Gone, Gone, Gone(18)

“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured that out.”

“But I like you.”

He nods a little, not looking at me. I know. He’s not ready. I’m pushing too hard. I kissed him and he didn’t ask me out. Shouldn’t that be the only signal I need? It’s not like I don’t know he’s still hung up on his ex. Whatever. I can try not to care.

I should apologize for kissing him.

But he’s the one who wants to know what’s in this for him while simultaneously telling me there isn’t a relationship in this for me, so who’s the unresponsive one now?

I chew and watch the cars drive past. Any one of them could point a gun out the window and shoot us on its way by.

For a brief, silent second, fear drops into my stomach as heavy as a cannonball.

Then it’s gone.

Craig nods and says, “We could die right now.”

See? He doesn’t need me to talk. He really does get it.

“I guess.”


He says, “Did you like what I said in class? I thought I captured your cynical attitude pretty well.”

I shrug.

This macaroni and cheese is so weird. What’s wrong with normal macaroni and cheese? I wish I had the other half of my sandwich back. It’s inside Craig now.

I could kiss him and taste it.

I shouldn’t think about stuff like that when I’m pissed at him.

He says, “Can I tell you something about September eleventh? It’s something I figured out the other day, and I guess I thought you might have something interesting to say about it. Or, you know, whatever.”

I squeeze my fingernails into my palms.

He says, “Yeah. So here’s what I’m thinking. I heard so much about how New York really came together as a city after September eleventh. You know, you guys regenerated and rejuvenated and there was this new sense of . . . of humanity? I keep reading that, is that true? You experienced this new togetherness?”

There were a lot of candles and rallies.

I crumple my empty raisin box in my hand.

He says, “I don’t think that ever happened in D.C. We never bonded over September eleventh. We swept up and pretended there was never a mess, y’know, and isn’t that really depressing?”

I shrug.

“We never came together. It was almost like . . . like we didn’t even talk about what happened, because we were so wrapped up in what happened in New York. The Pentagon seemed like such . . . small potatoes.” He plays with his shoe. “So maybe this wouldn’t be so scary if the wound weren’t still raw from nine eleven. Because all this panic is actually like . . . residual? I guess. Like it’s left over from something else entirely, and we’re just redirecting it onto this.”

“None of it really happened in D.C.,” I say.

He looks at me. “What?”

I don’t look at him. “You guys didn’t come together after September eleventh because September eleventh wasn’t yours.”

Now it’s Craig who isn’t saying anything. I hazard a glance, and he looks a lot like I probably did when he was talking, hands clenched, nostrils twitching. The difference is, I notice that he’s upset and he didn’t notice I was. The similarity is, neither one of us gives a shit.

“A hundred and eighty-nine people died,” he says eventually. “A hundred and eighty-nine.”

“Nearly three thousand in New York. The Pentagon wasn’t the towers.”

“You don’t know what the f*ck you’re talking about, Lio.”

“Comparing a hundred eighty-nine to twenty-seven hundred is exactly the same as comparing these shootings to nine eleven.”

He makes his eyes smaller. “No, it isn’t.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Because!” he says. “Because nine eleven happened! Because it felt like something! Because . . . it isn’t all about the numbers. It’s not . . . God, dead people isn’t just counting. That isn’t what I meant. That isn’t what I was trying to say at all.”

I pick at my jeans and shake my head.

It is.

How else do you measure this shit?

He takes his apple out of his lunch box and squeezes it. “The whole country cared about New York City. No one gave a shit about us. Half the newspapers outside of the US didn’t even mention us, all they cared about was New York. I went into the city afterward and it was like . . .”

The fact that he has to specify that he went into D.C. makes it all the more clear that he is a f*cking Marylander, for God’s sake. Soon the Virginians are going to be encroaching on our grief. Then what, Indiana? Fuck this shit.

I say, “The newspapers cared about us because we got owned. And Washington, D.C., was the only city in the entire f*cking country who didn’t give New York any bit of sympathy.” My throat hurts. I don’t want to do this shit anymore.

Craig throws his apple in the dirt. “We had our own problems!”

“You had a f*cking inferiority complex.”

He crosses his arms and now neither of us is looking at the other.

But he doesn’t know. He wasn’t there. What does he even know about dying? He’s been so alive his whole life it makes me want to throw up.

And to talk about 9/11 as this inspiring experience, what the f*ck is that? 9/11 was numbers and death and fire. It wasn’t a city giving itself a group hug. I’m so sick of people trying to make it something pretty. It’s just so Lifetime movie.