Hold Still (21 page)

“Oh no,” I say. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

She glances from her book. “No trouble,” she says. “Did you find the inspiration you were looking for?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

She shuts her novel, takes the last sip of her tea. “Sometimes inspiration strikes; other times you have to hunt it down.”

“Could I borrow these?” I ask her.

She takes the group of photos from me. Looks at a couple.

“I’ll get you a folder to carry them in,” she says.

After I help her lock up, we walk to the parking lot together, climb into our cars, and say good night.

11

Later, after I’ve finished the dinner Dad reheated for me, I sit on the floor of my treehouse and lean against the one wall I’ve built so far. From up here I can see the faint outline of the hills, some lights from houses a mile or more away. I lie down on my back and look up at the stars. I put my headphones on and listen to some sad, wistful music. Just when it starts to get too cold, I take Ingrid’s journal out of my backpack and open to the next entry. It’s been so long since I’ve read—most of the time it’s enough just to carry it with me. I turn on my flashlight and sit with my knees dangling off the edge, into the black sky.

I look out at the black sky, and try to understand how Ingrid could have done this. I try to remember those guys, to picture them more clearly. I think one of their names was Kevin. Kevin and Lewis, maybe. Leroy? Kevin and Leroy? When exactly was this? What else was going on in my life on this day? I can’t believe that I could have seen her after this, the day after or even that night, and not have known. But that’s exactly what must have happened. Maybe she knew she could act like nothing had changed; maybe she got that good at pretending. Or maybe she thought that I would have noticed, and was disappointed when I didn’t.

Through a few branches, I can see a light in my house switch off. It’s my parents’ bedroom, and I imagine them climbing into bed, worrying about me out here. I know I should go back inside so they’ll get to sleep, but I can’t do that right now, even though it sounds good to climb down and leave the cold and try to forget about everything for a little while. Instead, I keep reading. The letters are short this time, one after another.

I keep turning the pages until I find a longer entry.
dear caitlin,
I read,
this is a real letter
. My heart stops. I shut the book.

There was no suicide note. That’s something I knew for sure. Her mom called my parents and told them—no good-bye, no suicide note.

But now. After so many months.

The night is cold. My parents must be tossing and turning or fast asleep. I open the book and flip through the rest of the pages.

They are all blank after this.

I knew it was coming, but it’s still hard to understand that after I read this, there will be nothing left of her for me to discover. I turn my flashlight off and all the light that’s left comes from the moon and the living room of my house. A gust of wind comes. All the leaves above and below and around me rustle. It’s the sound of losing, or of starting over. I can’t decide which.

I turn my flashlight on. I read.

For what feels like a million years, I lie on the hard, cold floor of my treehouse. Then, somehow, I climb down the ladder, feel my way through the dark of the yard, turn off all the lights in my house, and make it to my room.

I have her journal. I have her photographs. But still. There is so much missing. I crawl under my blankets and curl my body as tight as I can. I shiver and rub my feet together. Try so hard to get the cold out.

12

In the morning, I make my way down the stairs and find my parents in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I’m up for school today,” I tell them. They exchange glances. I trace the outline of the doorknob with my finger. “I want to stay home and finish my treehouse.”

I look down at the kitchen floor and move my blue sock along the gray tiles. I know my parents are giving each other silent messages.

“What about your schoolwork?” my dad eventually asks.

“Could you get the assignments from Dylan?” my mom suggests.

I nod.

“Okay, then,” says my dad.

“But only today,” adds my mom.

“Thank you,” I say, and trudge back upstairs.

Later, after my parents have left, I go back down to the kitchen and make a bowl of cereal. I sit at the table, where my dad has left his newspapers in a pile. On the cover of the
San Francisco Chronicle
are pictures of war—a woman screaming; a bombed-out, faraway city. I sort through the stack for the
Los Cerros Tribune,
in search of milder news.

I find it, eat a spoonful of cornflakes, and scan the headlines: NEW GOLF COURSE PLAN APPROVED, LOCAL DOG WINS NATIONAL

COMPETITION, DATE SET FOR DEMOLITION. I cast the paper aside and pour myself a cup of coffee. I already know that I don’t like regular coffee, but I think I know what is being demolished, and I need a minute to collect myself.

I take a sip and dump the rest out.

I return to the table, gather the courage, and read.

After months of debate regarding the long-closed Parkside Theater between Cherry Ave. and Magnolia Ave. on the west side of Los Cerros, the owner of the land, with a private developer, has scheduled the demolition for June 25 of this year . . .

13

At ten, I start on the treehouse. My arms and legs feel heavy and tired, but I force myself to keep moving. It takes me until two to finish the fourth wall, but the next two go faster. As I lift and pound, I try to keep my head clear, but every minute it swims with thoughts of her.

I wrote a speech for the funeral. I was too sad and out of it to write anything good, but I knew that if I had died, I would have wanted Ingrid to write a speech for me. I got up there, to the podium. I put the paper down so that I could read it, but then the letters didn’t make sense. I couldn’t read them in order. There were certain words that I could focus on,
friend
and
talent
and
remember,
but everything else was blurry. I don’t know how long I stood up there before Davey came and took my arm.
Come on,
he said.
You don’t have to do this
. And I followed him down the platform and back to my parents, because it was easier than being up there alone.