What's Broken Between Us (5 page)

When I finally do go to sleep, I have good dreams about what it’ll be like meeting up with Henry the next day. And I wake up to the sound of my brother’s voice:
Get out of bed, baby sister. I’m a graduate and we’re still celebrating
.

There’s a simpler change, of course, if I could go back. One where I’d get to keep all the good things about the night.

Just take away his keys.

One swipe in his pocket—
got ’em!—
that’s all that really had to change.

It’s the simplest answer. It’s also the most unrealistic.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

H
omecoming is a lot more than just a dance. I didn’t know this, but Mumsy readily informs me when we run into each other in the kitchen around noon and she asks me what I’m up to tonight. I tell her that later this evening I will be accompanying my boyfriend, Graham Sicily—in case she’s forgotten about him—to the homecoming dance.

“That’s tonight?” she stammers. “And you haven’t started getting ready yet?”

Luckily for me, she’s able to squeeze me in at her salon with a new girl who is looking to gain clients. The end result is my hair transformed into a tornado of curls, held together with so
much hair spray I think my hair might stay like this through the end of the month.

I’ll pick you up at 6:30, k?
Graham’s last text reads.

OKAY,
I text back, using all caps to convey enthusiasm.

But Graham’s next text is,
Are you mad?

NO, EXCITED.

Digital communication is such a problem sometimes.

Graham arrives, punctual as ever. He comes in and his eyes give him away. A glance to the stairs, down to the floor, toward the living room, back down to the floor. He’s looking for Jonathan.

Mumsy is the first to make an appearance, followed by Standard Dad in tow with a camera. “That dress is very orange.” She blinks rapidly. She does the same thing when she eats something too spicy.

I agree with her, but the salesgirl told me it was the color of the season. That’s why I bought it. Doesn’t everyone want to be the girl wearing the color of the season?

“You don’t like it?”

“It fits you perfectly.” Still blinking rapidly. She pulls her cashmere wrap tighter around her.
She can feel her own glacial freeze
, Jonathan used to say.

“My little girl looks so beautiful!” Cite
The Manual for Standard Dads
, page 89, chapter 4: “Milestones.”

He gives me a hug.

“Jonathan!” my mother yells up the stairs. Standard Dad has already started snapping photos. “Are you going to see your sister
off?”

“I can’t believe how fast you’ve grown up.” Cite
The Manual for Standard Dads
, page 4, chapter 1: “Generalities.”

Jonathan comes down the stairs slowly. He’s swimming in his favorite sweats, worn and gray, with
Chicago Bulls
written down the side of the left leg. His eyes are puffy, and everything about him is droopy as he stands on the last step, leaning against the wall. I think he might be drunk. But part of me wonders if maybe he’s just sad.

“Hey, man.” Jonathan barely nods at Graham, barely makes eye contact with him.

“Hey!” Graham is overcompensating, like awkwardness can be covered by enthusiasm.

I hear Jonathan say something. It’s a mumble, and I can’t even guess what he said.

“What?” I walk over to him.

I’m standing there stupidly in front of Jonathan, waiting for him to repeat whatever it was he said.

Jonathan sighs, stepping down. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You look like a trip,” he says. “That’s a compliment, baby sister.”

But I still can’t make myself smile for him.

“What did you
really
say?” My brother doesn’t whisper compliments, he spews them proudly because he knows what a gift they are coming from him—what they used to be to everyone, and still are to me.

“I said, ‘Have fun.’ That’s all.” He nods at Graham and raises
his voice. “Have fun.”

“Sure—will do,” Graham says, turning red and smiling back nervously.

It’s all wrong, and I wonder if Graham can sense it too. A boy taking me out—
all night
, to be exact—wouldn’t have gotten away without a few threats from my older brother.

Jonathan stands there silently, leaning against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, watching as Standard Dad continues to take pictures and Mumsy instructs me on how to stand. I watch him right back. The forlornness seems to start at his toes, hitting his knees, then his hips, then his shoulders, finally presenting itself on his face. I wonder if he’s thinking about Grace. How at least he was able to give her the ultimate Garfield High experience, invites to the best parties, front-row seats at the football games, before he took away all the rest.

“Amanda, smile,” Mumsy says. And I do, because this is supposed to be a happy occasion, and I don’t want to ruin it.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

L
ights flashing, loud music, streamers. Stars everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, lining the walls, stuck to the backs of the chairs, taking the theme of Magic Under the Stars very seriously.

I spend the beginning of the dance in the foyer of the hotel’s ballroom, rambling away about whatever pops into my head to Dawn’s voice mail until it cuts me off. I debate going outside, taking a walk, but it’s raining. I’m killing time. I planned this brief absence from the dance so that people have the chance to ask Graham if he saw Jonathan, as I know they’re bound to do. This way they can get it out of their systems, while I’m not there.
Jonathan Tart, thin as a rail. Jonathan Tart, barely conscious, maybe
drunk. Jonathan Tart, not nearly as cheeky as he was on
Lifeline
.

I hope they talk. Even if it’s about how awful he seems to be doing. Even if they think he deserves it. I don’t want my brother to be the boy who killed Grace and sulks up in his room, but I don’t want him to be the boy on
Lifeline
either. I hope they cancel each other out, make way for the new boy my brother will become. He’ll have grief that doesn’t rot him, remorse that doesn’t suck the life out of him. He’ll laugh again, but never about things he can’t take back. He’ll find his place in the world, and he won’t be so wild.

And he won’t contact Sutton Crane, unless it’s to tell her he’s sorry.

“Too bad it’s too cloudy outside to see the stars tonight. The theme should really be Magic Under the Clouds,” Graham points out when I rejoin him in the ballroom. It feels good to laugh. Even dancing is fun tonight.

A song dedication goes out to the seniors, and they all shuffle onto the dance floor. It’s an outpouring of sweaty hugs, a chorus of
I’ll miss you
, and tears—of course, already—because even though there are still months and months to spend together before the end of the year, everyone already knows how the loss is going to weigh on them.

I will remember you. . . .

It’s bittersweet for them, even I can tell. Though I’m not really a part of it until Graham tucks an arm around me and holds me close to him. He takes me with him as he gives one-armed hugs to his teammates and squeezes the hands of girls he’s
served on the student council with all these years.

Henry is a few feet away. Easy to spot, as he always is for me, and he’s in the dead center of the dance floor, bending forward, making out with his girlfriend, Imogen West. Very classy. Probably also very distracting. He doesn’t have to think about saying good-bye, or the person we never got the chance to say it to, if he’s completely consumed with
Imogen
. I think about occupying myself in the same way. But Graham’s deep in conversation with someone else.

“I know it’s not as sad for you, because Dawn has already left,” Graham says, to explain to himself the reason my mascara is still intact.

I can’t cry. I’m not allowed. Even here. He doesn’t understand.

“It’s still sad,” I offer. But he doesn’t hear me. I have to tug on his arm until he looks at me. “I’m going to miss you.”

His mouth turns down, and right away I know it was the wrong thing to say. We don’t talk about next year, after we graduate, when I’ll hopefully be in Santa Barbara and all his plans leave him in Chicago. I worry that declaring that we won’t be together next year before either of us has even gotten our college acceptances is the equivalent of a
Lifeline
breakup. I’m holding on to his arm so tightly my knuckles feel like they’re going to pop off.

“We can—we’ll figure it out,” I say, pulling myself close to him. “Right?”

He melts into my arms, but not before giving me a smile so
full of heart that I really do want to cry a little, just for him. I pull him close and shut my eyes so I can’t see Henry. It’s such a relief, for once, to have the right lines.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

L
imos drop us off at the after-homecoming party at a rented house twenty miles north and remain “on call” the rest of the night. The drivers give us handfuls of their cards.
Ride free tonight!
is written in purple block letters above the phone number. This arrangement was organized by the school and parents—they raised donations to cover the cost of renting all the limos for the night. Most parents were probably very generous. I know mine were. And it’s great publicity for the limo companies, thanks to an article that made the Saturday edition of the
Chicago Tribune
.

The ride was full of
shh, be quiet
, as everyone got on the phone with their parents to check in, which in most cases involved
reinforcing the lie they’d told.
I’m sleeping over at Lacey’s, that’s right.
My parents never required lies, as they never set curfews. I heard my mother say once, “At least he wasn’t on his way home,” about Jonathan on the night of the accident. Her absolution, twisted into a nod to her no-curfew policy. They know I’m not coming home tonight, and they didn’t ask for details.

We pull up to a monstrosity of a house with a wraparound porch and big windows, at the end of a long driveway, with tall, thick trees surrounding it. It’s the kind of house that looks like it should be backed up against a lake.

“There are, like, a million bedrooms,” one of Graham’s soccer buddies informs us.

Graham blushes.

I smile at them, nodding, so they’ll know I understand the excitement. Really I’m praying that whatever room we end up in, it’s far away from Henry and Imogen. Tonight marks another failed attempt at keeping Henry off my radar.

After just twenty
minutes of exploring the giant house, we all end up in the kitchen. There’s enough pizza to feed an army, and an entire refrigerator full of soda. There’s a lot of beer, too, purchased at a mini-mart fifteen miles away that is known to never card. Someone’s older sister hooked the party up with vodka. It’s in a bottle that’s three times the size of a regular bottle and made of plastic. If my brother has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t drink the liquor that comes in plastic bottles. He gave me this advice while resting his head on the toilet in the
upstairs bathroom. It’s not to be taken lightly.

Graham tries to score me a wine cooler, but they’re gone in a flash, downed by the girls’ soccer team, if their dark-red lips serve as a tell.

There’s a Ping-Pong table in the basement. I get a few games in with Graham before it’s turned into a beer-pong table. Though it’s his first time playing beer pong, Graham is actually very skilled, and people fight to be his partner. He’s got a spot at the table all night, as he remains undefeated. Everyone is bouncing off the walls—so many people to talk to, so much to talk about. I can’t keep up. I shut myself in the room with my stuff, and no one comes after me. It’s sort of a relief. I’m a little afraid that people, drunk, with all inhibitions off duty, might have things to say about my brother.

The room Graham and I chose is at the very end of the hall on the lower level. It’s far away from the family room, and from the bathroom—which sounds inconvenient, but will actually help us sleep better, since we won’t be woken up every time someone has to vomit in the middle of the night. It’s a small, narrow afterthought sort of room, with round windows, wood paneling, and an exposed lightbulb on the ceiling. There are denim duvets and red throw pillows on the matching twin beds. I joked with Graham that we’d be like Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. He didn’t hear me. He was too busy pushing the beds together.

I changed out of my dress and into yoga pants and a T-shirt earlier, like all the other girls did. By now my curls are heavy and crunchy, and my scalp is itchy. I examine myself in the dingy
mirror, which has
Newcastle
written across it. My makeup has molded to my skin, and there are dark specks around my eyes that blur, but don’t wipe away, when I rub them.

“Hey, pretty girl.” Graham leans against the doorway. He can manage to stay balanced for only a second before he slides into the door.

Jonathan’s voice pops into my head. “I can’t believe you’re dating such a lightweight,” he would say if he were here.

“Hey there.” I move to help prop him up, but he straightens before I reach him.

Graham is drunk, which was probably an accident, something that snuck up on him while he was busy being beer-pong champion, but I know he’s okay with it, because tonight he can be blitzed out of his mind while still being responsible. We have a limo driver if we want to leave. A room to sleep in if we want to stay. I should probably be drunk too. I mean, what an opportunity.

His eyelids dip, and he laughs. I help him onto the bed and sit next to him, so we’re leaning against the wall with our feet out in front of us.

“You looked so beautiful tonight.” He hiccups. “Still do.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” I kiss him on his adorable and perfectly clean-shaven cheek.

He sighs and lets his head hang. It jerks itself upright when he hiccups again. “I can’t believe that was our last homecoming.”

“I know.” I play along. If he wasn’t drunk, I’d have to try harder to make my enthusiasm believable. “At least we all had
the chance to say good-bye,” I say, referencing the senior dedication at the dance.

“You’re really depressing sometimes,” he says. His eyes blink back tears, and he jerks away from me.

He’s right.

“I’m sorry.” I have to dig my fingers into his shirt; he’s so intent on ignoring me. “I’m really messed up, you know that. I’m just—”

“I know that,” he says louder, slurring, but at least looking at me now. “I know that the most of all. But it’s for nothing. Okay? Believe it, because it’s the factual truth. Jonathan was like, fuck off, I go where I wanna go and you can come or you can stay behind. And everyone always wanted to come.” He hiccups. “Everyone always came.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’re right.”

He nods, triumphant, but he’s too close to passing out to enjoy his victory.

“I’m sorry I messed this up for us,” he tells me as I pull off his shoes and drape the comforter over him.

“I probably would have ‘had a headache’ anyway.” I wait for him to laugh, but he’s already asleep.

“Good night,” I whisper. I hope he forgets this conversation.