Fall For Anything (13 page)

The first half of the trip to Ellory is uncomfortable because there isn’t enough space between me and Milo. At the same time, there’s too much of it, an ocean of it, and that feels as alien as being close. I think I kind of hate him for it. The kiss between us has totally fucked me up; I am too aware of my body around him. Every time I move, it’s awkward. I think of him touching me. And the most annoying thing about it is I know it’s totally one-sided. He is totally relaxed beside me, like these thoughts aren’t all in his head, and it’s not fair. It’s giving me a stomachache.

“Are you nervous about this?” Milo asks after a while.

“I’m ready.”

He pauses. “What if it’s not what you want it to be?”

“It’s already what I want it to be,” I say. “It’s … more.”

“So did you tell your mom and Beth you’d be out all day, or did you climb out through the window again?”

“I told them I was with you,” I say. It’s all I told them.
I’m spending the day with Milo. Bye.
And then I left before anyone could say anything, and I met him at Fuller’s. I roll down the window and let warm air fill the car.

“I Googled Culler Evans,” Milo says.

“Really?” He would.

“The artist’s statement was fucking pretentious. Art at all costs? You have to be brave enough to look at his art? What does that even mean?”

“Actually, my dad loved that statement,” I say. “It’s why he took Culler on.”

That shames him. A little. “Maybe I don’t get it. His photos weren’t that great.”

“That is a really subjective thing,” I say. It comes out of my mouth maybe a little more defensive than I want it to. “I mean, you can’t say that definitively. It’s … art.”

“Well, what did you think of his
art
?”

“I think he’s talented. Do you think they were staged? The photos?”

“I hope so. Some of them were kind of fucked up…” He pauses. “Some of them were fucked up even if they were posed, though. Who takes photos of people fucking?”

“I have no idea,” I deadpan. “Culler Evans surely must be the first person to do
that
.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he says, smiling.

I roll up the window and lean my head against the glass, tapping my fingers on my knee. I chew my lip. My stomachache has evolved. Milo has no part of it anymore—it’s just about my dad now. I don’t feel well. I thought I’d be excited, but I’m not.

This is all taking too long.

I want to get this over with.

“It’ll be okay,” Milo says. He knows what I’m thinking and he reaches over, touches my arm reassuringly, and I shiver and when I look at him, he’s not looking at me.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

It takes us forever to find the school. I tell Culler we’ll be there at two, but it’s already three by the time we arrive, and I cringe because he mentioned something about not wanting to lose the light. When we get to the school, Culler is standing in front of it. His back is to us, his arms are up. I know what he’s doing.

“He’s taking
pictures
?” Milo asks, pulling up next to Culler’s station wagon, which is parked on the grass next to the building. Almost as if he can hear Milo, Culler turns and waves. His trusty Nikon is around his neck. My heart thuds.

I get out of the car without a word to Milo.

“Did you find it?” I ask. Culler takes my picture, but I don’t care.

“I wasn’t going to look without you,” he says. “Wouldn’t feel right.”

Milo gets out of the car. “So this is the place?”

“Yeah,” Culler says. “I was here … the last time he was here.”

He makes his way to Milo and extends his hand. They shake. Milo is tense, completely stiff. Culler notices and gives Milo a friendly smile. I think.

“It’s good to meet you, Milo,” he says. “Eddie talks about you a lot.”

“Yeah.” Milo glances at me and I want to die because I don’t know how he’s taking that, and also, it’s a lie, and then Milo lies to Culler: “Likewise…”

Awkward. The three of us stare at the school. It’s nothing special. It’s all run-down. White siding, but the paint has been flaking for who knows how long and all the wood beneath it is rotting. The roof is metal and starting to rust. I imagine it when it was new, a nice place. On rainy days it must’ve sounded unreal, loud. Like the world was ending.

Four windows line the left side of the school and, I’m sure, the right of it. The windows are broken or boarded up or missing altogether. The entrance is foreboding. The left door has been boarded up. The right door has been ripped off its hinges and rests next to the building, like it’s waiting for someone to put it back on.

I see hints of the ruin inside.

And then I’m completely overcome with the fact that my father stood here, left something of himself here. Was he ready to go when he came here? I think I understand what Culler meant when he said it was almost spiritual, except I don’t feel spiritual so much as I feel like his death is on me. So much I think I’m going to die. I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

The thought steals my breath away, and I’m gulping air and that thought gets louder and louder.
I don’t want to die.
And a worse thought:
will it hurt?
Like he’s inside my head. Did he ask these questions? What if it hurt? What if—

“Eddie?” Milo moves to me. “Eddie—”

And then I am half-choking on air, half-trying not to. And then Culler is there and I try to tell him it’s okay, I’m okay, but the words seem to escape me and he has his arm on my shoulder, trying to force my head between my knees while telling me to do the same.

“Put your head between your knees—just—between your knees—” But I keep trying to straighten, because this is embarrassing. But I can’t breathe. “Eddie, calm down and just do what I tell you. Breathe in—okay, good—breathe out—”

I do as he tells me. Breathe in. Okay. Good. Breathe out. Eventually, I feel the ground beneath my feet and all the mortification that comes with the clarity after a moment like this. Milo is completely concerned, which makes me anxious, but when I look at Culler, he looks like he understands—like it’s not a big deal—which makes me feel calmer. A little.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is weak and shaky. “I’m sorry—”

“Why?” Milo asks. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

I take a deep breath, stumble on nothing. Milo grabs my arm and steadies me.

“Sit down,” Culler orders. “You need a minute. I’ll … take more photos.”

I nod feebly and sink down to the grass, facing the entrance to the school. Milo sits next to me. Culler squeezes my shoulder and gives us space.

“Are you okay?” Milo asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know, it’s just—” I rub my forehead. “I really felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“Everything.” It sounds like I’m going to cry, but I’m not. But I hate that it sounds like that. “Sometimes it’s too much.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “Eddie, give me some credit.”

The way he says it kills me and I don’t know what to say to that—or if I even can say anything to that. I just got myself back. I don’t want to sad-fight with him.

“Should you be doing this?” he asks.

“Milo, don’t—”

“I know you’re going to do it no matter what, but do you think you
should
be doing this?”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, and I move from his touch. His face turns pink and I feel even worse because neither of us can pretend that didn’t happen. I didn’t do it because it was him, though. Because I’m still awkward about our kiss. I did it because I don’t want to be touched. He’d never believe me if I told him that, though. But it’s true.

I think.

“You totally look wrecked and we haven’t even found anything yet,” he says.

“I’m
fine.
”

“And I was serious, when we were in the car,” Milo says. “What if what you find isn’t what you want it to be?”

“Why are you asking me this stuff?” I get to my feet, prickling. “Can you give it a chance before you write it off? It’s important to me.”

“Eddie, I didn’t—” His eyes travel past me, to something else, and then he says, “I don’t want my fucking photograph taken, thanks.”

I turn. Culler is nearby, camera aimed at us. He looks a little caught.

“No disrespect meant.” He lowers his camera. “It’s just how I process. I won’t do it again.”

He faces the school and takes another shot of it.

“That’s fucking creepy,” Milo says, not even bothering to lower his voice. Culler isn’t close enough to overhear, but still.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “You heard him, it’s just how he processes…”

Milo gives me this look. This
You like him
look, but he doesn’t say it. But I think he’s close to saying it, and I so cannot hear him say that. I clear my throat.

“I think we should go in,” I say loudly. “We should go in and see what we find.”

Culler makes his way over to us.

“We’ll find him,” he says.

He is so—I don’t know. Perfect. Everything about him is perfect. The shape of his mouth, which has kissed me. His hair, which looks unruly and unbrushed but on purpose. And then I remember all the dirty pavement sex I imagined us having after he kissed me and
what is wrong with me
? I feel completely bipolar.

I step through the open door and into the schoolhouse—a one-room schoolhouse. Old. Light floods in through the open windows. Dust motes float in those rays of sunlight. It’s hard to take in so much decay; I’m not sure where to start. The walls are browning or water-stained or something and the plaster curls in on itself. In some places, there are holes in the wall.

You can see the wall beneath the wall.

There’s a scratched-up blackboard at the front of the room. It’s been spray-painted. Not my father’s handiwork, I don’t think, but it fits him somehow … someone spray-painted a stick figure staring up at birds overhead. It’s so disaffected looking, like a teenager tried really hard to make it look like a kid did it. The word
DREAMS
is on one side of the stick figure and someone else spray-painted the words
FUCKING FAGGOT
with an arrow pointing to the stick figure on the other side of it, which depresses me.

On the floor beneath the old blackboard are planks of wood, another door off its hinges, and old wooden crates. Garbage is scattered everywhere, but there’s a suspiciously tidy-looking corner. I imagine people coming here to drink and smoke. It just seems like they would.

There are no desks, though. At the back of the room, there are rusty hooks for coats and beneath that, a pile of old books and a cheap-looking skateboard with no wheels.

“This is exactly how it was when I was here with him,” Culler says. “Not one thing has changed. Crazy…”

“Where do you think we should look?” I ask.

Culler shrugs and takes a photograph of the place.

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you find the one in the barn?” Milo asks him.

“It wasn’t in plain sight,” Culler says. “It was on the corner of one of the doors.”

We turn to the boarded-up side of the door. Milo gets there first, his eyes traveling over every inch of space. Culler turns to me and says, “We should each take a side. It’ll be faster.”

I nod and then I start combing through the left side of the room, running my hand over the jagged wooden windowsills and the chipping plaster. Milo stays at the boarded-up door and Culler takes the right side of the room. We search in silence for what feels like a long time and no one finds anything. I can’t stand the thought of ending up empty-handed. I have to leave this place with something. If I don’t, I’ll die.

And then Milo sneezes and startles the fuck out of us.

“Sorry.” He sounds stuffed up. “I don’t think there’s anything over here.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes.” He sounds irritated.

Silence again. After a while, Culler makes his way over to me, smiling at me a little, and my stomach twinges. I wonder if he found something but then I think he wouldn’t be smiling at me if he did.

“You scared me back there,” he tells me. “I was trying to keep cool.”

“You were cool,” I say. “I’m sorry about Milo. He doesn’t … he doesn’t get it, you know?” I force a laugh. “Like, your portfolio went right over his head.”

“You checked out my portfolio?” Culler asks.

“Yeah. It was really intense. Uncomfortable.”

“That’s great.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, otherwise what’s the point?” He looks at his camera. “That makes my day, actually. I don’t want you to look at them and feel nothing.”