My Heart and Other Black Holes

  I blink and sneak a quick glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead. His face muscles are relaxed, there’s no sign that he’s joking. “Um, okay,” I say. “Just tell me how to get there.”

  “Stay straight on this road until it comes to the fork by the bridge. Then stay left and you’ll be on Willis’s main drag. The fishing supply store is on the right corner of the intersection between Main and Burns.” FrozenRobot’s voice is calm and steady as he delivers the directions. It seems like he’s a regular at the fishing supply store. Weird.

  I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and try to focus on the music. The radio station is playing Mozart’s Symphony no. 40, but even the crisp, minor-key violin notes aren’t able to distract me. “Why do you need earthworms? Are you big into fishing or something?”

  He makes a sound that’s something between a grunt and a laugh. “No.”

  Evidently, FrozenRobot is not a man of many words. “No?”

  “No, I’m not into fishing.” He squirms, moving his body so he can be closer to the passenger-side door. His knees knock against the dashboard and I consider suggesting that he could move his seat back if he’s uncomfortable, but I don’t.

  “Okay. Then I don’t get it. What am I missing?”

  “Huh?”

  I guess he’s really going to make me spell it out. “Why do you need earthworms if you aren’t into fishing?”

  “For my pet turtle,” he says like I should have known all along that he had a pet turtle. Like that’s a reasonable assumption to make about people. Maybe Willis, Kentucky, is the pet turtle capital of the United States.

  At first, I’m thrown off that he has a pet. He doesn’t seem like the type to have an animal, and if he did, I’d guess he was a golden retriever person or something. He seems like that all-American, basketball-playing, hamburger-eating, dog-loving type. But then my throat tightens as the fact sinks into my mind. He has a pet.

  I say it aloud. “You have a pet.”

  “I have a pet,” he says, and then like he knows what I’m thinking, he looks over at me. “But don’t worry. That’s not going to stop me.”

  I take a deep breath and stare at my dirty floor mat. A crunched Coke can is wedged in the back corner. Its metallic surface reflects the sunlight, making it look like it’s winking at me.

  “You should keep your eyes on the road,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I heard you,” I say in a tight, pinched voice. “But if you want to die, why do you care whether I focus on the road?”

  He sucks in his breath, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his broad shoulders slump, making him look like a moose that was just shot and wounded by a hunter. “I want to die, but I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

  “Fair enough.” I grit my teeth and stare straight ahead. I don’t tell him about the Coke can. He’d probably think that was a safety hazard.

  I steer the car around the fork FrozenRobot described, staying to the left like he instructed. My car glides down Willis’s main drag. It’s full of painted Victorian-style houses that have been transformed into cutesy businesses—the Creamy Whip, an ice-cream shop; the Fried Egg, a breakfast diner; Suds and Bubbles, a Laundromat.

  “What’s your turtle’s name?”

  “Captain Nemo,” he says, and then adds, “I didn’t name him.”

  I don’t press the issue. The anonymous person who gifted Captain Nemo his name hangs in the air like an unopened envelope. We both know a letter, a story, is inside, but right now neither one of us is brave enough to break the seal.

  As we approach a blue house that has fish stickers in the window, I slow the car down. There’s a sign in the front lawn that reads “Bob’s Fishing Supply & Co.” I park in an empty place across the street.

  “I’ll run in,” Roman says.

  I start to take the key out of the ignition, but he shakes his head. “You can stay here.”

  Before I can say anything, he’s already left the car and is slowly jogging up to the front door of Bob’s Fishing Supply & Co. He’s moving with more urgency than I’ve seen him move all day. Back at the root beer stand, he was kind of lethargic, sluggish.

  He must really love that turtle. My heart feels clogged, constricted, but slowly the feeling fades. I pat my stomach. Good job, black slug. As I wait for him to come back, I close my eyes and listen to the music. They’ve started playing a bit from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. It’s not my favorite. It’s too light, too pretty. It has too much longing.

  I don’t like songs about wanting things. I like songs about letting go, saying good-bye.

  Before I know it, FrozenRobot is back, clutching a paper cup in his hands. As he squeezes back into his seat, I say, “You better not spill those.”

  “Why? Because you keep your car so clean?” His lips twitch, inching into a sloppy smile. The boy really has a smiling problem. Especially for someone who has the nerve to accuse me of being a flake.

  I frown. “Because it would be gross.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll make sure they don’t spill.”

  I pull the car out of the parking space and continue down Main. “So where’s your house?”

  Roman gives me directions and then at the end says, “How can you listen to this stuff?”

  I gesture toward the radio. “This stuff? This stuff is the stuff of genius.” I wish Tchaikovsky wasn’t on and I could defend something more powerful, like one of Bach’s toccatas, but still. Swan Lake is worlds deeper than whatever glittery pop ballad he’d wanted to listen to.

  “There’s no words,” he says.

  “That’s kind of the point, and it’s funny that you of all people should complain about that.”

  I feel him shift his weight in the seat again. His legs bump against the side door. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you just don’t seem like a big fan of words yourself. So I thought you’d appreciate the lack of lyrics.”

  He cranes his neck to look at me. I can feel his eyes on my face—they’re still soft, no burn—but I can feel them nonetheless. “I like other people’s words. They fill me up.”

  “Like words about getting trashed and grinding on the ladies?”

  He snort-laughs. “No. That’s just noise. I like that, too, though. Helps me forget.”

  “Forget about?”

  “It. Why I want to die.”

  We enter his neighborhood. It looks similar to mine, same old frame houses, except the yards in his neighborhood look better maintained. There’s no spotty crabgrass or dandelion patches.

  “I don’t get you.” And it’s true. It might be the most honest thing I’ve said to him all day. I don’t get why he’s looking to be filled up, looking to find things in music. When I listen to music, I’m searching for a place to hide, a place to escape my emptiness.

  I can see him fiddling with the earthworms. They bounce up and down in his lap and he tries to keep the cup as steady and secure as possible. I wonder why he bothers to be so careful with creatures that are about to die.

  He doesn’t say anything, so I push it further. “I don’t understand why you want this, why you want to be a part of this.”

  “Are you asking why I want to kill myself or why I don’t want to do it alone?”

  “Both,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip. “Honestly, I don’t really care why you want to kill yourself.” That’s a lie, but I don’t want to tell him why I want to die so it seems only fair not to make him spill his reasons. “I just need to know you’re not a flake.”

  He lets out a cold laugh. “Oh, so now you’re concerned about flakes?”

  “I saw all your friends. I need to make sure this isn’t some sick prank.” What I don’t say is: I need to make sure this isn’t a setup since you know Brian Jackson.

  “Friends?” He spits the word out in disgust. “Those people aren’t my friends.”

  “I’m not really an expert, but they sure seemed li
ke friends.”

  “Look, you don’t know what you’re talking about so you should shut up,” he says. The sun is hanging low in the sky, splashing light inside the car, making his hazel eyes glow golden. I wish they would go back to being greener. He didn’t look so mean, so angry, when they were green.

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  He tilts his chin upward, as if to signal that he’s not going to apologize. “Take a left here.” He motions toward a small street off Southwind, the main street in his neighborhood. “It’s the red house on the right.”

  It’s a rickety old house like mine, but the wooden siding looks better maintained and someone’s clearly been gardening in the front yard. There’s a freshly mulched flower bed, and even though nothing has bloomed yet, I imagine that come June, it’s going to be full of lilies and marigolds. A butterscotch-colored mailbox sits at the end of the driveway and there’s a sign affixed to it that says FRANKLINS’.

  “Cute,” I say.

  “My mom tries,” Roman says as he gets out of the car, balancing the cup of earthworms in his left hand.

  I guess all moms try. “Wait,” I say. “So are we going to do this thing or not?”

  He walks around to the driver’s side. I roll the window down all the way.

  “Yeah. I’m in, if you are,” he says.

  “I’m definitely in,” I say. “But I just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you need me.”

  As if on cue, the front door to his house opens. A short, plump, middle-aged woman skips down the front steps. Her hair is the same chestnut color as Roman’s, but it’s graying. She’s wearing a cooking apron and flower-print clogs. If I were making a tourism brochure for Willis, Kentucky, which thank God I’m not, I’d put this lady on the front cover. She’s the human embodiment of the town.

  “Roman!” she says, giving us both a little wave. It’s a beauty queen pageant wave. Most of the older women around these parts have perfected that move—stiff wrist, slow turn. “Roman!” she repeats. “Introduce me to your friend.”

  My whole face burns and my stomach clenches and unclenches like a fist. It’s not like I feel guilty—after all, it’s not my fault her son wants to kill himself. But I didn’t exactly want to meet his family. This is the soccer mom problem I was trying to avoid. Two strikes against FrozenRobot—a pet turtle and a loving mom. If I were pickier, I’d say he had too much baggage. But considering my situation, I’m in no position to be choosy.

  “Um, Mom,” Roman says, his voice uneven. He takes a few gulps of air, his Adam’s apple visible in his throat. “This is Aysel.”

  Real smooth, FrozenRobot, real smooth.

  “Aysel,” she says, raising her eyebrows. She reaches her hand in through the open window. I know I’m failing the “Southern Manners Test” right now. I should step out of the car and curtsy if I want to have a chance in hell of her approving of me. But I don’t need her to approve of me. It’s not like I’m asking for Roman’s hand in marriage. And anyway, there will be no me to approve of in a month.

  “Nice to meet you.” I weakly return her handshake.

  “Aysel’s a beautiful name,” she says. I’ve learned over the years that “Aysel’s a beautiful name” is the tactful substitute for “What the hell kind of name is Aysel?”

  “It’s Turkish.” I scan her face for any reaction. Mostly, I’m interested to see if the stories of my father have had the same staying power they do in Langston. If there’s a possibility that Roman or his friends or his mother know about my dad and what he did. I’m pretty sure my dad is the only Turkish person to have made headline news in these parts of Kentucky. And recently, since Brian Jackson has been all over the news, the references to my dad have become more and more frequent. If she makes the connection, she doesn’t show it. Her heart-shaped face maintains the same genuine smile.

  “Your family lives here in Willis?” she asks.

  “Langston,” I say.

  “I have some friends that go to House of Grace in Langston. Do you go there?”

  She wants to know if I go to church. Clever. I have to admit I appreciate this woman’s nerve.

  “My mom goes to St. Columbia.” It’s not a lie. Mom, Steve, Georgia, and Mike all go to church every Sunday. I sometimes go, but I haven’t been in a while. Right after I moved in with them, Mom used to force me to go, but she’s given up that fight. Mom is good at giving up on fights. I’m sure everyone at church has noticed my absence. They probably whisper about how I’m taking after my devil father.

  Roman’s mom’s eyes brighten at the mention of St. Columbia. She places her hands on her wide hips and leans in toward me, crouching down by the window. The smell of her hair spray fills the car. “I hear that’s a nice church. I went to their Christmas pageant a few years back. Their choir director is really spectacular, yeah?”

  I don’t know anything about St. Columbia’s choir director. I’m not sure how many different ways there are to sing “Away in a Manger” or “Silent Night,” but I nod like I’m in agreement with her, like I’m a normal human being having a nice conversation about my church, like I’m not a ticking time bomb of a monster. “My sister sings in the choir.”

  This really makes her happy. Her smile is wide and straight, nothing like Roman’s crooked, almost hesitant one. “Oh, how great! I’m always trying to get Roman to be more involved with the church. It’s nice to see young people worshipping the Lord.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. To be fair, I don’t really know anything about my sister. We haven’t had a real conversation in about two years, but I’m pretty sure she’s not worshipping the Lord. She doesn’t have the time to worship anyone other than herself. “She’s really into singing in front of people.” I don’t mention that Georgia also loves the sound of her own voice.

  Roman’s mom’s smile is getting so wide, I’m scared her face is going to break in two. She spins to face Roman. “Aw, you picked up food for Captain Nemo.”

  He hunches his shoulders, rounding his back, like he’s trying to hide the cup of earthworms from her. Whatever physical disguise he’s trying to assemble isn’t working. “Yeah, we picked them up on the way back from the root beer stand.”

  She beams at me. “That’s so lovely!”

  I nod at her, not sure what I’m supposed to say. I stop myself from asking who named Captain Nemo. Maybe it was her. She seems like a pet person.

  It’s quiet for a couple of moments, and then Roman clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “Hey, Mom,” he says. “Can you give Aysel and me a second?”

  His mom looks confused, and then a strange, fevered look washes over her face. The type of face people make after they’ve just completed a triathlon or climbed to the crest of a mountain. She’s beaming at me, like I’m this Christian angel here to rescue her forlorn son. She thinks she understands, but she definitely doesn’t. She has no clue whatsoever. Poor lady.

  “Sure, I’ll see you inside, sweetie.” She takes off his baseball cap and runs her hand through his short brown hair. She hands him back his hat, and as if in exchange, he hands her the earthworms.

  “Can you take these with you? I’ll feed him when I come in,” Roman says.

  “You got it.” She handles the cup with care, like the worms are some kind of precious cargo.

  Before she turns to go, she gives me one last smile. “It was so nice to meet you. You should come over for dinner sometime.”

  “Uh, that’d be great,” I lie.

  As she walks away from us, she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll even look up some Turkish recipes. I’ll make you some traditional food.” She grips the plastic cup with both hands, cradling it, and then hurries toward the front door, her clogs clicking against the driveway’s asphalt.

  I’ve only eaten Turkish food a couple of times before, when my dad had some friends from out of town visiting. One of their wives took over the kitchen, and I remember the aroma of oregano and
olive oil and sumac filled up the whole house.

  “So that’s why I need you,” Roman says.

  “Your mom?” I say. “She seems nice.”

  He shakes his head at me, his lips pulled in a thin line. “Right. Nice, but way overprotective. I’ll need help getting away from her so we can, you know . . .”

  That’s one of the tricks of teenage suicide. You have to be able to get away from your guardian’s watchful eye long enough to make sure you’re really gone before someone finds you. Nothing’s worse than someone cutting you down from the rope before you’ve actually suffocated or pulling you out of the car before the carbon monoxide has done its job. Looks like Roman has figured out he can’t off himself at his own homestead; Mama Roman would be all over him.

  “And you don’t have transportation,” I add. He needs me to get to his dying place. I’m not used to being needed. I kind of like it. I wish the black slug inside me would eat that feeling. Liking things is dangerous.

  “That too,” he admits.

  “Why not ask Travis or Lance?” I wink at him. “They can both drive, right? You could just ask them to drop you off at the bridge near Main. Tell them you’re taking a trip. A very long trip.”

  He glares at me. “I don’t think anything about this is funny, Aysel.” He makes a line in the grass with his sneaker.

  Way to make me feel like hell, FrozenRobot. “Sorry,” I say.

  “Can you hang out on Saturday?”

  “Hang out?” I don’t think in the history of my entire life I’ve ever “hung out” with someone. Even when I was friends with Anna Stevens, our get-togethers always had a purpose—collect and catalog fall leaves, build a model airplane, watch a PBS special on African beetles.

  “You know what I mean. Like get together to plan this thing,” Roman says. He tosses his baseball cap back and forth in his hands and finally puts it back on.

  It’s a funny thing, but for a moment I pretend that we’re planning something other than our joint suicide, like a bank robbery or a prank or even something simple like a presentation for English class. I imagine that we are two normal teenagers, that I’m really going to come over and let his mom cook Turkish food for me, that we’ll spend the evening listening to music and laughing while watching stupid videos on the internet.