The Language of Silence (7 page)

I stop at the local Food Lion, and purchase everything I think someone would need to clean a bathroom. Her mom lets me in. She looks like shit.

I don’t bother to knock on Brett’s door
, but just enter. She’s not in there. I sigh and close my eyes, trying to control the need to touch her things, explore. It’s not like I am some sort of stalker. I just have so many questions about her, so many things I need to know. Maybe if I looked around, I could find something that would lead me to hate her.

It would be better to hate her.
It would be better for her, at least.

I hear a noise coming from down the hall. Tristan’s room. I know she’s in there.

My heart begins to race. The high I felt after my encounter with Evelyn is quickly fading. Suddenly, the idea of being anywhere near Brett seems beyond stupid. And she has to be in Tristan’s room? That’s the last place I want to be. Talk about a bad situation suddenly becoming nuclear. I reach inside my jacket pocket and pull out the bag of shrooms Evelyn left me. I don’t over think it. I pop two in my mouth.

Dry. Starch. Weird. I push through, chewing and swallowing before I have a chance to rethink it. I wait. But I don’t feel anything. Did Evelyn trick me?

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

I have nothing to fear. I don’t need drugs, real or fake, to do this. It’s just a girl. It’s just a room. I make my move.

I don’t hesitate to open the door to his room. I don’t feel bad invading his space. He’s dead. He doesn’t exist anymore. I see Brett. She stands perfectly still in the middle of the room. She turns slowly to face me. She just looks at me, and I can’t bear it. I clench my jaw and look at the ground, spying a pair of Tristan’s dirty socks in the corner. I begin to silently pray the drugs will work.

“I thought we could clean that bathroom,” I somehow manage.

I look up because it hurts more not to look at her than it does to look at her, and that’s saying something.  I see her lip quiver. She slams her eyes closed. For a brief moment, I think she might cry.

Instead, she straightens her back and flips her hair. “It’s not every day a boy offers to help clean up your puke. I must be special.” She walks out of the room without giving me a second look.

“I think I might be dating Evelyn Goodwin,” I almost yell down the hallway. I don’t know why I say this to her.

She stops, but still refuses to face me. “Of course you are,” she replies.

We clean in silence. The whole time, I get the feeling that I have taken something from her that I can never give back.

And these drugs suck.

Chapter Twelve

Brett
:

I find myself unable to look at Ed while we wipe down the bathroom. I can’t talk to him either. I feel too many different things with him.

Evelyn Goodwin?

When will he see what he’s doing? He can’t sleep with half of Wendall High and hope that it proves something. Months from now, girls like Georgina and Evelyn will laugh about him. And then they will forget he exists at all. And where will that leave him?

Empty.

I know he feels the loss of my brother. I feel it too. And even as we wipe away the proof that he is gone, the one odd thing that confirmed his death, I know the loss connects us now. Before Tristan died, we were connected by something else, something less easy to define. I wonder now if we will only be able to see each other as a reminder of Tristan’s death.

“I’ll walk you out,” I tell Ed when we are finished. I don’t thank him for his help. I know he did it more for himself than me. He nods, and we walk in silence down the hall. I wonder when we will be able to speak to each other again, truly speak to each other. Have we ever been able to truly speak to each other? Tristan was always the buffer.

What will we become without him?

There was a moment last fall that threatened to tear down the walls we so painstakingly built
, a moment where Tristan couldn’t protect us from what we felt.  My mother, Tristan, Ed, and I went to Virginia to tour UVA. My father had gone to law school there, and Tristan was expected to do the same. Tristan didn’t want to be a lawyer. Loud, annoying Tristan whose voice boomed throughout whatever space he occupied never found his voice when it came to my father.

The summer before I started my freshman year at Wendall High
, something shifted in my relationship with Ed. Maybe it was because I finally got boobs, or maybe it was for much nobler reasons. Either way, he looked at me differently. He would open doors for me and pull out my chair. Sometimes, he would catch himself in these small moments and attempt to make some joke about himself catching the Southern Hospitality Flu. Every time he showed me some small gesture of respect or admiration, I would catch the smallest of cringes.

He didn’t want our relationship to change.

This didn’t stop me from noticing him staring, or being pleased that he talked more to me than my brother when the three of us were together.

If I hadn’t been so distracted by all the attention from Ed, I would have noticed this was when my brother started to pull away from us.

There were a million reasons not to let our small flirtations turn into something else at that point. I was a freshman and he was a junior. I was inexperienced, and it was no secret he’d lost his virginity to a seventeen-year-old high school drop-out the summer before when he was visiting his cousin in New York. Then there was my brother.

In retrospect, all of these reasons were bull crap. We couldn’t be together because we were scared. Ed was scared of hurting me, and I was scared of the same. So, we continued to flirt here and there, pretending that we could do so without causing any damage to each other.

Right.

Being at Wendall made it darn near impossible to snuff out my crush. I saw him all the time in the hallways and every afternoon after school. I tried to distance myself by joining every after school club that I could
—Student Council, 4-H, Art Club, Drama. I thought if I spent less time with him and Tristan every afternoon, I would be able to move on and comfort myself with the thought of being friends. Maybe if I created a new place for myself, a place outside of the trio of Brett-Tristan-Ed, I could see there was more to appreciate about the male species than the boy who had crappy taste in television, owned nothing but band t-shirts, and had every comic book known to man—a boy who knew there was more to life than this small town. A boy who was not scared to listen to one of my political rants, or read one of my letters to the editor of the local newspaper.

But it was all in vain.

Visiting UVA changed something inside of me. It made me confront something I had long been trying to ignore. There was no way in Hades Tristan or Ed would go to school anywhere near Wendall. They both shared a desperate need to get out.  They were leaving me.

I was unprepared for the emptiness that consumed me that weekend. My brother had been my only friend for so long. It took a lot for me to let Ed in as well, and now I was going to lose them both.

One afternoon, my mother and brother went to meet with an admissions officer. Ed and I were left to sightsee on our own. We jumped off and on a local student bus the whole day, searching out some Thomas Jefferson crap here and there. I couldn’t bring myself to talk very much, and Ed didn’t force me to speak. It was as if he could sense what I was feeling.

He has a knack for that.

On our way back to the hotel, the bus was crowded with college students heading out for some attempt at catching what was supposed to be the best years of their life. I had refused to sit down when Ed offered me the only seat in the back. I was a feminist after all. Ed chuckled at my denial and took the empty seat. I was forced to stand close to him, my legs brushing against his knees, my hand holding on tightly to the bar overhead.

During the long ride back to the hotel, an already drunk guy knocked into me, pushing me closer to Ed. I stumbled at first
, but was able to remain standing. His hand, which sat on its side on his knee, briefly touched the inside of my thigh.

I froze.

I heard him inhale sharply.

His fingers still rested on my leg. I shifted my weight so I was closer to him. I couldn’t look at him, fearing the moment I did it would all be gone. I was running out of time. He would leave me. He would never come back. I was tired of fighting this strange thing between us. I wanted it over with. Right there. Right on that darn bus.

His hand moved slowly up my thigh, making its way up my skirt. I turned slightly, hoping to shield us from the view of others. I had never been kissed or touched, and I still yearned for this.  My stomach tightened painfully.

I was so wound I thought I would snap.

His hand hesitated, and I could feel my body tense with anticipation. Ed’s hand clamped around my thigh painfully, as if signaling to me the battle he himself was having. The pressure lessened and he moved his fingers slightly higher, causing a rush of goose bumps down my leg. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I wanted this.

And suddenly
, his hand was gone.

He had chosen to leave me there.

After that, we went out of our way not to touch each other at all.

“I’m…I’m gonna use the restroom.”

Ed says the least sexy thing possible to pull me from my trance. I’m left dizzy with unfulfilled expectations. I think I’m nodding. I think I’m back in the present.

I so desperately want to go back to the many moments we messed up in the past.

Chapter Thirteen

Ed
:

“I’m…I’m gonna use the restroom,” I manage to mumble. Or at least I think I do. I’m not sure if it’s the drugs or the fumes from the cleaning supplies, but I think I’m trippin’. Following Brett toward the stairs, I can no longer deny the tingling sensation that overtook my body like a rash of hives about halfway through our cleaning session.

I lean against the wall. Brett’s room is closer to where we’re standing, but it’s also
her
room. I don’t want to be in it longer than I have to. I try to judge the distance to Tristan’s bathroom, but the walls have started to bubble in and out like cheese on cooking scrambled eggs. Brett raises an eyebrow as she looks at me. I try to maintain control, but my limbs feel so heavy. I just want to splash some water on my face. Sit down. Hell, lie down.

“Are you alright, Ed?” Brett asks, taking a step toward me.

I push myself off the wall and stumble toward Tristan’s room. “Stomach problems. I’ll be back.”  Gross. But it’s the one excuse people never really question further.

Tristan’s bathroom is spotless. This isn’t a surprise. Tristan’s room was a sty, but he always kept his bathroom clean. He once told me bathrooms were sacred places that held all of our personal secrets. No wonder he never left behind any evidence. If there was one thing he protected
, it was his privacy.

I shut the door behind me and lock it. I turn on the faucet and watch as the water hits the sink and spreads out. It reminds me of an amoeba. Clear and limitless. Changing shape. Changing identity.  I reach out my hands and let them fill with water. It feels a bit like heaven when I splash it against my face.

“You’re totally trippin’ balls, man.”

I jump at the sound. I glance into the mirror and there he is. Tristan Jensen. Standing behind me in the bathroom like he doesn’t have a grave he’s supposed to be occupying.  Like he’s forgotten his new life goal is to provide meals to millions of earth’s finest creatures.

I
am
trippin’ balls. This isn’t real. I open my mouth to tell him that he’s just an illusion, but close it. I don’t want him to go away.

My legs feel like lead. They buckle underneath me, and I don’t fight gravity. It’s exhausting fighting everything all the time. I lean against the tub, and drug-induced Tristan takes a seat next to me.

“Go ahead, tell me you hate me,” he says after an adequately timed dramatic pause. Even my hallucinations must follow a set of rules.

“I hate
—” The words won’t come out. I don’t need to look over at Tristan to know he’s smiling.

“Ah. Yes. There it is
—realization that you don’t hate me at all. In fact, you miss me terribly.”

I shake my head. The bathroom tiles move with me, melting into each other, lines blurring till they don’t exist. I close my eyes. “Why do you always have to be so smug? So I miss you
. So what? What good does that do anyone?”

“I don’t know that it does do any good, but maybe admitting that you do might make things better than they already are,” he counters.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I think things are just dandy. You don’t even want to know the things I did with Georgina. It would gross you out. Especially considering she has girl parts and all.”

“Please, Ed. You hooking up with anyone would gross me out, and it has nothing to do with parts. You’re a hot damn mess.”

“Says the boy who killed himself,” I challenge.

Tristan doesn’t reply. I wait for him to sass me back, but his silence frightens me. I open my eyes to make sure he’s still with me. I’m not ready for this trip to end just yet. He’s there, and I find it suddenly easier to breathe. The question is sitting on the tip of my tongue, and I just have to ask him. “Why did you do it?”

A smile slowly crosses Tristan’s face. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first question. Does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Why? Because you want to be absolved of all blame? I can’t do that. Even as a figment of your imagination, that’s just something out of my realm of control. Only you can do that. Besides, it was my choice. In the end, blame doesn’t matter. Choice always does. It was my choice to leave. All you can worry about now, Ed, are your choices.”

“Go away,” I growl. I don’t have time to listen to his diatribes on choices. Someone who r
an his car straight into a tree obviously felt like he didn’t have any. Why else would he do what he had? Like always, Tristan is playing word games, never saying what he needs to say.

“I think you got about ten more minutes of happy times before I disappear. So, why don’t we stop wasting it with questions of mortality and start talking about you?”

I sigh and pull myself to my feet. I make my way to the water only to find I never turned it off. I quickly turn the faucet. Thankfully, the water didn’t run over the sink. I place my hands on either side of it and look in the mirror. I still don’t find it an easy task. Tristan’s sitting on the floor, so I don’t have to see him anymore, but his voice is still loud and clear.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, man?”

I fight the urge to round on him. He’s not real, and I’m half crazy for letting him get under my skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you even hanging out with that crowd? You hate those people, dude. Seriously.”

“Why did you hang out with those people? Didn’t you hate them?” I argue.

“No. I didn’t hate them. Not all the time. Would make things a lot easier for you to understand if I did.”

I look back down at the water. My reflection is hard to focus on. Why is one of my eyes so much bigger than the other one? I run my hand through the water, distorting and destroying my image in a rush of ripples.

“What’s your big plan, Ed?”

“Who says I have a plan? I’m just trying to have a good time,” I reply.

“Bullshit. You think you can work your way in, right? Get them to befriend you, tell you all their secrets. And then drop them. Let them know just how insignificant they are. Newsflash. That’s a failed plan if I ever heard one. They’re only with you because you’re news. People love everyone else’s fucked up lives. It makes them feel better about their own mess. Want to know the real reason you’re doing this?”

I can’t help it. I turn around and face Tristan. My dead best friend. He’s sitting on the floor wearing that damn smug smile. “Maybe because I’m fucked up. Maybe because you went off and killed yourself and left me and Brett alone!”

“Lame! I always hated your lame ass excuses
. My death didn’t mess you up. You were already there, man. Want to know the secret about tragedy? The one no one talks about? When you lose someone, everyone will look at you. Dissect you. They’ll finally acknowledge all those faults you’ve been carrying around for years. All the people who love you will pretend like that darkness hasn’t been there the whole time, but it has. They’ll finally have to see how messed up you are. And it’s not because of the tragedy. Tragedy doesn’t create darkness, it just lets it free. Tragedy didn’t make you this, Ed. It just let this part of you out.”

I clench my jaw. “Go. Away.”

“Is that really what you want, Ed? Avoidance has always been your go-to defense mechanism.”

“I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me, Tristan!”

“But I’m not. I’m from
your
imagination. Remember? I’m just telling you what you already know,” he replies with a shrug. He lets out a low whistle. “Let your subconscious give you a bit of advice. You deserve better than the life you chase. Stop doing this before you mess everything up. Brett will hate you if you don’t be careful.”

“Maybe I want her to hate me,” I whisper.

“Why?”

I swallow.

“Say it,” Tristan commands.

I swallow again. I want it to stop. All of it.

“Say it,” he repeats forcefully.

I look straight at my reflection in the mirror. “Because I’d rather she hate me than leave me.”

“It must be rotten living your whole life so damn scared,” he replies lazily.

“You would know,” I say.