I need to piece together whatever clues Braden’s left, for my brother and for me. Theo is falling apart, so I need to be strong for both of us. I need to be academic about my approach. Systematic.
From a logical standpoint, everyone who knew Braden liked Braden. Everyone. There was no bullying, no exclusion, no intentional isolation, none of that stuff you read about in the warning pamphlets that the grief counselors strew around campus like so much confetti in the days that always follow. Braden wasn’t like Rudolph in the Christmas songs, you know? He wasn’t just invited to join in all the reindeer games; he was the chief instigator. He started the campus-wide snowball fight last winter that got so huge, the North Shore PD had to break it up...but not before they tossed a few as well.
He came up with the junior class prank, too, convincing us to steal every fork in the cafeteria before school let out for summer and leave them at a designated drop point. He had them welded into one giant fork, which he deposited in the middle of the quad on the last day of class, along with a sign that read GET THE FORK OUT, SENIORS. No one knew he was the mastermind until it was over, because he communicated with the student body with anonymous InstaChats using codename Monsieur Fourchette. He didn’t even tell Theo or me.
I guess he kept more hidden than we realized.
Braden is—no, goddamn it, I must stop that—was the nicest guy. Goofy. He loved to make us laugh, except he never said “love,” he’d only say “heart,” as in, “I totally heart the new Chainsmokers’ song.” He’d go out of his way to make us wince with his terrible puns. And he wasn’t afraid to be the butt of the joke. He used to wear a knit cap with a cat’s face embroidered on the front, complete with ears that stuck off the top and a tail hanging down the back. People couldn’t help but smile when they saw this huge linebacker cruising around the halls in a little girl’s Hello Kitty hat.
His hoodie catches my eye and I pick it up for the first time since...
Since then.
As I do, a pink cat hat, complete with tail, falls onto the floor.
My heart starts pounding so hard that it feels like it’s trying to escape from my throat, and my knees go weak. I have to clamp my hands in my armpits to keep myself from picking up the hat and inhaling his essence—clean cotton and ocean breeze and wintergreen Tic Tac.
I practically run to the other side of the room, as though his Hello Kitty hat is a horcrux, full of dark magic, a cursed object. But, logically, what kind of spell could a bit of yarn cast?
The worst has already happened.
I curl up on the padded window bench, pressing myself against the cold glass, as far from Braden’s hat as I can get. I decide to double down on my efforts to understand why this happened. That’s the only way through.
I need to be smart. I need to muster all my resources.
Braden was smart. Mostly honors classes, with a couple of APs as well. And a talented athlete, so gifted, so nimble for his size. The Knights have been crushing it this season, thanks to him. He’s had scouts sniffing around since ninth grade, so he absolutely could have played in college and maybe even beyond. He had so many options.
Was he hit too much, too hard on the field? Had he suffered a head injury? That doesn’t make sense; he was far more likely to be the one knocking down opponents.
This doesn’t add up. This dog won’t hunt.
In my mind, in anyone’s mind, really, Braden was not motivated to kill himself, even though Theo says no one really knows what’s happening inside someone’s mind.
Were there clues? Did we miss them?
Was there a reason Braden was always at our house instead of his own? I’d just assumed he’d had more fun with us than without. The few times we hung out at his place, his parents seemed cool and laid-back, more like pals than parents. He never complained about them; he rarely even mentioned them.
Theo and I have talked about his home life again and again for the past few days and we’re coming up with nothing, no triggers there. Is it possible he was mad at his parents? But how? They were barely ever around. In fact, Theo and I once joked about being jealous that his folks weren’t overly invested in his success.
Braden laughed right along with us.
He laughed all the time.
But what if all that good humor was the brave face he put on while something unspeakable raged inside him? The bitch of it is, I’ll never get to ask him now.
I should have and I didn’t and I can’t forgive myself for that.
Theo’s been suggesting his death was a freak accident. When I first heard the desperate pull of the train’s horn that morning, that insistent shriek that sent shivers down my spine, the worst sound in the world, I’d hoped it was an accident.
But part of me already knew.
History always repeats itself.
Still, the idea of an accident has been easier to swallow. An ill-timed crossing, a devastating mistake, a mathematical miscalculation spurred on by the arrogance of youthful invincibility. There’s a certain solace in that which is unintended, involuntary, a cruel sleight-of-hand.
Deep down, do I buy that we lost Braden to a terrible twist of fate?
No.
Yet the theory gives Theo a modicum of comfort, so I encourage him. And I try to make myself believe this fiction until it finally feels like fact.
*
We’ve just learned there was a witness who saw everything.
Owen Fucking Foley-Feinstein.
Braden’s death was not an accident.
I just...can’t.
Simone
3:30 PM
are u okay?
5:12 PM
can I see u?
7:14 PM
do u want 2 talk?
8:03 PM
may I come over?
9:22 PM
is there anything I can do?
3:45 PM
hey owen i came around & knocked but no1 answered
3:46 PM
thought i saw u in window
5:56 PM
u there?
7:01 PM
please, so worried bout u
10:53 PM
hello?
7:23 AM
miss u
12:48 PM
looked for u @ lunch
3:21 PM
hello??
4:01 PM
how about i just text hi until u respond?
6:35 PM
hi
9:28 PM
hi
7:34 AM
hi
3:22 PM
hi
5:45 PM
hi
8:08 PM
hi
12:02 AM
hi
6:45 AM
hi
11:32 AM
hi
3:17 PM
hi
7:08 PM
hi
11:38 PM
hi
16
OWEN
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Simone
4:51 PM
hi
9:48 PM
hi
7:44 AM
hi
3:42 PM
hi
5:55 PM
hi
10: 03 PM
hi
6:56 AM
hi
7:50 AM
hi
12: 14 PM
hi
3:32 PM
hi
5:57 PM
hi
9:11 PM
hi
Owen
9:16 PM
Pls Lose My #
17
SIMONE