Spontaneous. Aaron Starmer

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СКАЧАТЬ He took notes on an iPad and wore a shoulder bag. So there was a tense moment where we all just stood there. Until, of course, Rosetti stepped back from the table and, quite literally, showed us the door. I regretted not shaking her hand on the way out. I was sure of my innocence, but I liked her, so skipping the gesture of respect was kind of a dick move.

      My parents met us in the parking lot and Frolic high-fived my dad like I imagine guys do at strip clubs. Then we divided up into two cars and caravanned to the Moonlight Diner, where Frolic ate a burger and blabbed on and on about my rights. I listened to maybe ten percent of what he said (Constitution this and permanent record that), because I spent most of the time with my phone in my lap, staring at that text from the night before.

      Invigorating. Invigorating. Invigorating. What do you say to that? I considered a few responses.

      Who’s this and how’d you get my number?

      Invigorating how? Explain yourself, mystery texter!

      I. Lurve. You.

      What I finally settled on was:

      Fuck you sicko.

      About ten seconds later, there was a reply:

      You don’t mean that.

      Then the volley of texts began.

      Me: Hmmm . . . so you can read minds?

      Mystery texter: I know you feel things.

      Me: Perv.

      Mystery texter: Come on. You have a soul. You have ideas.

      Me: Flattery will get you NOWHERE.

      Mystery texter: I only want to talk to you.

      Me: Then what?

      Mystery texter: IDK.

      Me: You a dude?

      Mystery texter: More or less.

      Me: You breathtakingly ugly?

      Mystery texter: Not physically.

      Me: OK. Here’s the dealio. You found my number. Now find my house. Ring the bell. Get past my parents. Prove you really want to talk to me.

      If you don’t show up, then I won’t ever know who you are and shit won’t have to be awkward.

      Up to the challenge?

      Mystery texter: Challenge accepted.

      “At least do us the courtesy of occasional eye contact as we discuss your future,” Dad said.

      My eyes moved up from my lap, skipped his scowl, and moved on to Mom’s disappointed/sympathetic face. She mouthed, We fuckin’ love you. Which wasn’t weird because Mom swears a fair bit. Yeah, I know. Apples falling far from trees and all of that.

      “I was checking the weather,” I said.

      Dad motioned with his head to the window across from our booth. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

      “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m getting weird texts.”

      Like everyone, I sometimes lie to my parents. I can never sustain it, though. I always end up telling them the truth. The more truth your parents know, the fewer things they suspect. No joke. If you’re a kid who constantly lies to your parents then, news flash, they know you lie and they probably think you’re a complete degenerate.

      “Weird texts, as in threats?” Mom asked.

      “No,” I said. “Some curious guy.”

      Frolic took a bite of his burger and said, “Forward them all directly to me.” He used a voice that was supposed to sound wise and lawyerly, but considering he had a gob of ketchup on his cheek, it sounded a bit more like a skeevy old man asking a teenager to share her private correspondence with him.

      “They’re not of the . . . legal variety,” I said.

      “Almost anything can and will be exploited by the FBI if they count you as a suspect,” Frolic said.

      “She’s not a suspect. She’s not a suspect.” Dad said it twice because he thinks if you say something twice, the more likely it is that it will be true.

      “Well,” Frolic replied, “I’ll be seeing to it that the world knows and understands that soon enough. You have my word.”

      I had to say it, so I said it. “And you have ketchup on your face.”

as you might have guessed

      Mystery Texter didn’t show up at my house that day or the next. School was shuttered for the entire week, and all its homecoming festivities were put on hold, so the guy certainly had his opportunities to pop in. It’s not like he even had funerals to attend. The Chen family didn’t have the money that the Ogden family had and rumors were that they’d only be inviting close friends and family to Brian’s memorial service. Fine by me. More crying wasn’t going to help a thing.

      The support group was canceled because Vince called it quits. He sent us all an email saying he would be pursuing other interests. Presumably, not hanging out with kids made of nitroglycerin. Who could blame him? My parents tried to book some immediate extra sessions with Linda for me, but she wasn’t returning their calls. Either she was throwing in the towel as well, or she was too busy fielding requests from new patients. It’s tough enough when one kid in your school blows up, even if you don’t really know her. When a second kid blows up . . . well, I don’t care if you’ve never even heard of him. You take it personally.

      “Kids blow up now. And I’m a kid. Therapy please.”

      Every news organization in the world had arrived. Perched on a gorge and overlooking town, the Hotel Covington’s parking lot was a hive of vans with giant retractable antennae. You couldn’t go anywhere without someone shoving a microphone in your face. On the other hand, you couldn’t stay home and zone out behind the TV or mess around on the internet because Covington High was all anyone could talk or write about. You couldn’t even watch things on mute, because people were making explosion gestures with their hands. This included newscasters, which is a bit unprofessional and undignified if you ask me.

      To keep my mind off things, I spent a lot of time with Tess McNulty. She hated terms like “bestie” and “BFF,” but Tess and I were two people who knew how to best distract each other, so I think we qualified. We’d been inseparable since elementary school and, at the age of nine, had decided to grow old together.

      We were spending a few weeks down the shore at my grandparents’ place after Tess’s dad took off on her and her mother. One evening, the two of us were riding our bikes past these gorgeous Victorian houses along the beachfront, and we spied two old ladies sitting in beach chairs at the edge of a porch. They were wearing kimonos, holding hands, and smoking a hookah while dipping their toes in the sand. Which was obviously adorable.

      “Let’s be those old ladies, always and forever,” we pledged with the sunset as our witness.

      Ten years later and the pledge remained intact. СКАЧАТЬ