I’ve thrown myself into my classes these past two weeks.
Finn would have wanted me to go to college, so I’m going to college, damn it.
In high school, I managed to squeak onto the honor roll every semester, and that was good enough for me. I didn’t worry about moving up the rank or whatever. Sylvie was determined to be in the top ten, and Finn joined her in that goal while privately sharing his relief that she wasn’t determined to be valedictorian.
In college, I’ve set myself a strict schedule. I’m up early (before Brett), and I eat a balanced-ass breakfast. I go to my classes and take thorough notes, and my mind never wanders from the lecture. After my last class, I head to the library. I type up my notes. I highlight my textbooks. I read ahead.
Between classes, it’s more difficult not to think about Finn. I try to concentrate on the lectures I’ve heard, but when I can’t do that, I read flyers as I walk. There’re unending flyers posted on campus. Flyers for parties, flyers for student films, flyers for political events. I’ve become knowledgeable about all that’s happening on campus, even if I never attend anything.
Sometimes I see Brett the boring on campus at the Frisbee golf games or outdoor painting workshops, so I guess he’s branched out from dorm activities. He has remained a mystery I do not want to solve, though it still bothers me that he feels the same about me, since he never gave me a chance.
At lunchtime, I put headphones in and zone out. Listening to Finn’s CDs doesn’t count as thinking about him. A couple of times, dudes have joined the table like they felt bad for me sitting alone, and I’ve motioned to my headphones and given them a thumbs-up, then ignored them until they leave. So far, that’s worked.
One time, a girl sat down, and I did my routine. It wasn’t until afterward that it occurred to me I wouldn’t have wanted her to leave if I’d thought about it for a minute. Still, I couldn’t imagine myself chasing a girl right now. How can I think about dating when Finn is dead?
It’s best I motioned her away.
In the evenings, when I’m done at the library, that’s when I go running. I take the same route from that first Saturday. The path is easy, and I push myself until I can’t think.
Then I head back to the dorms, hit the showers while everyone else is at dinner, and go to the dining hall when it’s mostly empty and I’m likely to be left in peace.
It’s lights out after that, because I’ve got an early morning and a long day of not thinking about Finn.
So I’ve got the college part of college worked out. I’m not sure about the rest of it.
It’s like the girl who sat down at my table. How can I think about going to a party or joining the running club when Finn is dead?
I call my parents every other day. Charlie taught me that. “Day three is when they’ll start to think you’re dead,” he told me.
My parents never ask about Finn, but Mom’s “How’ve you been?” is worried. They seem to think a new friend will cheer me up.
She asks about that every time we talk. A few times, I’ve lied to my parents, told them that I’ve attended some of the student events from the flyers. That soothes them somewhat. They seem determined that Brett and I will eventually become buds, even though they’ve never met him, even though I’ve told them how he goes out of his way to ignore me. I suppose I’ll have to make a friend soon, or next time Mom calls, she’ll send Charlie to visit me.
Unfortunately, today would be a perfect day to make a friend.
I can’t justify going to the library after class. I’ve turned in my first big papers, I’m caught up on reading, and there’s no looming quiz or test.
I’ve accidentally set myself up to coast for a day or two.
Maybe I’ll drive around and find a park to go running. Finn was into varying your terrain.
So after my last class, I head back to the dorm to change clothes and get in an extra-long run, location TBA, as Sylvie would say.
There’s no reason not to call the ’rents as I walk, so I call their landline. “Hello?” Dad always answers the phone like you’re about to ask him for
ransom money for someone he hates. It probably scares off telemarketers. “Hey, Dad.”
“Carole!” he bellows for Mom.
There’s a click as she picks up. I know she’s upstairs in her sewing room that used to be James’s room, and Dad is in his workshop in the basement. I think they do this because it gives them an excuse to yell at each other even when they aren’t angry.
“Jack?” Mom says. I’m probably the only reason they communicate these days.
“Hey, checking in.”
“I’m glad you called,” Mom says. She quizzes me on my laundry situation. Her words and Dad’s grunts make it clear they are doubtful that I’m wearing clean underwear, but it’s true. Doing laundry is easy. It’s putting it away that sucks. Mostly I’ve been leaving my clean clothes in the basket and dropping the dirty in a pile on the floor until the basket is empty. Since she doesn’t ask about putting it away, I don’t share that part.
On our last phone call, she was worrying over my diet. It’s funny because they were so hands-off when I was at home. Now that I’m out of their sight, they’re certain I need them.
“Have you made any friends yet?” Mom finally asks.
“Met a guy from Taiwan last night. He seemed cool.” I’d met him in the elevator. He liked my Zelda shirt, and we’d talked for about twenty seconds before we got off and walked to opposite ends of the floor, but it still counts.
“Have you and Brett hung out yet?” Mom asks.
“No.” I’m grateful the dormitory is in sight and I’ll be able to hang up soon. “And I don’t want to. I’m doing great, guys. You’ll see when midterm grades are out.”
“Grades aren’t everything,” Dad interjects.
I think Mom and I are both surprised into silence, though I recover first. “Who are you, and what have you done with my parents?” I ask.
“Well, grades are important, but your father has a point,” Mom says.
They must be really worried if Mom’s agreeing with Dad.
“I’m doing good, seriously.” I’m not sure if it’s a lie or not. Maybe “good” isn’t the right word for where I am, but keeping my head above water when I feel like I’m drowning is good, right?
It’s like she knows I’m about to say I have to go. “You know you can call anytime?” Mom adds.
“Yeah, I know. I’m okay, okay? I should get off the phone. I’m about to go inside and get on the elevator.”
We say our goodbyes, and after we hang up, I imagine they are calling Charlie to pack a bag and visit me.
As I get off the elevator, it occurs to me that Brett will probably be in our room and not expecting me. My schedule has been pretty exact these past weeks. If he’s jerking off, he’d at least lock the door. And since the knob turns—
He’s crying.
Brett tries to play it off like he’s been reading the textbook on his lap, but the framed picture he’d been holding clatters as he sets it back on the desk.
I walk to my side of the room as if he isn’t wiping his face. I put my bag on my desk, lie back on my bed, and stare at the ceiling. I listen and wait for Brett’s breathing to return to normal.
After I minute, I say, “Do you wanna talk about it?”
I’m expecting him to say no. I’m expecting him to pretend he wasn’t just crying.
Instead, he says, “I’m sorry if I’ve been so weird.”
I glance over. He sits at his desk, in profile to me. He picks up the framed picture.
“The only person I’ve shared a room with before was Todd, my twin brother. He died when we were fourteen.” He wipes at his eyes.
I am such a jerk.
Why didn’t it occur to me that his parents had a reason for being so emotional about leaving him? Or consider that maybe there was a reasonable explanation for that Little League photo?
I wish I could apologize for the way I judged him and his parents, but first I’d have to explain my assholery.
“I’m so sorry,” I say and leave it at that.
“It’s the kinda thing that never really leaves you, you know?” Brett says. “Yeah,” I say.
Perhaps he can hear how I do know, because the rest of Brett’s words come out in a rush.
“I’ve had four years to adjust, but whenever I hear you shift in your sleep or get up in the mornings, for a second, I think you’re him. So I’ve been icing you out. You’re this big reminder that he’s not here with me.”
“No, I get it.” I think of telling him about Finn, but this isn’t the time. “What was Todd like?” I glance over in case it was the wrong thing to say, but his face lights up and reminds me of Angelina at the wake.
Todd could have been an actor, Brett swears to me. He knows they were kids, but if I had seen Todd act, I would understand. Todd could turn on something inside him and become someone else. He did all the junior theater stuff in Kansas City. It didn’t matter what the role was, Todd flipped that switch and became George Gibbs or Mercutio or the Tin Man, it didn’t matter.
Todd also loved baseball and wanted to coach at any level he could.
“I asked Todd if he wanted to be an actor once,” Brett says. “He shrugged. He said he only liked it. He loved baseball. And he wanted to be a dad, and being an actor could delay that.” Brett pauses. “And I was like, we’re fourteen. I thought it was a lot to ask about careers, and here he was talking about being a dad.” He pauses again. “He would have been a good one though. A great coach too. He had a way of being happy for other people that was contagious. When the team won, he was happy for the whole team, and when they lost, he was happy for the teammates who had made good plays.” He laughs. “There was a joke at school, ‘You’d have to be a real asshole to hate Todd Carter.’”
It sounds like Todd and Finn would have gotten along well.
The way Todd died, Brett tells me, was stupid, and when he explains it, I have to agree. Todd was coming home from a practice with their dad, and their car was stopped at a red light. A drunk hit another car in the
intersection, and that car was pushed into their family car, which caused an airbag malfunction that broke Todd’s neck.
“Then he was…” Brett holds his hands open as his voice trails off. “Gone,” I finish for him, nodding. “Just like that.”
Brett looks up at me expectantly.
“It’s funny, but—I mean, it’s not funny at all, but…” I fumble. “This room was open because my best friend died. Last month.” My face feels hot. “It’s not the same as a brother, especially not a twin, but I kinda get it.”
Suddenly tears are in my eyes. Trying to be respectful of Brett’s loss, I feel like I’m diminishing my friendship with Finn.
Before I can be embarrassed about crying, Brett is saying, “Last month?
Dude, I’m surprised you didn’t punch me on sight.” Which makes me laugh and cry a little more. “What happened?”
Then I’m explaining how Finn’s death was so unfair, how he was always so cautious.
How he was great at soccer, unfailingly kind.
How he’d loved this girl his whole life and had only just gotten to be with her.
How the funeral home was packed.
It’s not like Brett and I instantly become friends.
But we talk about how we never used to believe that we would die. About how easily bodies can break.
We talk for a long time. I skip running to go to the dining hall with him. The pizza is surprisingly good. Finn would have liked this pizza. I tell Brett that around a mouthful. And about how I don’t want to forget.
“You won’t,” Brett says. He looks directly at me from across the table, his food forgotten. He’s so certain. “You won’t forget. You’ll never forget,” he says.
My throat is tight, and it’s hard to swallow.
We’re silent after that, and I’m starting to feel embarrassed. I barely know this guy, and I’ve almost cried in front of him twice in one day.
When we’re done eating, we clear our trays and head out. We pause and look both ways before crossing the street toward our dorm. Halfway through the crosswalk, he starts talking.
“Someday,” Brett says, “you’ll think of Finn, and it won’t hurt. It’s not that the hurt ever goes away. You saw me today. But sometimes? Sometimes when I remember Todd, I’m just happy that I got to be his brother. Someday you’ll have that with Finn. I know it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and we’re quiet again.
It isn’t until a few minutes later, as we’re getting into the elevator, that he says, “So admit it. You thought I was an asshole with my JV baseball pic framed on my desk.”
The panic must show on my face, because he laughs, which means it’s okay for me to laugh too.
Like I said, we’re not instantly friends, but it’s enough of a start that Mom shouldn’t send Charlie after me.
