her hair. She must have dyed it.

  Because I know the girl in the picture. I drag the mouse over her face, and her name pops up. He tagged her.

  Ashley Davenport.

  The letter belongs to the cheerleader after all.

  16 February

  The first time Ty ever liked a girl, at least that I was aware of, he was 8 years old. He came home from school one day and announced that he was going to marry Melissa Meyers, a girl in his second-grade class. Because she was pretty, he said. And because she was “the nicest.” Apparently, he’d proposed at recess, and she’d accepted. So it was a done deal.

  My parents, ever the sensitive types, burst out laughing when he told them.

  “Did you kiss her yet?” Dad inquired between chuckles.

  “Ew, no, gross,” Ty replied. “Girls have germs.”

  This answer only made Mom and Dad laugh harder, and Ty caught on that he was the butt of some kind of joke. He reddened and scowled, then skulked off to his room to contemplate his undying love for Melissa in private.

  That was the first time that Ty ever volunteered information about his love life to the family. It was also the last.

  I remember the incident well, because at the time my 10-year-old self had a crush on one of the McIntyre boys: Seth, who was 2 years older than me and kind of a tough kid, always getting in fights at school, but to me was, as Ty phrased it, “the nicest.” I saw what happened to my brother and took a mental note never to tell my parents about my romantic experiences, either.

  Not that there would have been a lot for me to report. I didn’t exactly brag about my little encounter with Nate Dillinger.

  I used to tease Ty about girls, not excessively, but enough. It was my sisterly duty, I thought. “Nice cologne,” I might have said occasionally. “Trying to impress a girl?” “Who are you texting?” I’d ask if I caught him checking his phone. “A girl?” “Was that your girlfriend?” I’d prod if he smiled at a girl as we were walking into school together. “What’s her name?”

  He typically had a two-part response:

  1. No.

  2. Shut up.

  But I only teased him because I knew there was nothing serious to tease him about, and he knew that. When he said his “No, shut up” line, he always wore a wry smile, because he knew it was a game we were playing, the big-sister-harasses-little-brother game.

  It was different with Ashley. That night before homecoming, when he admitted that he liked this girl, he really liked her, I didn’t joke, because I sensed that it was serious. I didn’t push to find out the details: Did she go to our school? Was she a sophomore too? Did they have classes together? What kind of person was she? What was it that he liked about her? Had he kissed her yet?

  He would have hated it if I’d asked whether or not he’d kissed her.

  He’d tell me about her when he was ready to tell me about her, I thought. In his own time.

  I didn’t pressure him, didn’t tease, but I watched him. I noticed things. Like how all through October and November he was on his cell a lot, and his voice when he spoke into the phone was softer and sweeter than I’d ever heard him talk. He started wearing his cologne every day, and shaved even though he didn’t really need to, and spent more time in the mornings styling his hair. He walked with his chest out. He whistled as he came up the driveway. He even seemed more relaxed during our dinners with Dad.

  I was glad for him. It was nice to see him smile when he saw her name come up on his phone.

  I didn’t think about the fact that he was 16 and so the happy part wouldn’t last.

  I didn’t think about the fallout.

  I don’t know what day it ended exactly. I became aware of it the first week of December, when Ty got into a fight at school with one of his jock friends. He didn’t give us the specifics, but the way the principal described it to my mom, Ty threw the first punch. He was only suspended for a day, on account of the fact that it was his first offense, but I noticed a subtle shift in the way people were acting around him at school after that. Like he
was on suspension from the cool club, too, maybe not permanently, but for now. And Ty was trying his best to act like he couldn’t care less.

  He stopped talking except in the barest possible terms: please pass the salt, I’m going out, etc. . . . He stayed in his room, mostly, and played his music too loud, the bass throbbing up through my bedroom floor.

  Happy was over.

  This kind of behavior went on until December 10th, when a huge snowstorm passed through town. It dumped three feet of snow in a matter of hours, and the district called off school. Ty and I spent an afternoon watching TV in the den. He was sullen. He’d hardly strung 3 words together at breakfast, he’d rolled his eyes when Mom suggested that it was his turn to do the dishes, and, by the smell of it, he hadn’t showered in a couple of days.

  Something needed to be done.

  I decided to see if I could make it better.

  “So,” I said as he flipped through channels. “What happened with that Ashley girl?”

  I never was much for subtlety.

  He made his face into a mask of careful indifference, but there were a few seconds there, before he composed himself, when pure pain flashed in his eyes.

  “Nothing happened,” he said.

  “Weren’t you going out or something?”

  He looked at the television, considering what to tell me. “We went out for a while. But not anymore. It’s fine.”

  It was not fine. Clearly.

  “Uh-oh, am I going to have to beat her up?” I asked. “Because I will, you know.”

  He smiled faintly. “No.”

  “Who is this chick, anyway? Ashley who? What’s her last name? Because I am totally going to kick her butt,” I said, and the word butt came out so sharp and unnatural that Ty gave this tiny laugh, but he kept saying no, he wasn’t going to tell me her last name, it wasn’t necessary for me to beat her up, he could handle himself, thanks.

  I had no real intention of confronting Ashley. I was just trying to cheer Ty up with the ridiculous notion that I, with my glasses and my twig-skinny arms, was capable of beating anyone up. So I kept going on about it, kept asking, and he kept telling me everything was fine. Then I dragged him out into the backyard to build a snowman effigy of Ashley and pelt it with snowballs, which he did reluctantly but then shifted to chucking snowballs at me, which evolved into an outright war. Then, when we were both snow-plastered and worn out, I suggested that we go in and do the girly thing and eat a whole lot of chocolate.

  Operation Cheer Up Ty worked. Ty smiled. For the rest of the day he seemed lighter. He even cracked a joke at dinner.

  He was going to snap out of it, I thought. He was going to get over this Ashley girl. He was going to be okay.

  11.

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THE HIGH SCHOOL gymnasium—maybe the odors of adolescent sweat and disinfectant and rubber, the way the grunts and the shouts bounce off the walls, every noise amplified, sneakers squeaking on the floor, the perpetual chilliness of the air—that sets me instantly on edge. I associate this place with physical punishment, PE and running the mile and the amount of pull-ups I’ve inevitably failed to do to meet high school fitness standards. I hunch uncomfortably on a metal bench in the back corner of the empty bleachers and gaze down at the shiny-floored basketball court. I don’t belong here. My world has always been the classroom, with its smell of chalk or whiteboard, or the library, the safety of books and facts and soft lighting, not the bright fluorescent wash of the gym.

  And yet, here I am. It’s eighth period. I’m skipping my last class of the day so that I can sit in the cold gym and watch the cheerleaders practice.

  I take out my five-subject notebook.

  New subject: Ashley Davenport.

  She’s easy to spot in the group of girls in maroon uniforms on the far side of the gym. Her red hair against all the blonds. She’s tall, too. Not towering, but taller than most of the other girls. Slender. Her voice, when she’s shouting out the cheers, is clear and bright.

  Let’s G! Let’s G!

  Let’s O! Let’s O!

  Let’s go, mighty Gators!

  Let’s go!

  I watch her for a while, take some notes, and in the next forty-five minutes of observing her, here’s what I learn:

  Ashley Davenport can kick really high.

  She can also do the splits. And three back handsprings in a row.

  She’s strong. She makes it look effortless when she stands with another girl balancing on her shoulders.

  That’s about all I’ve got.

  I shouldn’t have sluffed eighth period.

  I try to remember Ashley from other times I must have seen her at my brother’s basketball games. But back then she was just another cheerleader, another set of waving pom-poms in a pack of too-short polyester skirts. I didn’t have any reason to pick her out from the rest.

  There’s a sudden click, the noise of a camera going off, and I suddenly understand the phrase jumping out of your skin with much more clarity. I turn, ready to see the principal or campus security here to bust me for truancy.

  I have a good excuse. Just as soon as I come up with one. Also: Can it be truancy if I didn’t leave school property?

  But it’s Damian. He’s sitting on a bleacher two rows above mine, wearing his usual gray hoodie and baggy jeans, holding a camera with a big lens and focusing on the cheerleaders.

  “Oh, hi, Damian,” I say reflexively. I’m not even that surprised to see him, once my heart rate goes back to normal. “What are you doing?”

  “I take pictures for the yearbook,” he explains as the camera clicks again. He lowers it and turns to look at me. “What are you doing, Lex?”

  “Just hanging out,” I say. As if the gym is so relaxing.

  He nods like this makes perfect sense.

  “I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I say.

  He sweeps his shaggy hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ve been dabbling in it. Seeing if I can get the camera to speak through me or whatever. I’m invisible to people, you know, which makes it easy to get interesting candids.”

  That sounds mildly creepy. “You’re not invisible,” I say. “I see you.”

  He smiles the timid smile again. “I know. But with some people—most people, really—I just fade into the background. If I disappeared one day, really disappeared and never came back, they wouldn’t even notice.”

  I’m just the opposite, I think. I feel like I’ve disappeared already, the Lex that I was before, and some people have definitely noticed I’m gone. But them noticing I’m missing doesn’t mean I get to come back.

  I must look tragic and contemplative, because Damian tries to lighten the mood. “That’s high school for you, though,” he says. “Everybody’s caught up in their own thing. We’re all the stars of our own movies. Anyway, that’s my big superpower. Mister Invisibility.”

  Right. I rub my shoe against the metal ridges on the back of the bleachers. Damian takes another picture of the cheerleaders as they line up for another cheer.

  We’ve got pride! (clap clap clap)

  On our side! (clap clap clap)

  You know it! We show it!

  We’ve got pride!

  “Who comes up with these things?” I say. “Seriously.”

  He nods. “Hey, they are excellent rhymers. Pride and side. Know and show. Like, whoa.”

  We both laugh. Nothing gives nerds more innate satisfaction than poking fun at cheerleaders.

  “Did you ever cover the basketball games?” I ask. “For the yearbook, I mean?”

  He nods again. “Sure. A few.”

  “Did you see Ty play?” My voice catches on my brother’s name, because I don’t say it that much anymore, not out loud, in public, and saying it makes me feel vulnerable or slightly selfish, like I’m asking for sympathy or attention. I didn’t mean to bring Ty up, but I can’t seem to help myself. Because Damian knew Ty, he really knew him, probably better than any of Ty’s jock friends ever did.<
br />
  “He never missed a shot,” Damian murmurs. Then his eyes widen over how that sounds, in my own personal context. “He was good. They haven’t won a single game since he . . .”

  And there’s the pause.

  This time I don’t fill it in. I let the silence drag.

  “I might have a few pictures of him from this year, if you want them,” Damian says after a minute.

  “Yeah. I want them,” I answer.

  He coughs into his sleeve. “I would have given them to you earlier, but I didn’t know if you’d . . .”

  “I want them,” I say again. “Please.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s uncomfortable now. I’ve made him uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have brought up Ty. I check my watch. “Anyway,” I say. “The bell’s about to ring. I should . . . We should . . .” I stuff my notebook in my backpack and start to climb down out of the bleachers. Damian follows me. He helps me get over the metal bar at the bottom of the seating area.

  “Thanks, Damian,” I say.

  “See you later, Lex,” he says, and then he slouches off.

  The bell rings.

  I take one more look at the cheerleaders as they head for the locker room. Ashley Davenport lags behind. She stops and kneels to tie her shoe. The others drift away.

  Who is this girl, I wonder? What happened between my brother and her? What happened?

  She finishes tying her shoe and stands up, but she doesn’t follow the others. She looks across the basketball court, past the bleachers.

  At me.

  I’m torn between the urge to duck and the urge to wave, but I don’t do either. I simply stand there, staring at her, as she stares back at me. For a minute we’re suspended in time.

  I have the letter with me. I always have it with me. I could give it to her. I could go right now, down the bleachers, and I could put it in her hand.

  “Hey, Ash,” some girl calls, peeking out of the locker room. “Are you coming? We’re going over to Starbucks, remember?”

  She lowers her head quickly. “Yeah. I’m coming.”