“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just never seen you smile before.” For a moment he looked thoughtful, as if his words were going somewhere. But they didn’t.
“I’d better go.” He dropped my sheet and moved to leave. “This is a nice area,” he said, making his way out over the windowsill, “but you probably shouldn’t leave your window wide open at night.”
I shrugged. “I don’t like having the AC on all the time, makes me stuffy.”
He grunted disapprovingly, and jumped down from my window ledge. Fortunately, Mom hadn’t gotten around to planting any flowers there yet. “’Night, Edie.”
“See you at school,” I said, moving to the window to see him off, and gathering the bedsheets around me, toga-style.
“Mm.” Standing in the shadows of the garden, I could just see his jaw firm in the dim light. “I meant what I said. Best if I stay away from you.”
“No. No, not really. When you think about it . . .”
We just looked at each other for a minute. Nothing was said.
“I just meant it felt good to talk,” I fumbled. “I’m glad you came over. This whole thing has been kind of isolating, I guess.”
He stared back up at me, his face inscrutable. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I lost a lot of friends when I stopped dealing.”
“I don’t know if they’re really your friends if they’re just using you for dope.”
“Huh. Maybe not.”
“Sorry,” I said, hating the defeated slump of his shoulders. Me and my big mouth. “That was a little harsh.”
“Probably true though.”
I said nothing.
“’Night.” Then he disappeared into the shadows. Soon enough, the growl of his car carried through the quiet. I hung out the window, listening until it faded into the distance. Stars twinkled up high, clouds drifting around.
What a strange night.
I closed the window and tried to get some sleep, but of course my mind wouldn’t shut up. On and on, it kept going over his visit. Replaying the conversation, chopping and changing things. The version where he suddenly threw himself at my feet, declaring his eternal love and promising me all sorts of sexual gratification, was my favorite. I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to talk to him again.
“’Scuse me.” Two girls stood near our table at lunch the next day, one watching me, her mouth in a fierce line. “You’re Edie, right?”
“Yes.”
“I, ah . . .” When she hesitated, the second girl started rubbing her back. They were both in cheerleader uniforms, pretty, and slim. A couple of days of turning down every request for marijuana assistance had cooled off the interest in me, happily. But here we go again.
“You were there when Isaac died,” said the second girl. A statement, not a question.
I nodded, a little startled.
Tears slid down the first girl’s face, her voice tightening. “Did he suffer? Or was it fast? Did h-he . . .”
“It’s okay, Liv,” her friend said softly, before turning to me with sad eyes. “They’d been together for nearly a year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Familiar feelings of hopelessness and loss stirred inside. Death and pain were all shadows and isolation. But seeing the desperation of the people left behind, of being part of the debris of someone’s life, it tore me apart. Behind her tears hid the recriminations, the blame, and I had no words of healing, nothing real to offer.
Why was I still here when Isaac was gone?
Small chance something special would come of my life. Fate and luck were bullshit. Things just did happen sometimes, and searching for meaning in them didn’t get you a damn thing.
“It was fast,” I said, fingernails pressing into the flesh of my palms. “I don’t think he even felt it. He was just gone.”
Lips trembling, she nodded, though it looked more like a shiver.
“He saved my life, him and John. You should know that.”
“He did?”
I nodded.
“We were going to take a gap year, go down to South America,” she said through her tears. “There’s this program for helping to build houses.”
Useless, I just sat there.
“He’d be glad you got out all right,” she said.
“Would he?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched. Finally, the friend led Isaac’s girlfriend away.
I’d thought I was done with crying; however, the old scratchy, swollen-eyed feeling came easily. “I have to go.”
Hang sighed. “Edie . . .”
All but running, I headed straight for the nearest bathroom. Not stopping until I’d locked myself into one of the stalls. With the toilet lid down, I sat and just tried to breathe. In and out, lungs moving, there was nothing to it really. So why the hell was it so hard?
I stayed there for the rest of lunch. Sometimes, hiding was best. I should probably do it more often.
The problem started with The Catcher in the Rye.
Sure, it might be just a book. Pages, ink, and glue, nothing more. But it sat on my school desk, staring at me, taunting me, while the English teacher babbled on up in front of the class.
“. . . your essay will involve giving me an interpretation of the themes contained in Holden’s journey through New York in the fifties, blah, blah, blah. It’s due next Friday and will account for twenty percent of your grade, blah, blah, blah. Any questions?”
My hand shot up.
“Edith? Paying attention for once, are we? Good work.”
So my focus was a little shot to shit these days. Everyone had their issues. “It’s Edie. And can we please choose a different book?”
“No, Edie.” Mrs. Ryder gave me a tired look over the top of her glasses. “The Catcher in the Rye is the book.” She turned to the rest of the class. “Does anybody else have any questions?”
I put my hand up again.
The teacher gave me a sour look.
“It’s just that I already studied this book at my last school.”
“Then you should have no trouble this time around,” she said.
“But it’s pointless,” I continued. “He’s a depressed kid wandering around New York, having random encounters with friends and strangers, none of whom particularly make him feel any better, then he gets sick and goes back to school, the end.”
Absolute silence. Every eye in the class was on me. The ones behind me belonging to a certain boy held particular weight.
“It’s a work of great American fiction.” Mrs. Ryder’s lips were pursed.
“But it’s a book that comes with a body count.” I couldn’t shut up; I wouldn’t. I had to make her understand. “People have died because of it. I’m surprised the NRA hasn’t slapped a certification sticker on the front cover, for Christ’s sake.”
Behind me, John swore.
“Edith.” Her gaze gentled and she rose to her feet. “Calm down. That’s enough.”
“But what if it happens again?” I asked, also standing, heart and lungs working hard. “What if Holden Caulfield’s teenage masturbatory angst yet again sends someone into a rage and they go shoot a few people? What then? It’s happened before, but this time it’ll be on your head.”
“Edie—”
“Holden Caulfield is a killer!”