Now Is Not the Time to Panic(38)

Back home, I crawled into bed, and I didn’t wake up until a little before noon. The whole house was already empty, and I had no idea what else had happened the night before. I didn’t leave the house. I waited and waited and waited for Zeke to show up, like always, but he never came. I went into the garage and spent the rest of the afternoon making more copies of the poster on the Xerox machine. I almost never handled the original copy, was afraid to damage it. But that day I used it to make the first copy, and then I stared at it, looking for anything that I might have missed before, tried to count every single droplet of blood, tried to determine which splotches were mine and which were Zeke’s. I knew the world was going on outside, that things were happening, that large forces were now having to contend with this thing that I had started, but it felt so disconnected from reality.

When I was done making copies, I put my hand on the glass and made a single copy of my palm. I looked at the lines, wished I knew how to read them. I wanted to know what my future was, because in that moment, I could not imagine a future at all. I could not imagine how in the world I would keep this secret for the rest of my life. But I knew I would. And even then, sixteen years old, I knew that I would hate every person in my life who loved me, who took care of me, who helped me find a way to whatever life I would have, because I could never tell them who I was, what I’d done.





Mazzy Brower


MAZZY CALLED AGAIN A FEW DAYS LATER, AND I ANSWERED IT.

“Okay,” I told her.

“Okay?”

“I’ll talk to you. I’ll tell you.”

“Wow . . . well, thank you, Frankie. This is a good thing, I promise. I’ll do this in a way that honors your story.”

“Okay,” I told her. “I have to go.”

“Wait, just . . . why did you say yes?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” I said. “Mostly I’m tired. I’ve been feeling a little crazy ever since you called. And I figured it would only get worse. Maybe I want to say it out loud and prove that I didn’t make all of it up. I don’t know. But something like that, I guess.”

“When can I talk—” she started to ask, but I hung up the phone.

I was so close to the end. Not the end of the story, of course, because that would keep going, on a loop, forever. But I was getting close to the end of it being a secret. I wanted to go to bed, but it was ten in the morning. There were dishes to wash, a book that I wasn’t writing, box tops I needed to cut out for Junie’s school. But I went to bed. I got right back into bed, and I let myself dream about that summer.





Twelve


AT FOUR O’CLOCK, I COULDN’T STAND IT ANY LONGER, AND I drove over to Zeke’s grandmother’s house. I had filled my backpack with the posters, as if I couldn’t function unless they were close to me. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I pounded and pounded, yelling for Zeke, and then I went around the house and climbed the steps to the back porch. As I peered through the glass of the door, I saw him, crouched in the hallway.

“Zeke!” I said. “Can you talk?”

He shook his head, but I wouldn’t leave. He had to know that I wouldn’t leave. “Zeke! What the fuck?” I yelled, and then he finally came outside, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Are you, like, are you trying to hide from me?” I asked. “Is it because of what happened in Memphis? In the car?”

His face reddened, this crazy blush, and then he wouldn’t look at me. “It’s . . . I’m leaving. We’re leaving.” And his eyes got big for a second, like maybe he was scared I thought that he was including me, but I was still trying to figure out what was going on. “My mom and me . . . we’re going back to Memphis.”

“What? When?”

“Now. Well, tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving?”

“My dad called my mom last night,” Zeke said. “He told her what’s going on. He said I’m in danger of ruining my life. He says I could be arrested. He said I wouldn’t get to go to college, and I was going to tell him that I’m going to go to art school, but—”

“Zeke, please. You’re leaving? You’re just going back? To your dad? That fucking asshole? Your mom is going back.”

“She’s scared, Frankie. I’m scared. It’s scary. We could get arrested.”

“We already knew that, right? We already knew that and it was . . . it was fine.”

“They’re worried about me. My mom says that Coalfield is not safe. Another kid died, Frankie. Like, Jesus Christ, this is really bad.”

“Don’t go,” I said.

“I have to,” he replied.

“Please don’t leave,” I said, grabbing his arm.

“Frankie, I don’t have a choice, okay?” he said, and his voice cracked so hard, like puberty had just that moment kicked in for him. “I have to go home.”

“Please stay here,” I said. “Stay with your grandmother.”

“God, no, I can’t do that,” he said. “This is bad, Frankie. It was good when it was just you and me. It was the best thing ever. But it’s bad now. We did something awful.”

“That’s not true, and you don’t even fucking believe that,” I said, my voice rising. “You sound like you’re reading a dumbass letter of apology to a judge.”