Текст книги "Love Letters to the Dead"

Автор книги: Ava Dellaira

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

When we got home, Aunt Amy went about getting ready, dabbing rose oil behind her ears and taking a faded flower dress out of the dry cleaner bag.

We met Ralph at Furr’s. I thought it was weird that he didn’t pick us up or something, but I didn’t ask any questions. We got there first and waited for him by the door. Finally he walked up with a swagger and kissed Aunt Amy on the cheek. He was wearing knockoff Birkenstocks, jeans with a suit jacket, and had long hair that was scraggly and wavy, as if he were literally trying to look like Jesus.

He shook my hand and said, “You must be Laurel.”

I tried to be polite. “Nice to meet you,” I said with my best smile.

We went through the cafeteria line, and he got chicken fried steak, Salisbury steak, and fried chicken—all at once! Plus cornbread, mashed potatoes, okra, and three kinds of pie. And then, when we got to the end, he let Aunt Amy pay. I mean, he didn’t even try to take out his wallet or something. He didn’t even pretend like he was trying.

When we got to our table, I was poking my fork at my Jell-O, and he said, “Uh-uh. What do you think you are doing, young lady? No eating your food before we pray.”

“I wasn’t eating, I was poking,” I mumbled. But Aunt Amy eyed me nervously, so I didn’t make a fuss.

Then he took Aunt Amy’s and my hands and bowed his head and said, “God bless this food we are about to receive. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

That was the lamest prayer ever, I thought, for a Jesus Man. Aunt Amy always says something that’s relevant to what’s going on, like she mentions me or our family or May, or what she has to be grateful for, in particular.

Once we started eating, Ralph turned to me and said, “So, how’s school?”

“It’s all right.”

“This is a very difficult time in a young person’s life. A time when the Lord gives you a lot of tests.”

“Yeah, I hope I’m not failing,” I joked.

But I guess it wasn’t that funny. He didn’t laugh. Neither did Aunt Amy. She still looked nervous. Finally he said, “The pitfalls of sin are not something to make light of.”

I won’t bore you with all of the rest, but it went on like that, more or less. I tried to keep up some kind of conversation and to figure out what exactly he was doing here. I guess he’s staying in a church and showing up to all of these services to talk about his journeys. The thing is, Aunt Amy didn’t even seem that happy around him. She didn’t do any Mister Ed impressions, or anything like that. She was just really quiet. And I don’t know if it’s because I was there, but mostly she seemed nervous, like she felt like he was going to get up and leave at any minute.

We finally said good night and got in the car to go home. It was too quiet for a while, until we came to a stoplight and Aunt Amy said, “Thank you for coming, Laurel.” She paused, and then she asked, “What did you think?”

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said thinly. “Of course.”

“I think you are too good for him. I mean, way too good for him. Like, he doesn’t even hold a candle to you. I think just ’cause you love God definitely doesn’t mean you have to love him.”

She didn’t get mad or anything. She kept her eyes on the road. And then she finally said, “Thank you for giving me your honest opinion. I appreciate that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” The light turned green, and she drove down the street, turning into the quiet dark of the neighborhood. She pulled up to the little adobe house that she’s lived in for so many years and turned the car off, but she didn’t get out. I waited to see if she wanted to say something else.

“He’s been asking me for money,” Aunt Amy finally said, “to help fund his next pilgrimage. But I’ve been thinking that I don’t want to give him any more. I could be saving for you instead, for college.”

It felt like one of the most generous things that anyone has ever said to me. Not just because of the money—I know I’ll need a scholarship anyway. But because it meant that she really cares about me, and maybe that she was starting to care about herself in a different way, too. I knew that I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be lonely for that long, and I wanted her to have someone. I just wanted it to be someone who would really see her.

When we got inside, I asked Aunt Amy, “Do you want to watch Mister Ed?”

Aunt Amy smiled and said she did. The theme song came on, and without her even having to ask, I did the horse hoofs on the table and the horse noise with my lips, until she started to laugh.

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Judy Garland,

I always thought of you as a kid. The little girl tap-dancing in the air-conditioned movie theater in the desert. The little girl whose daddy clapped for her and then carried her through the summer night heat to the station wagon. The girl who sang to stop them from fighting. The girl who sang herself to sleep. And then the one who got signed by the movie studio, where they put fake teeth on her and told her she wasn’t pretty. The girl who took the pills they gave her and wore pigtails and did one picture after another. The girl whose voice broke into sobs as she sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” over and over again. You were so tired. But they gave you more pills and told you to keep singing. You kept singing. You were the girl who was about to become a star, just when your daddy died. The little girl whose voice was too big for her body.

But I didn’t know that you grew up and hurt your own kids, too. I watched this movie about you on TV yesterday—a replay of something they made years ago. I know that not everything they say on TV is true. I know. But there you were, with your little girls, girls little like you used to be. You taught them to get up and sing with you. You taught them that applause was the closest thing to love. You taught them that people love you for what they want to see in you, not for what you are. That’s a sad thing to learn. You could have made it different for them.

I guess maybe even though you got older, you never stopped being the little girl who needed someone to take care of her. So you wanted your own little girls to take care of you. And when they couldn’t—how could they have?—you left them finally, for good.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s the same with my mom. Like she started her life so young that she never got to finish growing all the way up. And maybe that’s why she needed us—May especially—so much.

She called today, and Aunt Amy tried to hand me the phone. I’ve been avoiding Mom for almost three weeks now. I said that I’d call back later, but Aunt Amy insisted that I really needed to speak with her. So finally I took it.

It started out normal. “How are you, honey?” she asked.

“I’m actually pretty good, I guess.”

“Are you looking forward to summer?”

“Yeah. It’s weird that the year is almost over.”

Then she launched into it. “Laurel, the last time we talked, you mentioned that there was something—something that you’d told your sister … I’m worried about you.”

I wiped my palms on my dress. “I don’t really want to get into it on the phone, Mom.”

“I’ve been thinking about how you said you feel like I’m not there for you. And I know that you aren’t eager to take a trip out here. But it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. So I think that I’ll come back for a few months this summer. If not for good, then at least for a visit. I can stay with Amy.”

“Okay…” I said. I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “But you know I still have to be at Dad’s every other week. I can’t just ditch him ’cause you’re coming back.”

“Yes, I know, sweetie.” Then she said, “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You too, Mom.”

I know Mom coming back is what I’ve wanted this whole time, but now that it’s really happening, I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s like I’ve finally gotten used to just being with Aunt Amy and Dad. But mostly, I am scared that she’s only coming back to try to get some story out of me. So that I can tell her the whole answer about what happened to May and confirm her suspicions that it was my fault. Fine, I keep thinking, if she wants to know, I’ll just tell her this time. And then she can disappear forever. I’ll feel like I am starting to get better, but with Mom, suddenly I turn into a little kid again, who got left behind somewhere.

Judy, you took the pills the studio gave you. The pills the doctors gave you. You started so young that you could never stop, and then you were gone. I can’t help but wonder if nobody ever really grows all the way up. I look at you in The Wizard of Oz, on that yellow brick road that you just hope will lead to home, and I know you always wanted to get there.

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Amelia,

This morning at school, something great happened. I saw Hannah standing with Natalie, getting books out of her locker. Hannah zipped up her bag, and then I watched her lean into Natalie and give her a kiss on the lips. Right there, in front of everyone passing, anyone who wanted to look. She grabbed Natalie’s hand and walked with her down the hall, as they weaved through the soccer boys staring, the science nerds pointing, all of them talking and whispering and saying what they would. Natalie and Hannah were beautiful, both of them, like their own constellation.

You once said that you thought people are too timid about flying their own Atlantics, and I think it’s true that all of our lives are full of oceans. For Hannah, the Atlantic was standing up to her brother. And I think that now that she’s on the other side of it, she’s realizing how brave she can be.

For me, maybe the Atlantic has been learning to talk about stuff, even a little at a time. But I think the thing that takes me the most courage is realizing that as many oceans as I might cross, the stupid simple truth will always be on the other side. May was here and then she was gone. I loved her with all of my soul, and she died. And no guilt or anger or longing changes that. There’s a new sadness now, as I open the fist I’ve been clenching shut and realize that there’s nothing there. I don’t know how to keep her anymore. Sometimes I’ll be doing something normal, like standing in the alley with my friends, or getting ready for bed, and suddenly the pain of missing her will come up and nearly knock me over.

But sometimes, there are things that help. Tonight was a good night. Sky came over and watched baseball with me and Dad. He liked it so much when I had Hannah over, I figured I’d try to do that kind of thing more. And he and Sky seemed to be getting along. I was more or less tuning out while they were talking about players and trades and stuff. It’s still early in the season, but I know that the Cubs are doing pretty well so far. In this particular game, however, they were losing by a lot, and Dad just shut it off all of a sudden and said, “What do you say we go out back and have a little ball game of our own?” It’s funny how he comes alive with other people around. Maybe he feels like it’s a sign that I’m letting him into my life, or that I’m not ashamed of our family. Or maybe it’s just been forever since the house hasn’t felt totally quiet.

It was sort of a crazy idea, because it was already almost dark out—the dead game time of dusk—but I thought, why not? So Dad pulled out his old gloves and bat and a wiffle ball, and he pitched for Sky and me. I kept missing, but Dad gave me more than three strikes, and finally I got a good hit. Then Sky pitched to Dad, and he hit the ball clear over the roof! He loved this so much. “Your old man’s still got it!” Dad told me as he ran around the yard, crossing the imaginary bases, and finally calling out, “I made it home!”

It was pretty much totally dark by then, so we figured it was a good note to end on. Dad went to bed, and he was in such a good mood, he didn’t even kick Sky out before he said good night. Sky came into my room with me, and we both sat down on my bed.

“Your dad is really cool,” Sky said. “We should hang out with him more.”

“He likes you. I think it made him happy, you being here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” He smiled.

I lay down on my pillow. Then I said, “So, my mom’s coming back. Next weekend. At least for the summer.”

“Oh, wow. Are you happy?”

“I don’t know. I want to be, but it’s like I don’t know if I trust it.”

Sky nodded. “I get that. When parents ditch out, it’s pretty hard to forgive them.”

He lay down next to me, and I reached out and let my hand fall onto his chest. “Was he good while he was around?” I asked. “Your dad?”

“Not really. He had his moments, but not so much.” Sky paused, and then he said, “I don’t know what will happen to my mom after next year, if I want to go away to college or something. I’m scared sometimes that I’ll turn out like him. Like I’ll always be the kind of person who leaves.”

I looked at him. “You’re better than your dad. But maybe it’s not your job to make up for him forever.”

His lip that falls a little crooked to the left straightened out when I said that. He was thinking about it.

We lay there next to each other on my bed, quiet for a while, looking up at the bumps in the ceiling that turned to shapes. I remembered lying in May’s top bunk and looking up, trying not to fall asleep so that I could see if she went out to fly.

“Look,” I said to Sky, pointing up. “That’s a face. She’s half girl, half ghost. You can see where she’s split—she only has long hair on the one side.” I pointed to the place where the paint gathered into tresses. “And there, that’s a hand. It belongs to a man living inside the wall. He’s collecting raindrops. He wants to come out and give them to the ghost-girl. She’ll fight off the spirit in her. And then they’ll go together and swim in that ocean”—I pointed—“over there.”

Sky laughed and nuzzled his face into my neck. I put my hand out and stroked his head. He seemed like a little boy just then, in a way that he never had before. Maybe because I felt stronger now, strong enough to hold him.

We didn’t kiss or anything else. We just lay together like that, breathing. I felt something between us shifting, like the hidden plates of the earth. You think you know someone, but that person always changes, and you keep changing, too. I understood it suddenly, how that’s what being alive means. Our own invisible plates shifting inside of our bodies, beginning to align into the people we are going to become.

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Elizabeth Bishop,

At school, everyone is buzzing with the energy of the coming summer, a week and a half away. I went up to Mrs. Buster’s desk today after class. I’d never really spoken to her voluntarily before. But there was something I had to tell her. “You know the assignment from the beginning of school? The letter?” I asked.

“Yes?” She looked surprised.

“Well, I’m still working on it.” And then I added, “Actually, I’ve been working on it all year. I have a whole notebook full of them. I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh, well, I’m really happy to hear that, Laurel.” She lit up when she said it, but then she kept looking at me in that way that she does, like she was waiting for something. Like she wanted me to say something about May. So finally I asked, “When May was in your class, what was she like?”

“She seemed like a girl who was struggling to figure out who she was, kind of like you are. She was very bright, in both senses of the word. I thought that she had a lot to offer. I think that you do, too.” She paused, and then she said, “I know what it’s like to lose someone, Laurel.”

“You do?” I asked.

“Yes. I had a son—he passed.”

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” I was searching for something better to say. It made my chest crush in to think of that happening to Mrs. Buster. “When—when did it happen?”

“He was young,” Mrs. Buster said. “It was a car accident.”

I stared at her big blue eyes, and they didn’t seem like bug eyes anymore. They seemed sad. It’s like all of a sudden she’d turned from a teacher into a person. I guess when you lose someone, sometimes it feels like you are the only one. But I’m not.

“I’m sorry about your son,” I said again. “And I’m sorry that I wasn’t nicer this year. I think you are a really good teacher. I loved all of the poetry you gave us. And I am—just really sorry—I wish there were something good to say. I guess there aren’t really any words for it, huh?”

“There are a lot of human experiences that challenge the limits of our language,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons that we have poetry.” She smiled. “Here.” She fished something out of her desk. “I wanted to give you this. I’d copied it for you at the beginning of the year, since you seemed to like Bishop so much. But then—well, maybe you weren’t ready for it yet.”

I took the poem. “Thank you,” I said.

Then she said, “I’m proud of you. It’s not easy, and you’ve done a great job this year.” She didn’t have to be that nice to me, but she was.

I thanked her again for the poem. I was anxious to read it, so I found a bench and sat outside before I went to lunch. It was your poem called “The Armadillo.” I loved the poem so much, it stopped my heart. And I knew why Mrs. Buster had given it to me. It was about a certain kind of beauty we aspire to and how fragile it is. The poem starts out talking about fire balloons that people send off into the sky. The paper chambers flush and fill with light / that comes and goes, like hearts as they rise toward the stars. When the air is still, they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, but with a wind, they become dangerous. The end of the poem shows the tragedy that happens.

Last night another big one fell.

It splattered like an egg of fire

against the cliff behind the house.

The flame ran down. We saw the pair

of owls who nest there flying up

and up, their whirling black-and-white

stained bright pink underneath, until

they shrieked up out of sight.

The ancient owls’ nest must have burned.

Hastily, all alone,

a glistening armadillo left the scene,

rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

and then a baby rabbit jumped out,

short-eared, to our surprise.

So soft!—a handful of intangible ash

with fixed, ignited eyes.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!

O falling fire and piercing cry

and panic, and a weak mailed fist

clenched ignorant against the sky!

I couldn’t stop thinking of it, our flushing hearts, trying to climb to the stars—how with the wrong wind, we can fall. I’m not sure if this is what you meant by the poem, but it made me think of how we all have both parts in us. I think maybe we all carry both the fire balloons and the soft animal creatures who could be hurt by them inside of us. It’s easy to feel like the bunny rabbit frozen in terror. And it’s easy to feel like one of the fire balloons, at the whim of the wind, either rising up out of sight or burning down. Blown one direction or another.

But there is a third thing in the poem—your voice. The one who saw it. The one who could stand and witness, the one who turned the pain and terror into this beautiful lyric. So maybe when we can say things, when we can write the words, when we can express how it feels, we aren’t so helpless.

I thought after reading your poem today that I might want to try to be a writer, too. Even though I don’t think I can ever write a poem as good as yours, it made me think that maybe I can do something with all of the feelings in me, even the ones that are sad and scared and angry. Maybe when we can tell the stories, however bad they are, we don’t belong to them anymore. They become ours. And maybe what growing up really means is knowing that you don’t have to just be a character, going whichever way the story says. It’s knowing that you could be the author instead.

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Judy,

Mom got here four days ago. Of course she had to come back on the last weekend before school is over. Part of me wished I was out with my friends, but instead I was at the airport with Aunt Amy, waiting on the bench and watching the bags turning on their carousel, nervously balling up the fabric of my dress.

Then I saw Mom, riding down the elevator as if she’d walked out of another life. She was shifting her travel purse from shoulder to shoulder, the same one that she used to pack up with snacks to sneak into the movie theater when we were little. Her soft brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. When her eyes met mine, she waved and put on a big happy smile. Then there was this awkward moment where we weren’t actually close enough to say anything yet. I didn’t know if I was supposed to run up and hug her, but I stayed frozen in my seat.

When she was standing in front of me, I got up and let her pull me against her body. She smelled the same, like our brand of dryer sheets and the lavender perfume she always dabs behind her ears, and something else—a smell like falling to sleep.

“Laurel,” she said. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too, Mom.”

Then she and Aunt Amy hugged, and we stood around, waiting for Mom’s suitcase and making awkward small talk—how is school, how was the flight, how about the weather. Never mind how was the whole past year when I didn’t see you. It felt like a canyon between us, the time that had passed.

And it stayed like that, the first couple of days. Like we were still in the in-between space of the airport. Like we weren’t home anymore, but we hadn’t arrived anywhere else. I mostly stayed in my room studying for finals, and Mom kept busy, as if she was trying to make up for the year of mom stuff that she’d missed. She made me waffles for breakfast, packed lunches with sandwiches on perfectly toasted bread, and made her famous enchiladas for Aunt Amy and me for dinner. Aunt Amy did a lot of the talking, actually. She’d tell Mom stuff about how well I’d done in my science class, or how Mom raised a good daughter because I always helped with the dishes. Mom would ask me the most basic questions. “What was your favorite class this year?” I felt like we were tiptoeing over a sheet of ice that could break any minute. We’d gone a whole three days without actually saying May’s name.

Then this morning, as Mom was putting down a waffle in front of me, the syrup neatly poured into each square, I said, “No offense, Mom, it’s really nice and all, but I usually just eat cereal for breakfast now. I mean, I’ve had to do all of this stuff without you for a year. You don’t have to be, like, the world’s greatest mother now.”

But then her eyes got teary, and I instantly felt bad. “I’m trying, Laurel,” she said.

“I know,” I said softly, and started to cut the waffle along its lines. It just seemed strange to me, if she cared so much about all of this, that she’d gone so long without doing any of it.

Mom wiped her eyes and said, “I have an idea. Do you want to go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of us?”

I agreed, and so after school this evening, Mom and I went to the 66 Diner and ordered burgers and fries and strawberry shakes.

I was doing my best. “What was it like at the ranch?” I asked.

“It was pretty,” Mom said. “It was peaceful.”

I still couldn’t picture it. “Were there, like, palm trees and stuff?”

Mom sort of laughed. “No, not on the ranch. But there were in the city.”

“Oh,” I said, sucking my shake out of its straw. “You went to LA?”

“Yeah,” Mom said. “For the first time in my whole life.”

“What did you do there?”

“Well, I went to see the Walk of Fame. I found Judy Garland’s star. I wanted to stand on it.”

“Was it cool?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “It was actually a little strange. You think of the Walk of Fame—I always did, anyway, when I used to dream that I’d be an actress—and you imagine it glittering and gleaming. But the truth is, the star was just on the sidewalk. Where people walk right over it. Next to a parking lot.” She sounded sort of bereft when she said this, like a little kid who learned that Santa Claus was made up.

“We should find a star, like, in the sky,” I said to Mom, “to name after Judy instead.”

Mom smiled. “Let’s do that.”

Then it was quiet for a moment. I dipped a French fry in the ketchup and started nibbling on it.

Finally Mom looked up from her plate and said, “Laurel, I owe you an apology. I am sorry that I was gone for so long.”

I didn’t know what to say back to that. It’s all right? It wasn’t. And I wanted to try to be honest. “Yeah,” I said. “It was hard.” And then, “I mean, I know that you left because you were mad at me. I know you think that it’s my fault, and that’s why you wanted to go. You can just say it.”

“What? Laurel, no. Of course I don’t think it’s your fault. Where would you get that idea?”

“Because,” I said, “because you left. I thought that was why.”

“Laurel, if I left because of someone’s failings, they were my own, not yours. I really just—I must be the world’s worst mother.” Her voice started to break. “How could I have let that happen? How could I have lost her?”

I didn’t realize that Mom felt guilty, too. “But Mom,” I said. I reached out to take her hand across the table. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect her. And I didn’t.”

“Well,” I said quietly, “maybe you didn’t know how.”

Mom shook her head. “It’s like when you guys were little, you needed me. I was the sun that you’d orbit around. But as you got older, and the orbit got wider, I didn’t know my place in the universe anymore. I thought, That’s what’s supposed to happen. They’re growing up. I thought the best thing I could do was to try not to hold on too tight. But you two were my reason to be.”

“But what about Dad?” I asked. “Why didn’t you love him anymore?”

“I’ll always love your father, but we got married so young, Laurel. When May started to have her own life, and you did, too, your dad and I started having more trouble. It felt like we had so little in common, besides our daughters. But I shouldn’t have left him. I don’t think May ever forgave me.”

Mom was shaking now. She looked down at her burger that had only one bite out of it. She seemed so fragile, like a little girl. I saw why May thought that she had to keep all of the hard stuff secret from her.

“And look at you,” she said. “You’re doing so well. I can’t help but think that I was right. That you were better off without me.”

“Mom,” I said. “I love you, but that’s dumb. I still need you.”

“Do you want to tell me, Laurel? Do you want to tell me what happened?”

There it was. I knew it was coming. I couldn’t help the surge of anger that rushed into me. “That’s why you’re really here, right? So that you can find out finally? So that you can have an answer to everything? And then you can feel better?”

“No! No. I just want you to know that you can talk to me, if you want to.”

“Well, I don’t. Not about that. We can talk about something else.”

She looked like I’d stabbed her in the heart when I said it.

“Fine, Mom. Look. When we were supposed to go to the movies, mostly we didn’t go. May was seeing an older guy. And she went off with him. She thought I went to the movies with this friend of his who was supposed to take care of me, but I didn’t go, either, because the friend molested me instead, and when I tried to tell May that night, she was already drunk, and then she was so sad, and when she got up, she started pretending to be a fairy, and she slipped or tripped or fell off the bridge or something. There you go. You can go back to California now.”

I got up from the booth and walked out. I was crying in the parking lot, and hating myself for crying, and for being so mean to Mom, and for everything. It’s supposed to get easier when you say it out loud. But it didn’t feel that way. I was searching the sky through my bleary eyes, trying to find you, to find May, to find some sign that things weren’t as lonely as they seemed.

Then Mom walked out. She was crying, too, but I could tell she was trying not to. She put her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Laurel. I’m so sorry I let that happen to you.” And I don’t know what it was, the way that she smelled like Mom or the way that she stroked my head like she had when I was a kid trying to fall asleep, but I felt little again, and I put my head against her chest and just sobbed. I wasn’t the same person she’d left. But she was still my mother. And the memory of the way that felt, to have a mom, it took me over.

People can leave, and then they can come back. It sounds simple, like an obvious thing. But when I realized that, the truth of it seemed important. My mom wasn’t perfect. And she didn’t even always take care of me. But she wasn’t gone forever.

When I finished crying, I looked up at the sky and pointed to the star in the middle of Orion’s Belt. “That one,” I said to Mom. “That’s the Judy Garland star.” And then I pointed to the one at the handle end of the Big Dipper. “And let’s give that one to May.”

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Kurt, Judy, Elizabeth, Amelia, River, Janis, Jim, Amy, Heath, Allan, E.E., and John,

I am writing to say thank you, to all of you, because I think this will be my last letter. It feels right like that. Yesterday was our last day of school. When the final bell rang, the halls filled up with woohoos. I walked past the screams and cheers and out to the alley to meet my friends. The air hung open in that way where we weren’t sure if we should be somber or celebratory, but when Tristan got there, he walked up to Kristen and slapped her butt and said, “How’s my New York babe?” She smiled. It was their last day of high school, forever. Tristan said that this called for a ceremony, and Kristen agreed.

So we all drove up to Kristen’s house, and Tristan made a tent of little sticks in the yard that he lit up with his kitchen lighter. It would be like New Year’s, but this time we were supposed to burn things we wanted to let go of. Tristan pulled the contents of his emptied locker out of his backpack—algebra quizzes and lab reports and tests with red 68s circled on them—and he started putting them in the fire. Then he pulled out his English paper, one he had gotten an A on, called “I Lost Paradise,” but before he could throw it in the fire, Kristen grabbed it and said, “I’m keeping this.”