Gone, Gone, Gone(30)

You did know I was in D.C. so you should probably assume that I give a shit about things that happened here.

Sorry if I insulted New York. But this is your home now, you know? Wheaton, Maryland, that’s yours.

Craig

He IMs me Sunday afternoon. This isnt my home. Im always gonna be from NYC.

I reply: From NY yea but not in NY.

home is where the you know

I guess

So his heart isn’t here. I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, neither is mine, really, right?

And it was only a kiss. God, what would I have done with his heart, anyway? Knowing me . . .

Before I try to sleep on Sunday night, I give Mrs. Carter a call. She’s got to be so lonely in that house by herself, no Cody, no husband. When I ran into her at the grocery store, her cart was practically empty. One tangerine, one thing of yogurt, one toothbrush, and all those avocados.

“Craig,” she says. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, you know, yeah, I’m fine. Mostly I’m looking for all of my animals.” And then I tell her about all of the animals, and she says something about how she doesn’t remember me having all of them back when “she used to see me all the time,” and we both dance around the subject of why she doesn’t see me much anymore and why the animals are around now when they weren’t then. And what it could possibly mean that those animals are no longer around.

Or I dance around it, because I guess she couldn’t possibly know most of that. But she makes sympathetic noises in the right places and then she asks me about the sniper, which I guess was what she meant the first time she asked how I was.

She says, “God, I worry about you kids in a time like this. I still remember when JFK was assassinated. I was scarred for years after that.”

What does JFK have to do with anything? Maybe she’s losing her mind too, and I can’t decide if that would be a bad thing, because maybe she and Cody could be together then? Did she know JFK or something?

I say, “I was just wondering if maybe you’ve heard from Cody lately.”

“Yep, he called yesterday. They had a dance at his school; isn’t that nice? He sounded like he had a good time.”

Oh, God. He met a boy. No wonder he hasn’t been emailing. He has some boy and they danced all night like Eliza Doolittle and . . . whoever she danced with.

I say, “That’s great. Did you tell him I said hi?”

She says, “Oh, you know what? It might have slipped my mind. I thought you were still talking to him.”

“I am.” I breathe out. “He hasn’t emailed me in a few days, so . . . yeah. That’s why I called, I guess. To make sure he’s okay.”

Her voice softens. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s just been busy. You know, he has a lot to do right now, with his junior year.”

She keeps pretending he’s in normal school.

“I know,” I say. “I didn’t call to make you apologize for him, really. I was really just making sure he was okay.”

“He’s fine,” she says. “Cody’s fine.”

Yeah. “Okay. Thanks. Tell him I said hi?”

She says she will.

Maybe I’ll play therapist with myself. Maybe that’ll help. I mean, if Cody’s all better, and Lio says it helps, I mean, maybe they’re onto something.

Cody’s happy.

And how do you feel about that?

Really good. I used to do everything I could to make him happy, you know? One time I cranked one of those ice-cream makers by hand for hours and hours because they didn’t have mint chocolate chip at the store and that was the kind that he wanted. And his smile made it all worth it. And when he was happy, it was so, so good. So it really is good that he’s happy now. That’s what I wanted all along. The problem is that he’s happy because of a dance, which probably means that he met a new boy.

And how do you feel about that?

Really shitty. I thought we were made for each other. But it’s not like I was sitting here waiting for him, or maybe I was, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be, or if I still am.

And how do you feel about that?

Lonely. Bored.

And how do you feel about that?

I feel like this is stupid.

Am I four years old? All I do is cry and say things are stupid.

I’m stupid.





LIO

I’M IN HISTORY ON MONDAY WHEN MY CELL PHONE starts buzzing. Luckily, we’re in the middle of a rousing conversation about Rochambeau, so no one hears it vibrate in my pocket.

At that moment, we hear the bing of our teacher’s email, and he goes to his desk and checks it. He frowns, but he doesn’t tell us anything.

The buzz and the bing are connected. I know it immediately.

I fake a sneeze and duck into the hallway to fake-blow my nose.

I check my phone. Michelle.

She’s already sobbing when my phone connects to hers. She doesn’t even wait for me to say hi and then start crying. That’s when I realize it’s real.

I say, “Are you okay?”

And she says, “Thiskidgotshotoutsidemyschool.” And then she’s sobbing again. My sister. “H-he got shot.”

“What?”

“My friend saw it, j-just outside. He j-just . . . he was about to go inside—”