Hate (5 page)

I turned on her.

“Gram has been watching Soaps.”

All at once, my father’s eyes widened and he started to choke on noodle, ricotta, and ground beef, my mom yelled, “Ma!”, and Gram turned to me, pursed her lips, and accused, “You little shit.”

Hey, the rules of my family were simple. During internal disputes on little issues, look out for numero uno—yourself. On internal major issues and
all
external issues, little or gargantuan, look out for one another.

Of course, this rule was unwritten, but I’m pretty sure it was part of the family crest many centuries ago.

As chaos reigned, a smile of my own tugged at the skin around my lips. It was half-hearted, stifled by the circumstances of my day, but at least it was something.

“I thought I told you to stop watching those Soaps,” my mom carried on.

Not one to back down for anyone, Gram answered, “Cut the crap, Lydia. What makes you think I have to do anything you tell me to? Now pass the garlic bread and shut your trap.”

Looking from my stunned mother (for no reason, since this was how dinner always went) to me, Gram explained, “I’m allowed to eat ten pounds of garlic bread too. My hips don’t matter to anyone anymore. So what if your father has to spring for the extra-wide casket?”

Feeling the smile fill my face all the way up to my eyes, I reveled in Gram’s ability to make no apologies for who she was. She was herself, always.

“I love you, Gram.”

She knew what I was feeling, the helplessness of a years long friendship hanging in the balance, and she knew that she could do nothing to help.

Except give me something to laugh about. Something else to focus on.

So that was what she did.

Her words said wild. But the look in her eyes said love.

“You have no idea how much, kiddo.”

I loved that my Gram said what she thought and thought what she wanted.

And I loved that despite our quirks, we were a family until the end.

Most of all, I
loved
that on the heels of a really horrible day—a day cursed with the beginning of a life-long unrequited love—I still had many things to be thankful for.

Overshadowed by the haunting events of September eleventh, not many people remember September tenth of 2001, but for me, both days would live in infamy.

THE NEXT DAY, AS I walked through the blue locker-lined halls that made up a good deal of the scenery in my nightmares on my way to second period, my ears perked up at the sound of increased anxious chatter.

Of course, being in a New Jersey high school, there was always needless gossip and fodder filling the air. But this was different. I could feel it like a pulse of electricity through my veins. Bodies thrummed with more nervous movement than normal, and the shriek of female, teenage voices was a couple of octaves above average.

Personally, I was jittery from lack of sleep, and my eyes were puffier than a dragon compliments of an all-night crying jag.

I hadn’t been able to get Blane out of my head, and the more I thought about it the more upset I became. Deep down I knew this was it for him.

There wouldn’t be drama or a throw down, drag-out, fan-faired end to our friendship.

He was too straight forward for that.

It would just be done, and the churning in my gut told me it already was.

Turning the dial on my full-length locker, I focused on the numbers passing me by on the way to my combination.

Franny wasn’t in school today, again, and it seemed like Blane’s prophecy about her mental health was coming true. She wouldn’t answer my calls, and for the first time, I started to fear that I was going to lose both of my friends.

No.

Shaking my head, I found my resolve.

That couldn’t happen.

In that moment, I promised to go over to her house that afternoon if she rejected my calls again.

Sneakers squeaked against the square tile floor, and the echo of slamming lockers acted as percussion in their accompaniment.

“I heard some sort of plane hit a building or something,” a girl named Jackie told Christine at the locker next to mine.

Having the last names Lenox and Lennville, this was our fourth year sharing book storage space, and Christine had been a known gossip for every last one of them.

Frankly, I was surprised she wasn’t the one imparting the wisdom in this scenario.

“What building?” Christine questioned eagerly, readying her nose to sniff out the next big scoop.

Personally, I couldn’t be bothered. It was sad, and I was sure a couple of people had been hurt or killed, but small plane accidents happened all the time. I had AP Biology to get to.

Plus, Blane would be there. In the desk next to mine.

I hoped.

Shit.

Slamming my locker closed behind me, I gave a quick check of my watch and took off at a power walk in the direction of my classroom. The bell was going to ring soon, and while Mr. Phillips was one kickass dude, he was also the kind of teacher who would flat out slam the door in your face if you didn’t make it there on time.

But as I rounded the corner, Mr. Phillips wasn’t at the door with his hand on the doorknob, waiting to shut me out of my educational experience.

Instead, everyone sat quiet—motionless—and their eyes were focused on the TV mounted close to the ceiling in the corner of the room.

Goosebumps covered my arms and a chill ran up my spine as I breached the opening provided by the door.

I searched the room for Blane, finding him in his desk, exactly where he should have been. Except he too watched the TV, his face completely stoic. But his brown boot tapped the ground with rapid precision.

That was when I started to get nervous.

Blane Hunt didn’t waste energy. He channeled it into useful activity, or he didn’t use it. Period.

Something was really, really wrong.

God, I hoped it was everything going on with Franny.

Please, God. Let it be about the baby.

If you’d asked me yesterday, I never would have guessed that I’d be hoping for such a powerful heartache to be singular in its torture.

I prayed and prayed, but as I watched the faces of several normally-exuberant students, I knew it had to be something more.

Turning slowly to the TV, I let my eyes adjust to the scene in front of me.

Unbelievably bright, brilliant blue sky, marred irrevocably by the carnage underneath it.

The tops of the Twin Towers. On fire.

A fucking inferno. Billowing smoke and dancing flames engulfing floors and floors of offices. People were in there.

Blane’s dad was in there.

He worked on the seventy-fourth floor of the South Tower for the investment company, Morgan Stanley. That job was the reason they moved here from Georgia.

They’d moved around for most of Blane’s youth, never in one spot for more than a few years, but
this
job, this move, was the one that brought Blane’s charismatic charm into
my
life.

I couldn’t stop the quiver of my lips as a salty tear ran down my face and settled at the corner of my mouth.

“…definitely an act of terrorism of unprecedented proportions,” the reporter stated, an uncharacteristic shake in his normally steadfast voice.

“At 8:46 this morning, a passenger jet crashed into the North Tower of World Trade Center.”

Absolute dread settled into the deepest part of my stomach and started to churn.

“And at 9:03 AM a second passenger plane struck the South Tower.”

Oh my God.

Bile rose in my throat, and the air in my lungs was stolen right out of my chest.

My fingers covered my mouth to stop my scream.

Forcefully tearing my eyes from the screen and focusing on Blane, I realized that he had no clue I was there. No clue that any of us were, such was the intensity of his focus.

The flames of the fires were reflected in his irises, and by force of sheer willpower, his lids didn’t close.

The look on his face would be burned in my mind forever.

Disbelief. Agony. Determination. All swirled together to make one perfectly ugly storm.

Limbs shaking, I turned my attention back to the TV and blindly settled myself into the seat assigned to me.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the front edge of my desk, eager to busy my hands but helpless to know what to do with them.

Thoughts scrambled and scrapped for priority in my head, and despite the abundance of my emotions, I struggled to make sense of any of them.

It was like I was having an out of body experience. My brain and heart were completely unwilling to accept the violence and carnage in front of me as reality, and the thrumming in my ears made it nearly impossible to hear any of the sounds around me.

The clock at the bottom of the screen read 9:53 AM when the reporter’s voice regained my attention, the force of my concentration willing my heart to beat more quietly.

“And we also have a report now that the…it
was
a plane that crashed into the Pentagon, and we have a fire at the Pentagon now as well.”

The creak of my desk echoed into the quiet room thanks to the spasm of my hands, and the weight crushing my chest got a little bit heavier.

My heartbeat throbbed in my neck, taking on a life of its own and making me uncomfortably cognizant of the oxygen I still breathed that so many, after today, would not.

This was the result of hate. Strong and unmitigated, and worst of all, growing by the day. Our world was full of bitterness and intolerance rather than understanding and acceptance. Our opinions refused to cross cultural lines, and instead of respecting others’ thoughts as their own, we criticized.

But knowing all of this would do nothing to stop it. We were all guilty. We didn’t live in a utopian society with no villains or criminals, wrongdoing and malicious intent, and as pleasant as a world without judgement sounded, it would never happen.

I wanted so badly to do something. To be the something that someone needed me to be.

To reach out to Blane and take his hand.

Instead, the stinging of my nose warned of fresh tears, and I remained in place at my desk.

Several minutes ticked by, and as each of them passed, the despondence and grief of so many of us thickened the air. The evidence of my sadness soaked the collar of my shirt, my silent cries the only consolation I could offer the people who were truly suffering.

For years, I had prided myself on my courageousness. But on a day when I truly should have shown it, a day when I could have been more for those who needed it, it turned out I had none.

I should have gone to him despite the void. Loved him though the hate. And embraced a friendship that had been several years in the making.

But instead I sat cowardly to the side and watched as Blane lost a little more of his everything.

“Oh my God!” I heard screamed from somewhere behind me.

My eyes hadn’t left the screen, but lost in my own melancholy, the sight before me had blurred.

As it snapped back into focus, I watched in horror as, once prominent and proud, the South Tower crumbled into itself, cascading and breaking and taking far too many lives with it.

Screams filled the air, and Blane jumped violently to standing beside me.

Please God, let his father have gotten out. God in heaven, please, please, please make it so everyone got out.

Finally, I found my voice, turning to Blane’s desk as quickly as I could.

But I was too late.

All I saw was the back of Blane’s sprinting form as he left the classroom behind.

The classroom phone hanging on the wall rang as I stood up to follow him.

Making my way out of my desk, I watched as Mr. Phillips put the phone to his ear, his eyes coming to me as I wove through the students in front of me.

“Alright,” he said into the phone, hanging it up, and raising his hand at me.

“Go back to your seat, Whitney. Please.” His eyes were pleading.

Torn, I looked between him and the door, wishing I knew what the right thing to do was.

Of course, there was no right thing to do. All I could do was pray that as many people as possible had gotten out.

That William Hunt had gotten out.

Retracing my steps, I headed back for my desk, defeated.

The sound of the TV turning off echoed like a gunshot.

“Administration says all TVs need to be turned off and stay off,” Mr. Phillips informed us as I sank slowly down. Frustration pulsed in my temples, but at the same time, I understood. Their job was to keep order and keep the students safe. We had the right to know what was going on, to see it for ourselves, but too many people had parents or other relatives that were involved.

Blane could pretty much get away with anything, but they didn't need the whole school running amuck.

So I sat in my seat, kept my head down, and did what I was told.

I’ve never been more disgusted with myself.