Close enough. A Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song, in four-part harmony, that we sang for last year’s spring choir concert. Raychel’s alto shakes over the fire, joined by Nathan’s tenor, and some of the crowd come in on the chorus. Maybe if I listen really carefully, I’ll hear my brother’s bass in the trees, rising up with the smoke.
Does he know how much I hate him right now? Does he know how much I love him?
Maybe he can see the bonfire from wherever he is: not a pyre, but a beacon that will guide him to us, just for tonight. He never could resist a party.
When the chorus comes around again, I join in too.
RAYCHEL
Matt is trashed. At the Richardsons’, Nathan leaves Fischer and The Nuge playing air guitar in the car and helps me drag Matt to his room. “You got him?” he asks from the doorway.
“Yeah.” Matt’s sprawled across his bed, fully dressed. I take off his shoes and line them up in the closet, the way he’d do it himself. “We’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Nathan gives me a quick salute, two fingers over the eyebrow, and heads out. Behind me, Matt groans. “Do you need something?” I ask quietly. “Water?”
He nods without opening his eyes.
“There’s a glass here.” I help him sit up, then pull some Tylenol from the drawer of his bedside table. “Here, take these too.” He gulps them and lies back down. I flip the light off and sit beside him, watching him breathe. Hoping he doesn’t puke. When I’m fairly sure he’s in the clear, I touch his hand and stand up.
“Raych,” he says in a half moan, and holds his hand out. “Stay.”
I don’t know which would be more selfish, to go or to give in. “Are you sure?”
His fingers twitch. I take his hand and sit. He pulls me toward him, and we sleep curled together, my head on his chest.
When I wake up, he’s gone.
MATT
In the days that follow, as the hangover wears off and reality sets in, I can’t look at her, even though I know she’s not the one who lied. I never bothered to give her that chance.
If I’d asked, she would have told me the truth. But I didn’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to hear it now.
I don’t want to hear anything.
Actually, what I want to hear is my brother thundering down the stairs, breaking for a game of pool, yelling across the house for Mom, asking to borrow my clothes. Anything. Even if it was him saying “I’m hooking up with Raychel.” I’d give anything to hear him say it. And I never would have pushed him for it, even if he’d said it and laughed.
I wanted to, but I wouldn’t have. But he’s dead either way. And either way, it’s my fault.
RAYCHEL
We’re playing pretend, playing normal, for our parents’ sakes. The Richardsons would wonder why if I wasn’t around. I have to be there for Matt even if he pretends I’m not there. They think he’s ignoring me because he’s upset and ignoring everyone.
He can get away with it—he lost his brother. Playing along is the least I can do. I don’t deserve special treatment, and don’t expect it. No one knows I lost my boyfriend and my best friend, and I don’t even know who fits which description any more now than I did two weeks ago.
And it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost them both.
*
Asha is suddenly a really good friend, but school still keeps her busy. My school is a goddamn joke. Our parents have the idea that routine is good for us. Like sleepwalking from class to class will somehow restore a semblance of normalcy to our lives. I clean out Andrew’s locker and tell the Richardsons that Matt took care of it.
Whispers follow us down the halls. I hear but don’t acknowledge them.
“heard he jumped … heard his brother pushed him … he was drunk, you know … heard his head split right down the middle … that’s what happens when you get stoned on a cliff!… how did Matt let that happen?… I heard they were fighting over Raychel … I heard, I heard, I heard…”
I could scream in the middle of this hallway, let it echo off tile and metal, and no one would hear a goddamn thing.
*
I wake up screaming at night, but Matt’s not there to comfort me. My mom tries her best. I can’t bring myself to detail what I’m reliving: Andrew falls. Nothing else moves for a long second. Then the crash. The crunch. The sound of bone on stone, skull on wood, leg on I don’t even know what, oh my god, and I’m torn, tearing in half for good—I can’t climb down without leaving Matt here and what if he tries to follow the same way Andrew went?
He throws himself onto his stomach, arms stretched over the cliff’s edge, yelling for his brother. But I know he won’t answer. “Matt,” I say, voice cracking. “Matt. Matt. Matt!” I finally get my voice to yell. “Matt!”
I should be glad to wake up, but it just makes me remember what’s real. What’s here.
And what’s not.
*
At school, I don’t look for Andrew in the hallway. Don’t look at anyone—keep my head down, avoid people’s faces. Answer teachers’ condolences with downcast eyes and thanks. Be grateful they don’t call on me.
Everyone seems to be giving us a wide berth, but after sixth period one day, Matt stops in the bathroom and I go to my locker alone. A few acquaintances say hi, and one even stops to ask how I’m doing.
The berth has been for Matt. Not me.
Which is unfortunate, because I could use it, with Carson lingering down the hall from my locker. His friends crowd around him and their silence creeps me out more than hollering would. The last thing I want to do is kneel to reach my locker on the bottom row. So I pretend to search for something in my backpack, eyes flicking up every couple seconds to check the group’s progress toward me.
“Move on,” a voice says, shooing them away. “Get to class.”
I whirl around and meet Eddie’s eyes, trying to tell him thank you without speaking. He nods. And later that day, I pass him cleaning up the Cowboy Chester memorial. “What will you do with all that stuff?” I ask.
He sucks his teeth. “Dunno,” he says finally. “Anything you want to keep?”
I shake my head, but he catches my gaze lingering on the small red glass pipe. His hand shoots out to cover it, and slides it into his pocket with a wink.
MATT
Every single day, something happens to make me think, “Oh man, I gotta tell Andrew about this.”
And then I remember that I’ll never tell Andrew anything again.
Every single day, I wake up alone. I don’t mean in my bed, though that’s true. I mean I brush my teeth alone. I don’t fight anyone for the shower. I have all the cereal to myself. No one left an empty OJ carton in the fridge. The dishes are always done. No wet towels on the bathroom floor. My clothes stay in my closet.
My life is the most immaculate mess you’ve ever seen.
*