Gone, Gone, Gone (7 page)

I hope school’s
going okay. Did you get into that art class after all? I’ll come up there and bash some skulls together or something if you need. If that would help.

I ran into your mother at the grocery store the other day. She had a bag of avocados, said she’d tell you hi from me next time you called, but I said she didn’t need to because you were still emailing, but I kind of hope she said hi for me anyway. Also, are we still emailing?

Love,

C

I put my head down next to my keyboard. Kremlin wants to know what’s wrong.

“I have a broken heart,” I tell her.

She whines a little.

I say, “Yeah, I know. I don’t like it either.”

Cody . . .

I’ve known Cody since I was six. We used to play together because we lived next door as toddlers, and even though he moved away before we were really aware of each other, our moms stayed friends so we saw each other a lot for those forced play dates, and eventually we begged for play dates every day. We were the exact same height when I was in first grade—like, to
the centimeter. We thought that was really cool. Of course, by the time we started hooking up, I was practically twice his size. But when I was six, we were perfectly matched and it was great.

I’m not huge, though I guess I must look really tall next to the boys I keep . . . doing things with. I’m tall enough that people always tell me I should play basketball (though when you’re black, you only have to be like five foot ten before people start asking) but not the kind of freaky tall where I have to worry about how high doorways are. It’s not really a big deal, so it’s weird that it keeps being this thing that I think about, although usually I think about it in terms of Lio’s smallness rather than my largeness, and maybe that means something, but probably not, because it has nothing to do with Cody.

Anyway, when Cody grew up, or I grew up and he stayed small, he turned into some kind of a big deal—a fantastic soccer player, a huge smile, a personality that seemed like it must have eaten bits of other people’s to get that big, like a very hungry caterpillar. He was so much more than alive. He always was.

Our first kiss was in fourth grade for me and fifth grade for him, when we were playing hide-and-seek. I said if I found him in less than two minutes, I got to kiss him. I don’t remember what happened if I didn’t. But I found him in a minute and forty-two seconds, roughly, and he was
inside this old chest that holds all these old clothes that my grandmother draped all over herself before she died, and I pulled him out of the chest and he was shrouded in turquoise and gold and I kissed him.

We waited until I turned fifteen because even we thought it was a little weird to have sex at fourteen, and he was sixteen and really not okay with having sex with a middle schooler, so that was the summer before ninth grade for me, and the summer before tenth grade for him, and he was almost sixteen, and that was our summer.

It was so ours, that whole summer.

It was awkward and difficult and painful at first, but he loved me and we were really gentle, and then it got good. Really good. It got closer to the movies than antiseptic health class told me it ever could.

So fuck health class and fuck the preachy advice your parents give you, because sex didn’t ruin our relationship.

It’s not that.

Although I can see, from an objective standpoint, that maybe I was too young, but is that really the point at all? Why the hell should I see things from an objective standpoint? I’m not objective, I mean, this is my life.

And if we stop having sex, the terrorists win, right?

I guess Lio would say that, statistically speaking, I was too young, since he’s so crazy about numbers, and I’m sure that means that, from his perspective, I should have waited,
because his whole fucking life is about how many other people are doing things. I’m sure he’s a virgin. I’m sure he’s waiting until he’s exactly sixteen and seven months, which I think is the average age, but I think it’s a lot higher for gay boys, eighteen or so, because it takes us longer to realize and find each other and, I don’t know, wax off all our body hair or something.

But I didn’t have to go through any of that with Cody because I guess we were made for each other and too young to have a lot of body hair.

He’s a junior now. It’s crazy to think about that, to think that actually right now, maybe he’s thinking about college and SATs and stuff. Do they even talk about college at his school? Do kids from his school go to real college? Because it’s not exactly a real school. I mean, it’s called a school, a residential school, but it’s pretty much a mental hospital with classes.

At least that’s how I imagine it. It isn’t like I’ve visited him, and is that the part that’s important? That I haven’t visited him, even though he’s asked, he’s said
fuck you fuck you Craig get up here goddamn it get here now,
and is it important that I haven’t gone, or is it more important that that isn’t a real invitation? Is it more important that Cody is there or that he’s here in my head?

I think the part that’s important is we kissed in my parents’ attic when we were nine and ten.

That was great. And the summer before freshman year, the summer of 2001? That was a great summer. And then everything got so fucked up. I guess what happened is that the terrorists won.

My city, Silver Spring, isn’t technically a city in the legal sense of the word, according to the internet. I’m not sure why. Downtown, where I almost, almost, am, looks like most small cities, in the way that it’s a pretty rundown place, but with some tall buildings, and it has a general feeling of blue and brown. The streets are beautiful at night because of all the fast food places and the little liquor and wine stores. It looks like Christmas every night here, with all the brake lights and streetlights, and even along the highways, because you can see the lights from the hotels and churches. But on the edges of all of it, where the light almost, almost, but doesn’t quite hit, the dark is very deep, darker than any of the places in the whole world that I’ve ever been.

These are the kinds of things you realize when you stare out your window all night, waiting for an email that doesn’t come, listening to Sandwich whine for food even though there’s still some in her bowl. I have this brutal headache, and I know I need to go to sleep, but right now sleep feels as impossible as holding my breath all night.

I wonder how many people are getting shot over these few hours. All over the world, how many people are getting shot tonight, in this weird time between October 3rd and October 4th?

It turns out, no one was shot, at least not in our area by a single long-range bullet, the news says this morning. But that’s not even important, because the front page of the newspaper has an article tying all the shootings together, and there is, guaranteed, a sniper.

I read the word “sniper”
and it’s like a bell in my head, ringing and ringing with the realization that everything is about to get really weird.

My mom drops me off really close to the front door of my school, like I’m six or something. “Just to be safe,” she says, and she gives me an extra kiss on each cheek. “I love you.” She doesn’t roll down the windows, even though it’s not as cold outside as it has been and the leaves are falling and it already smells like Halloween. October has a smokier smell than September, like there are candles burning in pumpkins the whole month.

Before I get out of the car, she says, “Craig, maybe we should stop hunting for the animals for a while.”

I look at her.

And my brain stops
CodyCodyCody
ing just long enough to think,
two dogs, three cats, three rabbits, one guinea pig
.

She says, “Okay, honey, I’m sorry. God, don’t ever make that face at me again.” She hugs me, but I don’t know what face I’m
making, because I didn’t mean to make a face. Maybe my normal face is just a really sad face, and how shitty would that be?

But the point is that I’m not going to stop looking for the animals, because they are mine and they are counting on me.

When I get out of the car, all these teachers and parent volunteers sweep in and form a pod around me until I reach the building. It’s claustrophobic and annoying and I’m fifteen and I can take care of myself.

I’m doodling in American Civilizations when Mr. Spavich sets aside his lesson plan and says, “Okay. Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

We all look at him like we don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Are your parents afraid to pump gas?” he asks. “All of a sudden, that seems like a risky activity, doesn’t it?”

We don’t look at each other.

Mr. Spavich says, “Guys. It’s okay to be scared.”

Marisabel says, “If we’re scared, the terrorists win. Isn’t that what everyone said after September eleventh?”

“This isn’t terrorists,” Lio says under his breath. He’s sitting next to me, wearing these fingerless gloves that make him look like a badass. After his email last night, I have
no idea what to say to him. And I guess he’s forgiven for kissing me, but I guess I still have that headache.

Dennis says, “Well, my parents are paying my brother to pump gas for them, which is kind of disgusting. Like, it’s all well and good if he’s the one who gets shot, we get it.”

“There are articles online, now,” Marisabel says. “Like, ‘How Not To Get Shot While Pumping Gas.’ People are getting paid to tell us how to not get randomly shot.”

Lio writes
AND HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT
in big letters on his notebook. Next to it is a scribble from his English class—
fucking Kafka climaxed too early—
that makes me smile. I chew my knuckle so I don’t laugh, and he notices and gives me this fantastic grin, though I’m not sure he knows why I’m laughing, and I think that’s okay. I think it’s this thing that’s okay, here in the middle of everything.

“Craig?” Mr. Spavich says.

Fuck. I look up.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Thoughts?”

So I say my first thought. “I think it’s really disrespectful and stupid to compare this to September eleventh.”

Mr. Spavich says, “Oh?”

I bet American Civ had a field day last year, with September 11th. God, how can I even think things like that? I should be arrested. How many awful thoughts do you need to have before you count as a terrorist?

Lio whispers, “Numbers,” but like he’s talking to himself, not to me. It’s still
enough for me to get my bearings.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. I mean . . . we
just
had the anniversary, and already we’re looking for our next big tragedy? This doesn’t compare at all. And how many people died in the Pentagon?”

“One hundred and eighty-nine,” Mr. Spavich says.

Damn. That sounds so low. I thought it was more than that, and it throws me for a second, but then I remember what the Pentagon was and what this is and everything comes back faster and harder. I say, “But, yeah. A hundred and eighty-nine people versus six from a sniper? Like, a life is a life. . . .”

“And more lives is more lives,” Mr. Spavich completes. He says this like it’s my opinion, not his.

“Yes,” Lio whispers, my stomach feels sick.

I say, “I guess so, yeah.” My headache pulls and I realize that that isn’t what I meant at all.

That isn’t what made the Pentagon a bigger deal.

Because the reason I can’t compare this to September 11th is that no one I know has been shot by the sniper. Maybe I only feel stuff if I’m holding hands with someone getting obliterated, or at the very least holding the hand of someone holding the hand of someone getting obliterated, and fuck, what does that say about my life?

Mr. Spavich asks who’s been watching the news, and a few of us raise our hands, including this one boy who says he can’t
help watching the news because every time there’s a shooting it interrupts regular programming for hours and hours. He’s become an accidental rubbernecker. One girl says she isn’t sleeping, and normally I’d roll my eyes at this, because I hate when people pull that, but, God, she looks like shit.

Her parents are telling her to run in zigzag patterns.

There’s a boy wearing a camouflage jacket, and I guess it could be fashion statement, but I get the feeling it isn’t, because he’s tall and dark and stunning and I look at him a lot, but I’ve never seen that jacket before.

It’s stupid, that jacket, so stupid. This isn’t a jungle. This isn’t a war zone.

LIO

CRAIG’S MOM ALWAYS PACKS HIM GOURMET LUNCHES.
She gives him a place mat for him to spread over his place at the cafeteria. She doesn’t know we eat outside every day, I guess. We sit in the little field by the side of the school. This time of year, it’s more of a mud flat than a field, and it’s a little cold. But it’s away from the noise.

I give him half of my peanut butter and jelly, and he gives me half of his macaroni and cheese. It has peppers and onions and something clear and spicy I don’t recognize.

We always eat lunch together. When he was home sick two weeks ago, I hid in the library and shoveled down my
food as fast as I could. I don’t know when I turned into such a freaky little loner.

There’s an elementary school across the street. Craig’s dad is the principal. Usually we watch the kids playing kickball and four-square. We pretend to be team captains and divvy up the eight-year-olds.

Today there’s no one out.

The morning kindergarteners are heading toward the buses, but I can hardly see them. The teachers are forming a human cage.

“I watched
Bananas in Pyjamas
yesterday,” Craig says.

I look at him.

He says, “Yeah, at like four in the morning. It reruns at weird times like that.” Craig doesn’t sleep. It bothers me.

“It was on some kids station and I got so sucked in,” he says. “There is so much drama with those bananas. It’s the Australians. They’re sick, you know that? Sick and wrong and amazing. I love Australians. Best accents in the whole world. We should figure out how to do them and just do them all the time.”