Marcus
I barely contain a gasp as I read the email over again. Marcus Graham, the manager of the Screaming Trees. The man I met at Tristan’s screening. I never really expected a response when I wrote to him after the festival. I can’t believe he remembers me! More importantly, he loved Sam’s music! He said he was talented!
I have to call Sam. I have to tell him right now.
My hands shake with excitement as I make the call. As usual, I hold my breath when the phone begins to ring. It takes a while, but eventually he answers.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Sam says. “I missed you.”
His voice fills me with warmth. Like sunlight streaming into a room.
“I missed you, too,” I say. “You won’t believe what just happened. Do you remember Marcus Graham? The manager of the Screaming Trees?”
“Sure, what about him?”
“I met him at the film festival a few weeks ago. I sent him some of your music. He just emailed me back. I have to read this to you…”
I read him the email. My voice rises at the parts where Marcus says he loved the songs, how talented he said Sam was, and how he forwarded everything to the others in the band. “Can you believe it, Sam? He said he sent it to Gary! That must mean he sent it to Mark, too. What if they’re listening to it right now? Oh my god … what if they’re talking about you! I wonder what song they like best…”
Sam is quiet as he takes this in.
“What do you think? Say something!”
“Why didn’t you tell me you sent him my music?” Sam asks.
“Because I wasn’t sure if I’d get a response,” I say. “I didn’t know if he would actually listen to it.”
“But I thought I told you not to do this.”
I go quiet for a moment, surprised by his response. “It’s not like I went looking for him. It sort of happened in the moment. Why are you mad at me? Sam—it’s the Screaming Trees. Marcus Graham said you’re—”
“It doesn’t matter what he said,” Sam interrupts me. “Why are you still doing this, Julie? We talked about this. And yet you’re still holding on to my music and my life when I told you there’s no point anymore. Why can’t you accept the fact that—”
“That what—you’re dead?”
A silence. I swallow hard, waiting for his response. When I sense there isn’t going to be one, I continue, my voice sharper. “I have accepted it. I accepted it a while ago.”
“It doesn’t seem that way,” Sam says. “It seems like you’re stuck on this idea that I might be coming back or something. Ever since we started talking again, it’s like you can’t seem to let me go anymore. And I’m just worried—”
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say back, suddenly furious. “And let me remind you, you’re the one who picked up the phone in the first place.”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have.”
A shock goes through me. His words silence the both of us. I stand there, completely still, the phone clenched tightly in my hand. I can’t believe he would say that. I want to say something back, but nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. Please don’t—” Sam starts.
I hang up the phone before he can finish. Because I don’t care to hear an apology. I stare down at the pavement, barely processing what just happened between us. Tears form behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Not right now. I want to go home. I don’t want to wait at the bus station anymore.
I grab my bag from the floor. But before I head off, the phone vibrates in my hand. And then it starts ringing, even though I have it on silent. The last time this happened, it was Sam calling. But we agreed he shouldn’t call again. Because if I don’t pick up, it would end the connection.
I check the screen. The number is unknown, just like last time. So I answer it.
“What do you want?” I ask.
There’s a brief silence before Sam answers. As soon as he does, I notice a pain in his voice. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I think I need your help.”
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
He lets out a breath. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says. “But it has something to do with my family. I have this bad feeling in my chest. I’ve never felt it before. Have you heard from them lately?”
An ache of guilt in my chest returns. Because I haven’t spoken to them since Sam died. I’m ashamed to answer this question. “No, I haven’t in a while. I’m sorry.”
A silence between us.
“Do you think you can do something for me?” Sam asks.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Check up on my family for me, if you can … Maybe ask Mika if she knows something.”
“Do you think something’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I really hope not.”
“Let me do it right now—”
Once we hang up the phone, I text Mika right away, asking her if something’s happened. She responds almost instantly.
It’s James. He never went to school. We think he ran away. Everyone’s out looking for him. I’ll let you know if we find him.
I call Sam back and tell him this.