Underwater(19)

*

My day is my day: Schoolwork. Soap operas. Sandwich. Soup.

A little after three p.m., I hear the thump thump of Evan climbing up the stairs. Like a total creeper, I rush to the front door and peer through the peephole, but he’s already moved past my welcome mat. I can hear him outside, though, so I move to the window and open the curtain just enough to peek outside without being seen. I catch sight of him as he bends down to pick up something.

He studies it.

I can’t tell what he’s holding until he stands straight again.

He turns it over in his hand.

My letter.

He didn’t see it until now. Ben must’ve shoved it under the mat. Or it was hidden in the dark. That’s what I get for sending a five-year-old to deliver the most important thing I’ve ever written.

He rips it open.

He backs up against the railing of the balcony in front of my door.

He reads.

I want to know what he’s thinking.

I watch him even though I shouldn’t.

The look on his face stays put. It doesn’t give away anything.

Dear Evan,

I want to be honest with you, so here’s the thing: I’m all messed up. I assume you heard about everything that happened at Pacific Palms last year. Well, I was there. And I saw a lot of things. And I’m guilty of stuff I can’t even put into words because I’m still trying to figure everything out. I have a psychologist who helps me. Sometimes I wish someone could erase my memory. Because it changed me. I don’t leave my house anymore. That’s why I go to school online. It’s not because I’m a genius; it’s because I’m scared.

But then I met you and I thought we could be friends. You’re the first person in a long time that has made me want to walk outside my front door. You’re the first person who’s made me think I might like to ride a bike again or go to the beach or swim in a pool. And even if you think I’m too crazy to bother with, I still have to thank you because I’m trying now. You’ve reminded me of things I miss. And I realize I miss them enough to want to find them again. I really hope this doesn’t scare you. I hope you want to know me, too.

I could never say these things to your face. I needed to write them instead of speaking them.



Morgan

I skitter from the curtain to hover behind my front door. I picture Evan reading my letter with his backpack hanging off one of his shoulders. I swear I can hear him breathing. It’s been hours. It’s been a whole night. And all that time my letter was hidden somewhere he couldn’t see. Sometimes the things we are sure of aren’t true at all.

I jump when he knocks. I stand still, wanting something I’m afraid to want. He thrums his knuckles against the door again.

“Morgan, open up.”

I draw in a breath, let it out, and open the door.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asks.

He’s holding my letter between his fingers, and I’m concentrating on the way it looks. Like he’s holding my feelings right there in his hand. I think about the way my words are on the page. I really hope this doesn’t scare you.

“I was afraid to tell you,” I say.

“But why?”

“I sound crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Fine. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

I can tell he’s speaking as true as the sun shining behind him.

“That’s why we’re here, too. My cousin … he…” Evan gets caught on the difficulty of his own words. “We’re here because my cousin was one of the ones. He went to your school and, well, you know.”

I do know. I know exactly. And the fact that I know makes me sick to my stomach. He tried to bring up his cousin when we watched the surf video and I didn’t let him. I cut him off. Maybe that’s why he disappeared after that night. He probably thinks I’m heartless.

“Who was your cousin?”

“Connor Wallace. Did you know him?”

Evan is looking at me so hopefully that I wish more than anything I’d known Connor Wallace. I wish he’d been more than just another person I passed in the hallway sometimes. Or took an art class with once. I vaguely remember him sitting at an easel on the other side of the room. He was good. Everybody knew that. He won an art contest with a self-portrait he painted in class. I was terrible. None of my art ended up looking like what I’d pictured in my head when I started. If I concentrate really hard, I can see the family resemblance between Connor and Evan. But Evan is more olive-skinned and beachy than Connor. The Hawaiian half of him shines through.

“I knew who he was, but I didn’t know him,” I say.

“That sucks.” He kicks at the welcome mat, disappointed. “I really wanted you to say you knew him.”

I scramble to make it better. “We took an art class together once.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, laughing off what he said. But I stop when I see the sincere way he’s looking at me, his big brown eyes locking on mine, practically pleading.

He runs his hand through his fluffy hair. “God, this is gonna sound so psycho.” He takes a breath. “I know who you are.”