Loving Emily (4 page)

“Hello?” she answers.

“Yancy?” Yancy Weston designs shoes and handbags and she’s huge, according to the girls at school. Now that she’s making perfume and stuff, she’s home even less than usual. “It’s Ryan. Hey… I’m trying to reach Michael. Have you talked to him since last night?”

I wait, as the silence between us gets weird and uncomfortable, until I have to fill it with something, anything. “We were at a party, and, well, it’s a long story, but he took off before I could drive him home. And now I can’t reach him.”

Yancy’s voice sounds cracked, old. “I’m at the hospital,” she says. “Michael’s gone.”

M
ichael’s gone? Where did he go?

“He was in an accident on PCH. Nat was with him.”

“At the accident?” Yancy’s speaking something that sounds like English but can’t be, because nothing she says makes sense to me.

“No. At the hospital.” She chokes back a sob. “Nat was with Michael when he died.”

I swing my legs out of the hammock and jump to my feet, then grab a lamp stand as I feel myself get dizzy. I wait for the patio floor—and my stomach—to settle.

“
What!”
My head’s still spinning a little. “When did this happen?”

I hear Yancy’s story in small, disconnected pieces.
Lost control of his Mustang on Pacific Coast Highway. Hit a road divider.

Thrown from the car. Massive head injuries.

Never woke up.

He died around four in the morning, she says, with his dad beside him. Yancy had been in San Francisco, but flew back and only got to the hospital a few hours ago.

Each word from Yancy’s mouth is like a drop of water on my forehead, a kind of Chinese water torture. The words are dripping, dripping out the rhythm of
Michael is dead, Michael is dead
.

But wait a minute. Yancy doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “I
drove down
PCH all the way and even went to your house, looking for him. There was no accident!”

“Ryan, Michael went
north
on PCH.” There are tears in Yancy’s voice.

Michael had driven in the wrong direction. He was too wasted to even find his way home. And I deserted him.

“You saw him last night, Ryan?” Coming at this moment, Yancy’s question feels like an accusation.

“Yeah, I saw that he wasn’t … in the best shape, so I told him I’d take him home. But then I had to leave for a few minutes. And he didn’t wait for me. And the Breakers Club valets let him go.”

I left Michael alone when he needed me. All I could think of was myself and chasing this pretty girl around, and now, because of me, Michael is dead. I feel sick as I think back over our last conversation. He asked me to stay with him. And I blew him off.

I killed Michael.

With the hand that isn’t holding the phone, I’ve twisted one of my fingers painfully in the rope of the hammock. I twist it even more, until it hurts like hell, then loosen it as I talk. I do it over and over. Twist it, loosen it. Twist it, loosen it.

“Did you say you offered him a ride?” Yancy asks me.

“Yeah. But I had to leave. I was only gone a few minutes. I told him to wait, but he left on his own.” I should be saying, “I made him drive there in his car, then left him alone for half an hour when he asked me to stay. This is all my fault.”

Her voice gets hard. “Nat’s calling the Breakers Club about this. We’re furious. They should
never
have given him his car!”

I am still twisting the rope around my finger. I notice that, the longer and harder I do it, the more purple the tip of my finger becomes. I wonder if I can make gangrene set in. Maybe if I hurt my finger badly enough, I’ll stop feeling the intense, burning pain that’s in my throat and chest.

Yancy says she’ll call us about the funeral, and we hang up. I suddenly think of the expression
My heart is heavy
.
My
heart feels heavy. My chest feels so full of pain that I think it will explode, and my heart will roll out onto the ground and lie there, beating by itself.

I tell myself that I did my best. Anger hits me hard and unexpectedly. This isn’t all my fault. My mind reaches out for anyone I can blame.

First of all, Chase, who poured drugs and liquor into Michael, when he was already drunk. And the Club. That valet handed Michael a death sentence when he gave him his car.

And then there’s Yancy. She was a crappy mother, clueless, always gone. No wonder he ended up the way he did.

My cell phone rings, and it’s Jonathan. “Ryan, man, forty foot waves at Surfrider today. You up for it?”

Pacing back and forth on Rosario’s little patio, I dodge a long string of wind chimes and stare out across a lawn that slopes down toward our swimming pools.

Michael is dead, I tell Jonathan. “He had an accident last night after the party.”

There’s a long silence.

“Michael
died?”
Jonathan’s voice trembles.

“Yeah. His mom just told me.”

Jonathan does a giant exhale on his side of the phone. “No way, man.”

I feel like a hand is gripping my chest, making it hard to breathe. “I gotta go,” I say. “Will you tell people? I don’t think I can do it.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” I say.

•   •   •

I lie in the hammock, waiting for Ro. Sunday’s her day off, but Mom must have asked for a trade, to have Ro during the party. I fight off a wave of panic and focus on trying to breathe. Finally, I hear her footsteps.

“There you are,” Ro says.

I stand up. “Michael died last night. In a car accident.”

Rosario steps backward, her hand flying up to her mouth as it opens in shock. She has watched Michael and me grow up together. Seeing her eyes fill with tears, mine do, too. She puts her arms around me, like when I was small and would still let her hug me. We are both crying now. We sit together on her old sofa, while I tell her the story.

Then I trudge past the laundry room and through the kitchen, looking for Mom. I need to tell her about Michael. In addition to our dads’ working together, my mom does charity stuff with Yancy, and our two families take vacations together every year.

The tea party’s still going, with all the mothers and daughters eating lunch outside. I find Mom sitting between my twin sisters. Molly has put bows in her hair and is looking around, all excited and drinking tea from this little cup. Maddy, slumped over, gives me a gloomy look and pulls at the neck of her dress. I speak into Mom’s ear in a low voice. “I gotta talk to you.”

“Now, Ryan? I’m busy!” But, seeing my face, she gets up and lets me lead her to a quiet patio, feeling the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. As I tell her about Michael, she sags a little, going pale under all that stuff she wears on her face. I put an arm around her shoulder to steady her, and she leans against me. She’s so small and thin, it’s like holding a baby bird.

“We have to call Doug,” she says. She pulls out her cell phone, reaches him on the seventeenth hole with Jared Abernathy, and gives him the news. The connection’s bad, so Dad keeps breaking up. In between the static, words and phrases come from the receiver—
call Nat, tragic, coming home now—
until right at the end, before he and Mom hang up, I finally hear one entire sentence.

“Thank God Ryan wasn’t in that car with him.”

T
hat night, I lie in bed and think of Camp Evergreen, where Michael and I went for five summers, starting when we were eight.

Every summer started the same way. The first free moment we had on the first day, Michael and I would run down to the lake to fish for crawdads. On this one side of the dock near the shore, where the lake was only two feet deep, you could see crawdads crawling over the stones. They were the same dull brown as the rocky lake bottom and looked like lobsters, only a lot smaller.

All we did was tie a string around a chunk of bacon or baloney from the camp kitchen and lower it in front of a crawdad. Once it had sunk its claws into your bacon chunk, it was not letting go, even if we hauled it up into the air. We kept our prisoners in a pail of water and eventually slipped them back into the lake.

Some crawdads were easier to tell apart from the others. That was how we knew we were catching some of the same ones over and over. We even gave names to our favorites.

“Okay, Captain Hook’s going for another ride,” I would say, hauling up for the fourth time a big one with a missing left claw.

“Come to Poppa, Elvira.” That was Michael, as he repeatedly pulled up an unusual all-black one with a thing for baloney.

“Face it, these things are stupid,” I told Michael. “They just get caught over and over.”

“We’re the stupid ones,” Michael said. “They’ve gotten dinner, and meanwhile, all we’ve got’s an empty bucket.” We cracked up, picturing the crawdads with their full bellies down on the lake bottom, laughing at us poor, pathetic humans.

I hadn’t thought about the crawdads for a long time, until this last summer, in fact. It was about two months before Michael died. He and I were at one of the Lobster Barrel restaurants with some friends. I remember Jonathan was there, and they were giving out these red plastic lobster key chains for an anniversary celebration. One of them arrived with our check.

“Ryan, look, it’s a crawdad!” Michael had said.

“It’s a lobster, man,” I said.

“For us, it’s a crawdad. We used to catch crawdads,” he told the rest of the guys. “At camp.”

“They look like lobsters,” he went on, “only bigger.”

“Bigger?” Jonathan said. “I thought crawdads were small.”

“No, they’re huge,” Michael said, straight-faced. “How big was that one crawdad you caught, Ryan? Ten, twelve pounds?”

“At least,” I said.

“Not only are they huge, but they’re
mean
,” Michael said. “This big one chased Ryan around the dock and then clamped his claw on his big toe and wouldn’t let go.”

“You’re so full of it, Weston,” one of the guys said.

“No, it’s true,” I said. “Except Michael got his facts mixed up. It wasn’t me who got chased around—it was Michael. And it wasn’t his toe the crawdad bit—it was his dick.”

The guys started laughing. Kyle, down at the end, threw a bread roll at Michael, who caught it and lobbed it back to Kyle.

“Ryan, my dick’s way too big for a twelve pound crawdad to get his claw around. It must have been
your
dick you’re thinking of.”

Jonathan jumped in. “Michael, you’re
doubly
full of it. Although the part about Ryan’s dick, I’d believe.”

After we’d pooled our money to pay the bill, Michael got up from the table.

“I’m gonna find you one, too,” he said to me. He asked a waiter, then walked around past a few empty tables until he found an abandoned key chain and handed it to me.

“Now we each have one,” Michael had said. “To remember the crawdads by.”

I get out of bed, go to my desk, and open the drawer. There it is, sitting in the paper clip cup. My crawdad. I wonder if Michael had kept his.

I’ll never see him again. I climb back into bed with the crawdad in my hand and lie there for a long time, barely moving, barely even breathing, it seems like. I lie there for hours, staring at the ceiling, until I finally fall asleep.

J
onathan must have done his job telling people, because I’m accosted in the school parking lot on Monday morning as soon as I get out of my car. First, it’s by some girls from the varsity soccer team – Mamie, Jessica, Lauren, and… the last one is Katie, I think. Their faces are red and soggy from crying.

Maybe I should have stayed home from school after all, the way my parents suggested. But I’d wanted to keep busy, to stop myself from thinking.

“Ryan, what happened on Saturday?” It’s Mamie talking.

“Michael had kind of a lot to drink that night,” I begin.

“He wasn’t just drinking!” Lauren says. “I saw him snorting coke in the parking lot. That new guy was daring him to do a second line.”

Heat fills my chest and throat. “Did Michael do it?” I ask.

Lauren nods.

A crowd is gathering around us: three guys from the old gang at the Westside Academy for Boys, where Michael and I went to elementary school; Brent and Oliver, who Michael and I know from freshman English; and a couple of other kids who I don’t know that well.

“Where did you go with him, Ryan?”

“Into a stairwell. I stayed with him up until the very end. But I had to leave him for a minute, and that’s when he gave me the slip.”

Emily floats through my mind, small and out of focus, then drifts away. Anger pulses through me, anger at Chase and at myself.

The bell rings for class. Our group migrates indoors, with me still trapped in the center like the yolk of an egg. As we enter the building, the cluster of people around me finally breaks up, but I’m still not free.

In front of me is Ballbuster Anderson, our headmistress. She’s really small, but she’s tough as beef jerky. As usual she looks like this butch military official, standing there in one of her weird man suits. It’s navy with brass buttons, but pint-sized. She wears it with a white button down shirt, and something hanging around her neck. A scarf, maybe.

“Hey, Miss Anderson.” I keep replaying that evening in my mind, like a video, except I keep changing the parts I don’t like. So many small mistakes. If I’d done even one thing differently, he’d be alive. If I’d driven him to the party, the way we planned, he’d be alive. If I’d stayed with him in the stairwell, he’d be alive.

“Mr. Mills,” she says. “I’ll give you a late pass to class. Tell me what happened.”

So I do. She listens with this terrible expression of pain on her face. Michael practically had a chair with his name on it in Anderson’s office, getting hauled in regularly for things like cutting class, pranks, or not turning in homework. He used to joke that Anderson was secretly hot for him and looked for excuses to call him in.

When I finish, she clears her throat, but her voice comes out sounding high and strangled. “Thank you. We’re having an assembly at eleven thirty. You may go to class.”