There are two of them. One is fat and one is less fat. They introduce themselves, but they only do it once, and I forget their names as soon as they say them.
One sits and one stands. They ask Dewey to leave, and he doesn’t. His fingers twitch for a cigarette and he remains sitting, so one of the police officers has to stand. He glares at them and asks them why the hell they’re here.
“We’ve talked to everyone from the fire,” says the less fat one, who is sitting. “It’s just procedure, nothing to worry about.”
“He’s completely fu—I mean, he’s messed up in the head,” Dewey says. His hand keeps going to his pocket for a cigarette and coming back empty. “You can’t talk to him like this. There’s no way this is okay.”
“The doctors cleared him,” says the fatter one. His voice is low and firm. “It’s just a few standard questions, Jonathan.”
“That’s not my name,” Dewey snaps, though it is.
“Dewey, just go,” I say. They’re hurting my head.
He glares at me. “Shut up, Micah. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know what I’m saying,” I say, slowly, so it’s not a lie. “I want you to go.”
He glares at me for another second, and then stalks out of the room. He has his phone in his hand and he’s dialing. I think I hear him say my dad’s name before he slams the door behind him.
There’s a beat of silence. Then the fatter one says, “How are you feeling, Micah?”
“Not great.”
That’s probably the best answer I give them. They keep asking questions. If I want water. What I knew about the quarry. Why I was there so often. If I always went with Janie. If she was ever sad. If she ever cried. How well I knew her.
“Better than anyone,” I tell them.
The less fat one pulls out a notepad. “Is that right, son?”
He doesn’t believe me.
“Better than anyone,” I repeat.
The fatter one watches me. “Are you sure about that, Micah? We’ve talked to just about the entire school, and I don’t think anyone would back you up on that.”
“Better than anyone.”
“They all say that no one ever saw the two of you interact. Ever.”
That’s true. I remember that. We decided that in middle school. Before that, maybe. I can’t really remember, but not because of my head injury. It’s just been a long time.
I have been trying to figure it all out while staring at the ceiling, but it’s hard because I’m still forgetting. I forget that my dad is working three shifts now to pay for the hospital bills and that’s why he’s never here. I forget that I am eighteen now. I forget that it’s November. I keep trying and trying to remember, but all I can think of is Janie closing her door with her fingertips and the wind from the window and how that was really it.
“It was easier,” I tell the policemen.
The less fat detective writes something down. “Why’s that?”
I shrug. Shrugging doesn’t uncover my ass anymore, because I have a real shirt now. Hah. “You said you talked to everyone at school. Can’t you figure it out?”
They watch me. I watch them back. Neither of them have answers.
“What happened?” I ask them.
They don’t answer. They just keep asking questions. About that night. About what happened before the bonfire. If I was with her. If I knew she was planning a bonfire. If I know why there was another fire by the quarry. If I drank that night. If I knew beforehand that her parents would be out of town that weekend.
I don’t know why they’re talking to me at all.
I don’t remember.
“Her parents,” I repeat when they ask me about them. “Her parents don’t like me.”
“Why’s that?” the less fat one asks again.
“They just don’t. Janie’s parents. She didn’t like them, did you know that? Have you talked to them?”
They nod. Their lips are tight and they do not speak more than they have to. I don’t like them. I don’t like either of them, but they are going to find out what happened. Because Janie is gone. Janie Vivian is gone.
I repeat this to myself, in my head and out loud, and try to keep breathing as the world keeps tilting sideways. We are nearly upside down.
“Do you know why she went?” I ask them. “Why did she go to Nepal?”
“What?” the less fat one says.
“That’s right,” the fatter one says. He’s giving the other one a look like a warning. “Nepal.”
“Why’s she there?”
They look at each other, the policemen.
“Why’d her parents let her? They would never let her. What about school?” School. “She’s doing her senior project on fairy tales.” Out loud, deliberate. Sudden, because that’s how the memory comes and goes. Papers by the Metaphor, my voice and hers. Feathers. Scissors. Senior projects. We are seniors, because Janie moved the day before senior year. Her hands with chipping nails, her voice laughing because. Because her parents wanted her to do her project on American economics. Her eyes were pale that day. Her hair was everywhere.
Fairy-tale miracles. And I chose religious apocalypses.
She had laughed when I told her, because we didn’t even plan this. We balance the world, accidentally.
And now it’s tilting. It’s tilting and tilting.