Gravestone (18 page)

“I’m fine.”

But we both know I’m really not.

“Chris, will you do something for me this next week?”

“Sure.”

“Next Saturday I’d like for you to answer that question. Answer it the best way you possibly can. And don’t worry—I can see it on your face. I’m not going to judge you or force you to hear about something you don’t want to hear about. I’ve done that sort of thing before, and I … I’d just like to know what you believe.”

“Okay.”

I see the lights of what has to be my mom’s car outside. Iris stands, and I follow her to the door.

“You surprised me today. It’s not often that I’m surprised anymore.”

I’m not sure how I surprised her, and I don’t have any idea how or why, so I nod and say thanks.

This wasn’t the day I was expecting.

I walk out in the cold, and as I walk to the car, I swear I hear a bird flying above me. 

39. Promises to Keep

I should be doing my French homework because I’m really bombing the class. It doesn’t help that I wasn’t doing that great in French back home, and then I came here and ended up in a far more advanced class. The teacher, Mrs. Desmarais, who looks like she walked off the set of
Ratatouille,
is short and speaks with a thick accent. But I imagine that she goes home and cooks grits and talks with a Southern accent and sleeps next to a guy named Billy Bob.

Perhaps thoughts like this and not paying attention in class are why I’m bombing out.

So I should be doing my homework because all they do is talk French in the class and all I do is fear being called on. Instead I’m reading a book of Robert Frost poems that I checked out of the library.

As I read them, I imagine Jocelyn doing the same. In fact, I imagine her reading the very same book I’m reading, her hands holding the hard cover and her delicate fingers turning the pages. Even though I don’t fully get what I’m reading, I’m moved because I imagine a connection.

Any connection now is better than none at all.

And all I want is a connection to her.

All I want is to see her again.

The Frost poems blend and merge like song lyrics.

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

The wind outside shakes the house, and the light in my room seems dim. I fumble through lines and scan pages and go over poems that seem a lot like French. Occasionally a line stands out.

No bird is singing now, and if there is, Be it my loss.

I read the words and feel sad and feel sorry. I just want to know. I want to know why they killed Jocelyn. Is it because some people around here are utterly crazy? Or is there some bigger conspiracy, some darker evil?

What do you believe?

I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. It was easy to tell Dad what I
didn’t
believe. I didn’t believe in him or in anything he believed in. That was the easy way out. But now I’m not so sure.

Jocelyn found faith before she died.

Was that why she died? Was it because she knew she was about to go?

Blood has been harder to dam back than water.

Maybe anything in life can be related to what you’re going through. Song lyrics by The Cure. A Bible passage. A random reading in French. Or a poem by Frost.

I keep reading, but my random thoughts wander across the poems and into the darkness of the night.

I don’t just want justice and for the bad men and women to be punished. I want to know why. Why did they have to do it to someone like Jocelyn?

I stumble upon another poem that sounds familiar and that seems easier to read than the others. After a line about lovely and dark woods I read this:

But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.

I carry these words with me to bed, to the safe confines of blankets shared with Midnight. I think of Jocelyn and remember.

I’ll never forget. I’ll never let go. And I’ll find out why, Joss. I promise. If that’s all I ever do, I promise I will find out the truth and make them pay.

40. A Different Language

Newt looks especially disheveled today, like he just woke up from sleeping all weekend. I don’t get what he’s talking about at the moment. I’m taking a while to wake up from sleeping on the bus myself.

“The zip drive.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Figured you’d be asking about it.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I spent all weekend trying to figure it out. I need to bring it to someone who knows more about computers.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Maybe.”

He walks away, always secretive, always saying as little as possible even when the moment doesn’t require it. One of these days I’m going to get his story.

As I head to my first class, I see the walking ruler that resembles Principal Harking.

“Good morning, Chris.”

“Hi.” Now I’m the one acting like I can’t talk and need to run away.

“Everything going okay?” 

“Yeah, sure.”

“Glad to hear it. Glad you’re staying out of trouble.”

“Yeah.”

Was I ever in trouble, or did trouble spill over me?

“It can be a long semester,” her tight lips say. “One has to pace him or herself. One has to focus on the big picture.”

“Okay.”

She’s blocking my path like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. “Do you see the big picture, Chris?”

I nod, but have no idea what she’s talking about. Graduation? College? Career and a family?

“I’ve seen so many people who are narrow-minded, not understanding the big picture. They see the tip but they don’t get underneath to find the depth of life and their situation.”

I can’t help glancing around. The spectators are there. They always are. A couple girls gawking and a few guys being nosy.

“Don’t reach to judgment or conclusions. Just see the big picture and run the race. That’s how you succeed.”

A motivational speaker Miss Harking is not.

I nod and then nod again to say bye as she walks on.

Why is it that everybody talks in a different language here? Not the Southern accent, though that in itself sometimes makes it hard to understand. I just never seem to be in conversations that I
get.
Normal conversations. About things like sports and politics and the weather and food. Not heavy, weird warnings. Not eerie foreboding messages that mean absolutely something to everybody else but absolutely
nothing
to me.

I shake my head and am too tired to come up with a creative curse for this encounter. I head to my next class.

Maybe I’ll find the big picture in there. A big fat picture that I can roll up and take back home.

41. Here Comes the Sun

Oh man.

“I can’t tell you what I’m painting,” I tell her.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s personal. It’s private.”

“Your
painting
is
private?” she says.

“It is.”

“Why?”

“Okay, fine. You want to know what I’m painting? Seriously?”

Kelsey smiles. I’ve grown to find her clear braces cute just like her smile and just like those pretty blue eyes.

Oh man, come on.

“This is a family portrait. See, there, I told you.”

“That bad, huh?” she says, going with my mockery.

“Totally. It’s awful. Just dark. That’s all I can say.”

She doesn’t know that there’s some truth in my concept, even though the piece in front of me is not a family portrait but rather is supposed to resemble those woods in the picture from Jocelyn’s locker. It looks a little more like a canvas that’s been blasted by a passing car hitting a puddle of dirty water.

“Maybe I need to introduce you to some more of my family,” she says.

Oh man.

Every day, every period I’m next to her, I find myself enjoying this banter. I like to see the smile on her face and love to hear her laugh at something stupid I said. I love the way she’s watching for me as I come into class, usually the last one in. It’s obvious, and I’m pretty sure she likes me and I know that it’s harmless and fun.

But another voice tells me to stop. Immediately. Do not pass Go and do not collect one more dollar.

I need to stop this, all of this.

Because you know what happened last time, don’t you?

When the crazy thoughts start going even crazier, I imagine things like Kelsey and me falling madly in love and then Jocelyn coming back, just like it happens in soap operas.

You’re not going to fall in love with this girl. She’s cute, but that’s all. That’s it.

I imagine getting close and then having something happen to her.

I imagine that maybe she’s getting closer to find out secrets about me and to win me over so she can lie and steal from me. Not that I have any secrets or anything to steal from.

All I know is that this is harmless and safe and fun. It’s like waking up in the cold fog every day and then for a single period, I’m allowed to go outside and sit underneath a crystal clear sky and soak up the sun.

Kelsey Page is that sun, and it’s not just because of the color of her hair.

That’s fine, but don’t tell her that, because she’ll roll her eyes and surely make a gagging sound.

Every day the sun comes out and shines down, and then I have to leave it and go back into the drab and the murk.

42. Grown-ups

It’s obvious that Mom’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I’ve been home a few minutes before seeing her. Before
really
seeing her.

“Nothing.”

“Did something happen at work?” I ask.

She’s sitting on the couch across from me. “I didn’t go to work today,” she says.

I’ve come to understand that Mom has several looks. The drunk look and then the hungover look. The angry look. The don’t-really-care-about-anything-look (which is a lot like the drunk look but more awake).

This is different from all of those.

This is the Dad look.

“Did you talk to him?” I ask.

“What? How did you know?”

“Did he call?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes.

“Why’d you call him?”

“Because—because he’s the only—” She stops herself. “Chris, not now.”

I wait for a minute but then decide not to push.

“You want to go out to eat tonight?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Somewhere outside of Solitary.”

I nod without hesitation.

Definitely. Like Mexico. Or Alaska.

“Anywhere you’d like to go.”

“Why don’t you pick,” I tell her. “And I’ll treat.”

“Stop acting like a grown-up.”

I want to tell her to stop making me, but I don’t. “I’ve got money to spend,” I say instead. “Let me spend it.”

“We’ll see,” she says, standing up.

The thought of my father’s face and voice makes me angry. I’m glad he’s not here. And come to think of it, I don’t want to hear what he had to say. The less I know about him the better.

Mom and I are doing just fine.

Or at least that’s sure what I want him to believe.