The Last September: A Novel

“Eli,” I said. “Your hair. And you’re so skinny.”


“Brett,” he said again, intense and happy. He slammed his red plastic cup into mine, a toast that made my beer slosh onto my shoes. We both looked down at the amber liquid, sinking into my white sneakers. Then Eli did it again, laughing. This time I didn’t have enough beer left to spill. I stepped backward, attempting to smile, which ended up more as a grimace. On his jeans, which hung from his hips on the verge of falling, were scribbled words in different color pen.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look so different.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need another one of these.” He reached for my empty red cup. “Looks like you do, too.”

“I’ll get them,” I said, escaping sideways into the crowd. As I waited in line for the beer, I glanced back over my shoulder. Eli stood, still watching me. I saw him take his sunglasses out of his pocket—Ray-Bans now, he must have lost the Vuarnets—and slip them onto the bridge of his nose.

I walked back and handed him his cup. He held it in his hand, not saying anything, just staring at me hard through his dark sunglasses.

“Why are you wearing those indoors?” I said.

Eli didn’t answer. I lifted my hand and tapped lightly on one lens. Still no response. I decided to play along, staring back, until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What?” I finally said. I punched him lightly in the solar plexus.

Eli grabbed my sleeve and said, “Come up to the roof.” His voice sounded so furtive I almost worried he planned on making a pass at me.

“Why the roof?” I said. “Let’s just stay here at the party.”

“Come on,” Eli said. “I have to tell you something about Charlie.” The buzz of the party seemed to halt for a moment. For so long, he had been careful to avoid that name. Now Eli and I stood in this private little bubble of my too-intense feelings.

“Why can’t you tell me here?” I said. My voice sounded deeper. Grim. I didn’t want anyone telling Franc I had gone up to the roof with Eli. And I told myself that I didn’t want to know anything about Charlie, though at the mention of his name my focus had instantly sharpened. Worse, I felt like I wasn’t talking to Eli, my careful friend, but to someone new, and not careful at all.

“The roof,” Eli whispered, leaning in too close. His breath smelled muddy and acrid, as if he’d stopped brushing his teeth. I couldn’t help scrunching up my nose. “The roof,” he said again. “It’s safe up there.”

“It seems pretty safe down here.”

Eli closed his fist tighter around my sleeve and pulled me through the crowd. I followed him, my friend after all. Truthfully I was curious. He was going to tell me something about Charlie. We climbed up the winding, beer-sticky stairwell to the third story, then pulled ourselves through a window to scale the sloping eaves until we reached a flat expanse. Settling next to Eli, my brain slightly fuzzy with beer, I felt glad I’d come. The sky hung heavy with stars, but the air tasted light in my lungs. That thin, high-altitude air—like diet air, not so full of oxygen. I sipped it in, my head clearing ever so slightly.

Eli scrunched his brow as if he were squinting into the night through his sunglasses.

“Take those off,” I told him, tapping a lens again. “I don’t know how you can see anything.”

“I don’t want to see anything,” Eli said. “I can’t stand the glare.”

“What glare?”

“Shh,” Eli said. “Just be quiet. Just shut up now.”