He shakes his head, watching the road. “It’s not safe to be wandering around. Look, I know you think you’re invincible, but—”
“Okay, look, can we be completely fucking honest? Doesn’t everyone think they’re invincible? I mean, you should know, isn’t that why people kill themselves, because they’re so convinced the world won’t just boot them off on its own?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I mean,” I say, “everyone’s always talking about how it’s a teenage thing, how we haven’t developed the part of our brain that’s counting down our seconds left to live or something, but I think it’s got to be just part of being an individual and not being, I don’t know, a thing or a city. Come on, big brother, educate me, tell me the truth. Isn’t there something in you that says you’re not going to die, not because you’re special or privileged or worthy but just because you’re Todd?”
Todd says, “Are you listening to anything I’m saying? It’s not Todd I’m worried about. You’re staying in tonight. Get some homework done. Maybe even get some sleep, for God’s sake. You look like shit.”
Todd’s protectiveness would mean more if I thought he really liked me and didn’t just not want another dead body on his conscience.
I say, “Whoever this guy is, he’s in Virginia right now. Even if he hightails it straight to our backyard, it’ll be another hour at least. Can’t I go look now?”
Todd exhales. “Fine.”
“Thanks, big brother.” I straddle the line between sarcastic and sincere. He chews on his lip. I hope I’m not mean to anyone else the way I’m mean to Todd.
I’m on the walkway to the metro station, and I’m thinking about how I still haven’t seen anyone have sex here. Todd has all the luck.
I can see the pizza place and the Jewish supermarket from here, and I can see everyone in the parking lot running from the cars into the stores and back again.
“She’s not here,” I say out loud, “she’s in Virginia.” But I can’t pretend watching them run doesn’t shake me a little. It shakes me more than any of the news reports. I still don’t think I have anything to be scared about, but it bothers me that they’re scared. It bothers me in a way I can’t shrug off.
I walk down to the grocery store like I can fix something, and there on a lamppost is a poster saying that someone a few neighborhoods over found a three-legged dog. And suddenly nothing else in the whole world is important in any way.
Casablanca.
I memorize the phone number on the poster and recite it to myself again and again while I’m running home. I run faster than anyone in that entire parking lot.
Only eight to go.
One dog.
Three cats.
Three rabbits.
A guinea pig.
The news replays the police chief telling us we’re safe at school while we eat dinner. Casablanca has his head on my knee.
My mom takes my hand. “If you want to talk,” she says, “know that your father and I are available, okay? For anything you need to get off your chest.”
“That’s really nice, really, but I don’t want to talk. This doesn’t have anything to do with me. See, I’m just worried about Michelangelo and Beaumont and Hail and Marigold and Shamrock and Peggy and Zebra and Carolina.” I still want to believe that Mom’s been out helping the families of the victims, but that’s not really the type of social work she does.
Mom gives me a gentle smile. “I talked to the woman at the shelter today and gave her your descriptions.” She has to specify mine because last time she gave her own descriptions and I told her but how are they going to know that Shamrock’s tail leans to the left when he’s happy, or that Zebra will only eat if all his food is level, or that Beaumont has a meow like a fire alarm, and what if those are the keys to identifying them?
“Good,” I say.
Dad has his own problems, like the stack of papers he brought to the dinner table, and he rubs his face to show us how very busy he is. He’s flipping through the papers between mouthfuls of baked salmon. Parents are harassing him like he’s a suspect in the shootings: “Why can’t my child go outside for recess? This is ridiculous.” “What took you so long to cancel outdoor recess? Do you know how many children you put at risk?”
I need to get away from all of this. I put Casablanca and Kremlin on their leashes, and I nudge lazy Jupiter with the toe of my shoe. “Time for a walk,” I tell them.
“Not tonight,” Dad says. “Just tie them up out back, all right?”
“They hate that.”
“Craig,” he says, in that tone that’s like, I’m one step away from middle-naming you.
I breathe in and then out, really slowly. “Okay.” I tie them up out back while my parents watch to make sure I’m not outside for too long. I sit by the door and press my hand against the glass so the dogs can see me, so maybe they’ll feel like I’m with them. They bark and spin in circles on their rope, and if anyone shoots them, I have this feeling I’ll kill my dad.
Cody—
I still haven’t heard from you and I’m worried, wondering if you’re okay and everything. Is school getting busy? Is this when you take the SATs or something?
I forgot to tell you, when I saw your mom she showed me some of the paintings you mailed her. They were beautiful. I loved the one of me, I really did, but she wouldn’t let me keep it. Maybe let her know if she can send it to me?
Miss you,
Love, C
It’s seven o’clock. In the evening. I need to sleep, I need to stop thinking. I need to sleep.
The real question isn’t who broke into the house, at least not for me, because I don’t care, because it happened and it’s over and I’m getting the animals back and everything’s going to be fine.
But why did the animals leave? Just because the doors were open? Just because they had an excuse to?
My parents always thought I was so stupid and I thought I was so lucky keeping my guinea pig and my cats and my dogs and my bird together and no one ever had to be in a cage and no one was ever locked up and no one ever hurt anybody. It was like a little miracle, and then someone broke through our doors and left everything open and they all ran away together, and that’s why I don’t have any animals. The breaking-in, the breaking the windows, the breaking apart, the violence, none of that had anything to do with it. They only left because the door was open. Just freedom had to do with it, or maybe fear, and that’s all that mattered in the end, and I fall asleep sitting up and wake up a minute later, and these are the times when I don’t believe that all the animals are ever going to be not gone.
“Weren’t you happy here?” I whisper.
I tried. I tried so hard.
I’m still trying. I’m grasping grasping grasping at no reward.
The woman they shot today, when I was on the way home from school? She didn’t die. It’s another reason not to be scared. There’s always the chance you won’t get shot, and there’s always the chance you’ll get shot and you won’t die. There are so many ways to survive. Why does everyone act like we’re hopeless?
LIO
I’M MAKING ANOTHER PLAY-DOH SNOWMAN.
I wish I could go for a jog instead.
Adelle says, “Would you like to talk about what’s going on this week?”
I shrug.
“Lio.”
I say, “If you mean what’s going on in my life.”
“You don’t want to talk about the sniper?”
I shake my head.
My dad came inside my therapist’s building with me, his arms around me like a coat. We ran. He’s not supposed to come inside here. This is meant to be my place. That was a rule my last therapist made, and Dad and I both agreed it worked well. I need a place.
And then he came in here and said, “Adelle, right?” and shook her hand. And damn it, I had to pee, so they had a whole minute and fifteen seconds alone together. Dad probably told her I wet the bed until I was eight (give me a break, I had
other things on my mind), and Adelle probably told him about my snowman-molding fetish. Fuck everything.
“Okay,” Adelle says. “So what’s going on in your life this week?”
I think of better things. Things that aren’t honestly part of my life, and ways that I wish I were.
I shrug. “I’m in love.”
And I screwed up so badly, but I’m not going to mention that part right now.
Adelle’s writing something down. This must be the kind of moment therapists live for. I’m a success story. Isn’t it thanks to years of therapists that I can fall in love?
Adelle smiles. “With Craig?”
“Who else? Of course Craig.”
She laughs a little. “You’re talkative today.”
I frown.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t say that to shut you up.”
I shrug.
She sighs. “Damn.”
Small smile.
She closes her notebook. “Well? What’s he like?”
“Tall.”
“Yeah?”
“Like nearly six feet.”
“That’s not that tall.” Then she looks at me and bites her cheek. “All right, that’s tall for you, fair enough. Keep going.”
I look out the window. There’s a nice red car parked on the sidewalk. Are people worried their cars are going to get shot? If you have a car like that, you probably spend more time on it than you do on yourself. Why am I thinking about this?
I’m wondering what kind of car Cody’s dad drove. That’s not right.
Cody’s dad.
I didn’t know him. But Craig did. He actually knows someone who died on 9/11. And I don’t know why the fact that Craig knew someone who died in the Pentagon is making what happened here seem like a bigger deal. I already knew how many people died. This isn’t new information.
I’m not Craig; I always knew that everyone was equally vulnerable. That one person isn’t a more shocking loss than another.
That’s why you have to count them one by one. That’s what makes more people dying worse. It’s just math.
And it’s the reason little things—one person dying, six people dying—are things to get over. You go to therapy if you have to, and you learn how to tuck them away.
I’m still wondering about Cody’s father’s car.
Craig doesn’t have a car. I don’t have a car. I’m clinging to these thoughts like they mean something.
Adelle says, “Lio. You okay?”
This is ridiculous. Craig is fine. Almost every single person in this city is fine.
I swallow. “He has a thing with animals.”
She raises her eyebrows. “A thing?” She totally thinks I mean something kinky.
I breathe well enough to smile.
“He keeps them,” I say.
“He’s your first boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Are you his first?”
“No.” I pick at the couch. “He had a boyfriend who went crazy. Now he’s alone. And the animals are gone. Now he’s really alone.”
But safe.
“What about his family?” Adelle says.
I pick at the couch. “He has one of those fantasy nuclear families. They could be on a sitcom.”
“How does that make you feel about your family?”
I look at her. “We were talking about Craig.”
“Craig isn’t my patient. I was using him as a method to get you talking. How do you feel about your family, when you compare it to his?”
I’m not sure she’s supposed to reveal her secret therapist ways to me. Though I do know a lot about therapy, now. I’ve memorized whole sections of the Diagnostic Statistical Manual, after years of sitting in waiting rooms. I could start my own business. I’d be like Lucy in Peanuts.
I keep thinking about Charlie Brown, because I don’t want to babble about my family. That’s not going to help me. It’s just going to make me angry again. And if I’m angry again, I’m going to shut down and waste my time here. I want to talk about Craig. I squish my snowman.
“All right,” Adelle says. “So you hit a kid at school today.”
This is why my dad shouldn’t be allowed to come in. Two minutes and he gives things away.
“Yeah.” I’m biting the inside of my lower lip.
“I know you had aggression problems at your old school.”
I nod. It’s not like I ever really hurt anyone. I always messed with kids who were bigger than me. They never hit me back. Everyone thought I was brave. I don’t know anymore.
“Why did you do it today?” she says.
“I was . . . angry. I had this fight with Craig. It wasn’t a big deal.” I breathe out and say, “Why am I still so angry?”
She leans toward me. “About Craig?”
“We’re not talking about Craig. About my mom, I guess.”
“Abandonment is a scary feeling. It makes sense you’re still angry about her leaving. People take years to recover from divorce. That’s still significant trauma, even if you have other shit you’d rather be worrying about.” Even though she’s Adelle of “a little fucked up” fame, it still throws me when she curses. I think she does it to be cool.
“That one makes sense. But about my brother. About cancer.” I cross my arms. “I’ve read pretty much everything about twin death. I realize I’m allowed to be messed up about it for the rest of my life. If that’s what I want.” I’m allowed to make a full-scale tragedy out of my dead brother. Sometimes I hate the things I am allowed to do.
Adelle says, “Yes.”
“And . . .” I’m losing this.
But she says, “You’re doing really well, Lio.”
I get the words out as fast as I can. “And I’ve accepted that it’s always going to be a hard thing for me. It’s never going to be like I was born a single.” God, my mouth is sore. I hate talking. Fuck everything. “I’m okay with struggling with this. I really am. I’ve accepted that.”
Adelle nods.
“This can be a part of my life.”
“That sounds very healthy,” she says, like she isn’t sure.
I say, “But shouldn’t I be past the part where I’m so angry?”
Adelle says, “Lio, you have to understand that grief doesn’t work in neat little stages. Bargaining, depression, and yes, anger, they’re part of grief, but they don’t come conveniently in order, waiting their turn. Does that make sense? It’s all right that you’re angry. You’re fifteen. You don’t need a reason to be angry.”
I exhale. “I’m done talking. Can you talk for a while?”
“You don’t pay me to lecture you.”
“My dad pays you.” I’m so tired. Sometimes I use cancer as an excuse when I get so exhausted even though I sleep and exercise and eat well. I tell people it still affects me. That’s total bullshit. I’m healthy.
My last therapist said I was tired because I was depressed. I don’t think that’s what it is. One of my friends from New York has depression, and it eats him alive. I’m not depressed. I’m . . . fucked up.
She says, “You are allowed to feel guilty for surviving.”
“Everyone tells me not to.”
“People are afraid to acknowledge that there’s validity in that. You did live. Your brother did not. That is something to feel conflicted about.”
“I don’t wish I were dead or anything.”
“What do you wish?”
“That Theo would be back. And fifteen. But that’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
I pull at my jeans. They’re black, and they’re dirty. “I wish I could come in here just to talk about being in love. Like you were my friend or something, I don’t know.”
CRAIG
I NEED TO SLEEP. I NEED TO STOP THINKING AND I need to stop thinking about how I need to sleep.
It’s four. In the morning. I need to sleep.
This is when my thoughts start to get so very very weird
, when everything is on an axis and tilting, and this is how many hours of sleep you really need to miss. This is how many emails from Cody you need to not get. Here I am.
Sandwich sits on my feet and curls up and snores.
“Sandwich,” I tell her. “Do you get sick of being alone?”
She so doesn’t care at all. It’s like nobody in this whole world gives a shit, least of all Lio, least of all me.
And it’s not like it’s easy to sleep or even possible to run out of things to think about for even a second because, ta-da, here’s this email I got a few hours ago.
Craigy—
Sorry this took me so long.
I’m sorry about your friend’s dad, and it took me a while to figure out that maybe that was all I can say—I’m sorry. For being a jerk about it. I didn’t know. And it sucks.
Truth is I talk a big game about September 11th, but I didn’t know anyone who died. It feels special because it’s home.
Truth is, I really, really miss New York.
I’m freaked out tonight. I keep hearing things in the apartment upstairs.
See you tomorrow. No. Shit. It’s Friday. See you on Monday. Damn it.
Lio
God, so what do I do with this? I’ve been staring at it for the past million and a half hours.
Why is the only thought in my head, you can’t fool me, you were born on Long Island?
I am looking for excuses to be angry. I am picking apart the sentences for bits that could be offensive and I am wondering if I am too young to have issues with intimacy.
I hear Todd making breakfast. Speaking of talking a big game, when does he sleep? It must be while I’m at school, but it’s kind of crazy to think that my family exists when I’m not here.
I go upstairs.
He’s throwing scoops of coffee into the coffeemaker. “Good morning,” he tells me.
“Yeah.” I slump at the table and bury my head in my arms.
I hear him pause in his scooping. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
He exhales. “A kid killed himself on the phone with me tonight. I was talking him down, doing everything you’re supposed to do, and I hear the gunshot. And I keep saying his name—Taylor, Taylor—like, praying it went off in his hand . . .”