There Will Come a Time (8 page)

They ignore my attempt to be invisible and some girl pulls me into the middle of their circle. I try to get away, but more girls surround me and start shaking their bodies up against me. Normally this might not be a bad thing, but I'm just trying to get some space. I spot Levon in the group.

“Levon? Help!”

He smiles and jumps in with some amazing B-boy moves, a total distraction, allowing me to get away.

“Thanks, man!” I yell, backing away.

There are two places people go on campus besides the quad and classrooms: the basement and the roof. Both are utilized for two things—ditching class and making out. The teachers know this, of course, as half of them graduated from the school. As long as we're cool about it, they're cool and don't hassle us. They know we need a place to let off some steam. I'm not doing either. I just need to get some air.

On top of the building, I'm glad to see that I'm alone. I turn
around, giving myself a panoramic view of downtown LA, the valley, and the mountains. It rained a little yesterday, so the city has been washed clean of its usual smog and you can actually see the horizon. Some people complain about LA. It's crowded. It's the kind of place that'll crush your dreams rather than make them. It's fake. But from where I'm standing, all I see is potential. All different kinds of people are smashed up against each other, which makes living here more interesting. LA's got everything you could want within driving distance. You've just got to find a way to get there.

I walk to the edge of the roof. Below me is the concrete sidewalk that connects this building to the others. The building's not very high up, only three stories. Leaning over, I wonder if I'd walk away from the fall. I'd probably break my leg. Painful. Pointless. If I were going to jump, I'd want it to matter.

“There was this guy who did it at my old school last year,” a voice says behind me.

I turn sharply. Near the metal air-cooling system, Brandon's taking out his cello from its case.
How did he get up here without me hearing him?
“Did what?”

“Jumped. In the middle of the day, when we were changing classes.”

I stare at him, wondering what he's getting at. Is he saying this because he thinks I might do it? Because he's thought about
it? I size him up. White kid. A sophomore. Not too tall, but not short either. I probably only have two inches on him. Black nails. Eyeliner. Looks like he's going for early glam rock/punk, more Ramones than Autistic Youth. I remember when Brandon transferred last year. He's a good musician. This year we're in orchestra together, but we've never really had a conversation.

“His head cracked open,” he continues. “Sounded kind of like a watermelon splitting. That's what they use for the sound effects in zombie movies, you know. My uncle works in the industry. The school cleaned everything up, but . . . blood stains.”

“Yeah,” I say, and back away from the edge. “Blood, it stains.”

“Name was Ryan.”

Then I get it. “Were you friends with him?”

“Bingo.”

“Sorry.”

Brandon places the cello between his legs. “You never know what a person is going through. Ryan seemed like he was fine, and then I guess he wasn't.” He holds his bow over the strings and begins to play warm, deep notes.

“Have you thought about it?”

He shrugs. “Everyone thinks about it sometime, but only the insane do it. No offense, man.”

“I don't think about it,” I lie. I don't as much as I used to.
The more time passes, the more my self-preservation instinct seems to have kicked in.

Brandon continues to play. I look out at the skyscrapers in the distance and wonder why I've never brought my bass up here. Brandon shifts now to Bach, one of the pieces we're working on in class.

“Sebastian played me a new track this morning and it's pretty sick,” I say. “Thought I might lay some bass over it. Cello would be a nice touch.”

As if on cue, the door to the stairs opens and Sebastian and Pete burst through.

“Told you he'd be here,” Pete says. “Santos, we've got your food.”

He places a white paper bag in my hands. “Thanks.” I pull out one of the tacos, unwrap the foil, and take a bite. So cheap. So simple. So good.

“Hey, Brandon,” Sebastian says.

“Hey.” He stops playing.

“I'm Pete.” Pete holds out his hand to Brandon. They shake.

“Brandon.”

“What're you doing?” Sebastian asks.

“Just messing around,” Brandon says. “Mark says you've been working on some new beats?”

“Yeah.”

“Beats? What beats?” Pete asks.

Sebastian pulls out his phone and lets us listen to what he played me this morning. Brandon starts to softly play along, and I can hear the beginnings of a piece.

“You could add the cello,” Brandon says to me as if he hears what I'm composing in my head.

I nod. “Cello, bass, beats.”

Sebastian, Brandon, and I keep listening to the track, moving our heads to the music.

“I have an idea,” Pete says. His eyes are all lit up and huge. “It'll be perfect. You know how I'm doing a fashion show, right?”

We all give him a blank look.

“Seriously? It's for my senior thesis. I'm getting a big block of time during the winter talent show.”

The talent show at our school is a big deal. It's not some free-for-all where you're embarrassed for the people on the stage. Students really get to shine. Sure, there are recitals and concerts and plays that each artistic discipline puts on throughout the year, but the talent show is strictly run by students, and there are serious auditions. It sells out every year, so it's also a major fundraiser for the school.

“You three are going to supply the music,” Pete says.

Sebastian and Brandon keep nodding their heads. “Cool,” they both say.

I don't know if I want to be roped into one of Pete's performances. There's the time factor, along with having to engage with others. “I don't know, Pete. I'm kind of busy. We have orchestra and jazz band performances.”

“You always have those,” he says. “This'll be your chance to stop lurking around, avoiding most of humanity. It's senior year. We'll make history with this performance.”

“I'm not lurking,” I say, but realize I'm sulking when I say it, so I straighten up.

Pete's pushing is beginning to piss me off. I don't like to be pushed. I look at Sebastian for help.

He shrugs and says, “It might be a good idea. Orchestra's no big deal this semester. It'll get your mind off of . . . I mean, on this year.”

I know he means to say,
Get your mind off of Grace
, but I'm glad he doesn't because I might have to punch him in the nose. I don't know what's happening, how everything is about doing the talent show. I'm now feeling claustrophobic on the rooftop. I eye the door and think about making a break for it.

“I was having trouble coming up with a theme, but this is perfect.” Pete walks along the side of the roof like he's balancing on a tight rope. “I'll get Krysta to work on a downtown skyline for the sets. We'll have models, dancers, musicians, dancers as models. . . . Sebastian and Mark, you guys can handle the
music. Maybe it could count for your senior thesis as well. It'll be huge.”

Brandon, Sebastian, and Pete are all looking at me. I want to tell them no. I want to tell them to leave so I can be alone. I just want to slip through the school year without drawing attention. Getting pulled into Pete's fashion-show drama—and it's Pete, so I know it'll be drama—is the last thing I want to do. But I've never said no to Pete, and when I don't say anything, Pete takes that as a yes.

“Great. When do you think you'll have something ready?”

I
've parked across the street from the small yellow house. I watch the front door and wait—for what, I'm not sure. It's not like I'm going to get out of the car and walk over. I've played that scene over in my head many times and it never ends well. Watching this house has become one of my routines, like my trips to the bridge. I park in the same spot each time. I'm a little surprised that no one's noticed and called the cops.

I take out my phone and post a question for anyone who's online at Twinless Twins.

Am I still considered a twin?

It only takes a couple of moments for the answers to come.

Kelly:
Yes.

Brian:
Yes.

Greg:
Yes.

Susan:
Yes.

John:
Yes.

Greg:
You'll always be Grace's twin. Death doesn't end that.

Kelly:
Once a twin, always a twin.

Brian:
Brady and Brian. Brian and Brady. It's been ten years and I still link his name with mine in my head.

I do the same thing. I don't say it out loud, but I still think in terms of we: Grace and me. A unit. One
we
instead of two singular
I
s.

Susan:
Forever

I look up from my phone. Across the street, a few kids are now running around the front yard. They don't even look old enough for elementary school. Their mom sits on the front porch, talking on her phone, watching them. She's pretty, even from this distance.

The dad comes out with a soccer ball. He drops it on the ground and kicks it to the older one in the red shirt. He tries to kick it back, but misses. He runs and grabs the ball with his hands instead and pushes it to his dad.

The dad smiles and shows the two boys how to kick the ball. They don't really get it; they're too young to play soccer. But the dad is patient and keeps at it. I can't hear him, but I imagine he's saying
Good job
, over and over again.

After a few passes, the younger boy wraps his arms around his dad's legs. The dad staggers backward, as if the kid's strength is pushing him. The older boy jumps on his dad. This time the dad falls to the ground with both boys on top of him. They wrestle and roll around in the grass. Even though my windows are up, I can hear their squeals.

I remember when Grace and I would do that with Dad. We had a game where we'd get points for pinning different parts of Dad's body to the ground. One point for each finger. Five points for a hand or an elbow. Ten points for a leg. Twenty for his head. If we could get his whole body down, that was an automatic victory. It always took the two of us to do it. Grace had a trick that worked most of the time. She'd distract Dad, pretending to get hurt. I knew she was faking because she'd smile out of the left side of her mouth. While Dad was checking her arm or whatever she'd said she'd injured, I'd pounce and she'd jump and we'd take Dad by surprise. Watching this father play with his sons, I'm wondering if Dad knew and just played along. There was no way we'd actually have been able to tackle a grown man at six.

The dad is on his back now with his boys sitting on his stomach and chest. They look happy. And their joy shines a spotlight on my own unhappiness. It's not fair. My hands grip the steering wheel. I think about getting out of the car, but I hadn't figured
kids into the equation. Not that I really had much of a plan to begin with. I don't even know what I would say to the guy.

I watch the family through the car window like they're characters in a silent movie. Eventually I start the engine and pull away from the curb, taking my memories of when my family seemed that happy with me.

H
anna, Sebastian, and I meet at a yogurt place to map out a tentative plan for completing Grace's list. The start of the school year had proved busier than we thought, especially for Hanna. We've been training together, but we haven't technically done anything on Grace's list yet. Hanna's freaking out about accomplishing everything in time.

After thirty minutes of discussion, we have a plan. We're starting this weekend with surfing, which takes care of September. Bungee jumping will be in October, with spoken word and hiking in November. The 5K will be last. Hanna has already signed us up for one on December 28. It's pushing our deadline, but everything will be done before the year is over.

Hanna writes the plan down on a small napkin and passes it for me to see. I can't pick it up. My hands are suddenly immovable weights. I knew this was what we were doing, what I agreed to, but I'm not prepared for how I feel. What'll happen when we're finished? Will I be cured of missing her? Will I feel more lonely than before?

“Sebastian,” Hanna says, “you've got some chocolate on your mouth.”

He grabs the napkin with our schedule and wipes it off.

“Sebastian!” Hanna cries.

He smoothes out the napkin on the table. “Sorry.”

I watch the four guys hunched over individual gaming systems at a table in the middle of the shop. They're playing something together, even though they aren't talking and there's no physical interaction. There's a group of gamers at my school who do the same thing every lunch, totally oblivious to everyone around them.

“Well, man,” Sebastian says, “what do you think? Doable?”

I know they want me to tell them that it's all good, that seeing Grace's last wishes laid out on a chocolate-smudged napkin is perfectly normal, and that I'm okay with it. But it feels like some vacation itinerary.

I want to say I've changed my mind, but I say, “Fine. It's fine.” I don't want to disappoint them. I finish my yogurt in one last bite.

“Great!” Hanna pushes her yogurt across the table. “Have mine. I can't eat it all.”

I take a bite and grimace. “What's this?” I almost gag.

“You like it?” Hanna asks. Her eyes sparkle mischievously.

“It's disgusting.” I stand up and get a cup of water to wash away the taste of her strawberry-and-raspberry concoction. Hanna knows I don't like berries, except for blueberries. I could eat a basketful of blueberries anytime.