The Truth About Keeping Secrets(21)

‘Yeah, sort of. I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think I want to go.’ I didn’t want to talk about me. Flicked through the pages again just to have something to do. ‘But other than that, yeah. I guess I’m fine. How are you? You said … you were having a bad night.’

‘I’m OK. I can get kind of – stuck in my head.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It happens.’

‘Have you, uh, gotten a replacement therapist?’

She laughed. ‘Well, that’s the problem. The position remains unfilled. But yeah, no, I haven’t. I’m getting there, though. Yeah. Getting better.’

I wondered what June would’ve said if I brought up the fact that I had a folder containing all of her deepest darkest secrets nestled directly to my right. Maybe she’d already realized. To be fair, none of her secrets necessarily had to be deep or dark. But if they were, they were in there.

‘If we’re being honest, I don’t really wanna talk about me either,’ she said suddenly.

‘Then what do we talk about?’

‘Well, maybe we don’t have to talk about anything. Like jokes are all well and good but have you actually heard Funeral?’

‘What? Uh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe? Like, there’s songs that I like but I don’t really pay attention to albums or anything.’

‘OK, wait.’ She put her phone down on the coffee table, and tapped it until she seemed satisfied. ‘This is the first song on the album. It’s my second favourite.’

It started optimistic, with strings and a tinkling piano, but then it swelled and got heavier. June said it was called ‘Neighbourhood #1’.

Olivia was a song-skipper. The good part of a song wasn’t even until the climax, right before the end, and she’d always get distracted before we even made it that far. But June was savouring every note, and at a couple of points looked like she’d wanted to say something but stopped herself for fear of interrupting. When it ended, she looked at me and smiled. ‘Nice, right? But, OK, I guarantee you’ve heard this one. It’s sort of a hipster anthem.’

Weirdly enough, I had; I remembered it from an old Where the Wild Things Are trailer. I couldn’t remember what it was called, but it had this really powerful guitar part and these crescendo-ing moments of just pure sound, and when he sang, God, it was like you could feel it, all the moments where his voice wavered but then grew stronger; and it was beautiful, but maybe not quite as beautiful as I felt it to be then and there, because before I knew it, I was crying.

It was thoroughly embarrassing. I didn’t even know why I was crying. It wasn’t just the song. I think it was everything, the moment, holed up in my dead dad’s office with wind swirling behind the window, all white; it sort of felt timeless, off the grid, as if we were in limbo, and honestly, the idea didn’t sound all that bad.

It took me a second to realize that June was crying too. I assumed she, like me, had her own reasons. Then the moment faded, like a film lifting from in front of my eyes and she said something so completely understated that both of us laughed. ‘Pretty good, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, snivelling pathetically. ‘Good taste.’

‘It’s called “Wake Up”. I guess song meanings are sort of up to your interpretation – some people think it’s about, like, renouncing religion. A million little gods. That kind of thing. I see it as … coming to terms with all that stuff. It’s like a loss of innocence, but maybe in … a good way, if that makes sense.’

It did make sense. Everything about her made sense.

That’s when her phone buzzed.

She whipped it out like it had electrocuted her, processed whatever was on the screen, then went all dark from the inside out. It oozed through her eyes. ‘Ah, damn. Damn, damn, damn.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s my mom. Turns out I’m, like, not actually supposed to be places in the middle of the night. Who knew?’ She softened, and looked at me. ‘I’m sorry. I gotta go. Really great five minutes, though.’

I surprised myself with how upset that made me, like something I ought to take care of was slipping through my fingers. I didn’t want her to leave. I figured it’d go back to the way it was after the cemetery – just pretending like we’d never spoken. That sounded terrible. I liked her. ‘Oh. OK, yeah.’

‘Hey, do you – do you want a ride tomorrow? To school?’

My heart dropped.

‘Why?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why are you offering?’

‘I … Because you’re funny? I like you? And I live close.’

I had to ask. ‘June.’ She looked at me. ‘Do you feel bad for me?’

‘Why do you seem so, like, surprised by the notion that someone could just like talking to you?’

I’m not – I’m surprised that you enjoy talking to me.

But I didn’t say that. It came out as ‘I don’t know.’

‘At the cemetery – when you didn’t want me to drive you home – was that because you were afraid? Like, to be in a car?’

I nodded, revelling in the simplicity of not having to explain to somebody why I was doing something or why I felt the way I did.