Damn it, lying is exhausting, as it’s never just one fib. Each new falsehood builds on the last, like bricks in a wall, all pieced together with interlocking accuracy, and soon there’s a whole fortress of fabrication, a temple of untruths, poised to come crashing down on a whole village of innocents at the most inopportune moment.
Why can’t Mum and Dad just be reasonable?
What could I do, I wonder? How do I convince them Liam’s not involved in anything untoward? Except for the untoward things he did today, ba-dum-bum! I tap out a rim shot on my imaginary drum set.
Christ on a bike, sex has turned me into Louis C.K.
I decide to pretend to be happy about an A on a pop quiz in my lit class. (If I said I’d written a theme, they’d want to read it.) This seems like the most innocuous lie I can concoct, the hardest to verify.
Clumps of neighbors are standing on their lawns as I approach my house, deep in conversation here and there. Lots of outdoorsy people in North Shore, always running around in shiny Arc’teryx jackets, but it’s odd to see them standing in their yards when it’s basically dark and drizzly. A bone-chilling wind whips everyone’s hair around, but they don’t seem to notice. The gas lights lining the block cast anemic circles of illumination, making the scene even more ominous.
I guess what’s so bizarre is that no one typically gathers here; that’s why I’m thrown. Our homes are spaced too far apart to encourage casual conversation. This scene is atypical and registers as wrong.
I let myself in the front door and the second I see the expression on my Mum’s face, my heart drops.
She knows.
She knows and she’s devastated. How is that possible? Am I truly that transparent?
Wait, has she been crying? Why is her face so splotchy? Come on, that’s not fair. I’m almost eighteen. I’m not a little girl. She’s the one who put me on the pill in the first place. They can’t expect me to stay in a state of arrested development. The mature thing to do is to talk this out and tell her everything. If I’m not adult enough to discuss sex, then I shouldn’t be having it. But I am and I have, so the horse has left the barn. I haven’t been handling myself like an adult with all of the sneaking around.
Time for a serious discussion.
I say, “Mum, listen, I have to talk to you about—”
Before I can complete my sentence, she’s swept me into her arms and she begins to sob.
“Simba, baby,” she says into my hair. “Simba, I’m so sorry. Your friend...”
She struggles for a breath.
“Mum, what? My friend what?”
“He’s gone. He’s gone, Simba.”
My blood turns to ice. “Oh, Owen, no,” I cry. I thought he was improving. We’ve yet to speak, but he did wave a few days ago. He even smiled. I thought he was rallying. I even saw him sitting at lunch with some other friends just today. That seemed like positive momentum.
Why, Owen? Why didn’t you let me in? I wanted to be there for you. I tried, I really did.
I feel soul-sick.
My mum pulls back and looks at me with the most mournful expression in the world. “Honey, no. Not Owen. Your friend Stephen is gone.”
Then my heart shatters into a million pieces.
30
KENT
“Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay, Dad.”
My father is huddled across from me up here in my old backyard tree fort. He looks ridiculous in this context, like a giant next to all my half-scale furniture. He climbed in to try to make me feel better.
But how can I feel better?
How can it be okay?
How can anything be okay ever again?
Stephen’s dead.
He’s gone because I wasn’t there for him. I checked out on him as a friend. What kind of shitty person does that? I should have been more on guard. I should have seen the signs, been more invested. I should have looked out for him. I should have made the connection after getting his final text. I’ve read it hundreds of times since that day, trying to parse out his meaning. Had he already made his decision when he sent it? If I’d responded differently, would we have a different outcome?
All I know for sure is that my Spidey senses should have tingled.
Should, should, should.
I’m drowning in shoulds.
Why was I so short-tempered with him? Why did I want to punish him for being a jerk? Why did I delight in him admitting I was right? Those were his final words, literally. u were right, kent.
What a fucking microphone drop that was.
I didn’t understand how dark it was for him and now it’s too late to be his light.
I SUCK.
I’ve been in the tree fort for hours, ever since we heard. I had to get away. I had to get out of that house. I thought my mother was going to suffocate me with her grief, like she was his best friend for the past fifteen years. Like she was the one who failed to protect him from himself. She collapsed, crumpled to the ground. And then wouldn’t get off the floor, she was wailing too hard.
I couldn’t deal.
I couldn’t make her feel better because there is no better.
So I ran out the back door, no coat, no shoes, no idea of where to go, except away. Then I spotted the old clapboard fort in the cradle of the old oak in the corner of the yard, with its shingled roof and tiny balcony, the place where Stephen and I spent so many hours as kids.
Dad had the tree house built when Stephen and I were deep in our Lord of the Rings phase, so we named it Rivendell. We were such nerds, we even conducted an official christening ceremony, breaking a bottle of sparkling apple cider on the balcony’s railing before we stepped inside for the first time. Mom had a Rivendell sign made. We hung it next to the front door, where it remained until a big storm blew it away a few years back.
Stephen and I used to sit up here for hours, hanging out and debating everything, like whether Wolverine should have traveled back in time instead of Kitty Pryde or what could devastate a city more—Godzilla or hordes of zombies. As we grew older, our conversations started to include girls and college and the future. This fort was our special place; this was sacred ground.
I remember how mad Stephen was when he found out Braden and I had hung out in here without him after we finished camp in sixth grade. (Braden had gone on and on about how he “hearted” the view of the lake from here.) We came up here only a few times on our own when Stephen wasn’t around, but that didn’t matter to him. Pitched a real fit, was downright hysterical. He couldn’t believe I’d take someone to our place, like he was my jilted wife or something. That pissed me off. I was all, “Pretty sure what’s in my yard is my place, dude.” Didn’t talk to him for two weeks after that.
What I wouldn’t give for those two weeks now. Like gold in my hand. To be in here again with him.
Instead, I’m with my dad. He’s still wearing his fancy business suit, which is now covered in leaves and a few cobwebs. He doesn’t seem to be affected by the dirt or decay. He left his consulting assignment in Minneapolis as soon as he heard, hopped the next plane and came directly home.