"Well, I'm glad it helped," I said, "but I was only telling the truth-you did save my life."
The trace of a sad smile flitted around the corners of his mouth.
I pulled myself forward on the bed and gathered the sheets up around my legs. "Why did you tell yourself not to come here?"
"Because I'm poison." His eyes fixed on mine. "I don't want to drag you down. That's why I didn't speak to you at school. If the teachers even see us talking they'll slot you in the ‘don't bother' category without a second thought. There's no coming back from that. And the morons at school are no better. They'll just think they can use you to score some cheap weed."
"Yeah. That's happened already, actually."
John frowned. "Sorry."
"It's fine," I said. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Let me know if that changes." He frowned some more.
"It's fine," I repeated. "I couldn't care less about any of it."
"You should," he chided. "Especially the teachers. I tried showing up to a math study group during lunch a week ago, and the teacher wouldn't even let me into the room. Just thought I was there to deal or cause trouble."
"That's so unfair."
"No, it's not. I earned it." His voice dripped with bitterness, and his lip curled into a sneer. Whoa. Some serious self-loathing going on there. "But it would be unfair if any of it rubbed off on you. You don't deserve it."
His legs coiled up beneath him, and his body tilted away from me, as if he was about to slip off the edge and into the garden below.
"Do you have trouble sleeping?" I blurted. "Since it happened?"
He stopped mid-movement, as if surprised by my question. Then he settled himself firmly back on the windowsill, shifting around a little, getting comfortable. Facing half-away from me, his head tilted in a slow nod.
"Nightmares, too?" I asked.
"Every night," he said. A sudden smile flashed across his face, as if something in him had lightened at my words. He looked down and away, hiding his expression.
"I heard you hit someone at your old school," he said.
Guess news traveled fast. "Yeah. That happened."
Again the nod, this time followed by silence. He seemed happy enough, settled on the windowsill, one hand hanging down. His fingers rubbed absently at my scrunched-up bedsheet.
"How's your brother?" I asked, mentally high-fiving myself for coming up with something to say.
"Ah, yeah," he said, shoving a hand through his hair. "Haven't really seen him lately. Dillon's not much better than Chris. Moved on from selling weed to doing the hard stuff himself a year back. He'll probably be just like Chris in a couple of years."
"Sorry."
"Me too." He paused. "One thing I was wondering . . ."
"What?"
"When you took the gun . . ."
My throat tightened. "Yes?"
"You really think you could have pulled the trigger?"
"I did. It was out of bullets."
His brows arched. "You did?"
"Yes," I said, offering a tight smile.
"Huh." He didn't need to look quite that surprised.
"Don't be so impressed. If there had been ammo, I probably would have hit you by mistake."
He huffed out a laugh, and it was hard not to grin back at him.
John blinked once, twice.
"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?"