“You okay?” he asks.
We say this to each other all the time now, whenever one of us catches the other zoning out; whenever it’s clear we’re thinking about you. I nod, even though I’ll never be okay again, but I don’t know what else to say.
I ask him the same question. “Are you?”
And he nods too, completing the circular lie we’ve been telling each other for days, since we first saw the photo of your car.
Lying is the new language we speak. It’s the only way we can talk at all.
Dante’s been looking at me a little too much all day, and it’s starting to get to me, so I stand up. I haven’t seen your mom in a while anyway. Your brother’s heavy gaze follows me like a shadow as I make my way out of the room. But I don’t look back.
When I find your mom, she’s sitting on your bed. Her rosary beads are in a pile on her lap.
I sit on the floor by her feet. She smiles and pets my head, like I’m a puppy, and the whole room smells like you. Vanilla has always come from your open bottles of shampoo, your hand lotions, your candles. Today’s no different, except you’re not here, and the smell seems all wrong without you, like an echo heard miles from its maker. It’s almost too much to take.
From across the hall loud music starts to play. Your mom sighs and I turn my head, but neither of us gets up to check on Dante.
She says “Hey, Autumn” a bit late, but she’s smiling a real smile. Your mom has always been so steady, but her hands are shaking, just like they had before she fainted at the hospital.
“Hi,” I say back. I pull my sleeves over my own trembling fingers.
Then we just sit there, silent and lonely for you together, because hellos are nice and neat and so much easier than goodbyes.
BRAM’S LAST 2 POSTS
@Bramisbored
New video coming soon…Here’s a hint: this milk smells funny.
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@Bramisbored
It tastes funny, too.
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BRAM IS BORED so he drinks expired milk.
160,791 views | 1 month ago
Shit.
Bram’s face is on the news again, and I feel like I’m gonna puke.
You would think they would do the right thing and ask his mom for a picture. But apparently, reporters are lazy douchebags. So they just threw up the first photo they found. They probably just image searched his name. Awesome journalism, assholes.
It’s been weeks, but they won’t stop showing the last picture he ever posted. So he’s always in his uniform. Forever on the field. Immortalized with his helmet in one hand, the ball in the other. He’s grinning his cocky grin because he was a cocky bastard, but it seems like there should be a protocol in place for things like this. It should be his graduation picture or something more dignified. He looks too much like himself in this photo, and some part of me doesn’t want the world to see the real version of him.
Plus, I didn’t think it would still hurt to see him like that.
Lively.
Fucking alive.
His name is scrolling along the bottom of the screen, like he’s a thunderstorm warning and not a dead kid.
New evidence in Bram Lassiter case…
Bram Lassiter…Bram Lassiter…Bram Lassiter…
I used to tell him his name sounded like a serial killer’s. Or a horror movie director’s. Or like the bad guy’s name in a really shitty book. He used to say he liked my red hair best when it was short and we were sitting in the sun. “I have a thing for gingers,” he’d say, with that beautiful grin of his splitting his face wide open.
But that was before. And we hadn’t spoken in months. That, like most things, is all my fault.
“We go again tonight to Bayside High School, where varsity quarterback and popular video blogger Bram Lassiter was found dead in the boys’ locker room on Christmas Eve.
“Local law enforcement originally believed Lassiter’s death was the result of a hate crime because his body was found beaten. A video of the student engaged in a homosexual act circulated online three weeks before his death, and though most of Lassiter’s close friends and relatives knew of his sexual orientation, many of his online followers did not.
“Lassiter received numerous threats of violence following the video’s release, but an autopsy revealed that the visible injuries were not the cause of death. A tox screen recently confirmed a drug overdose. NYPD are now completely eliminating the possibility of foul play and are ruling the death a suicide.”
“Maybe this will help,” Aden says, and I snap out of my Bram haze for a second. Aden crosses his small dorm room, going from his bed to his desk in two big steps, thanks to his long legs. He turns the TV off and pulls something up on his laptop. Then music—my music—fills the air. It’s a song by my old band, and while he’s a huge fan of our stuff, he only plays Unraveling Lovely when we’re working on a song if he knows I’m stuck.
He walks back to his bed and quietly strums his guitar along with the music, and I give him a small smile. This song, a new one I’m trying to write, has had me stumped for a solid three weeks. When Bram died, so did my ability to write. Aden’s patient with me, though, because when we met at a show a few months ago, I was turning out some okay stuff.
I could tell right away that Aden was everything I needed after the Unraveling Lovely fiasco—everything that everyone in my old band wasn’t. Aden’s quiet. Uncomplicated. Nice. Predictable. Plus, he isn’t some lame high school dude who’s not sure if he’s serious about music. He knew like I did. Like I do. He’s in the freaking music performance program at Queens College. And if I can get my shit together, I know we can make beautiful music.
But when Bram’s face is fucking everywhere, the way he kissed me, the way I felt when he touched me, is all I can think about. It makes writing music with Aden nearly impossible. And lately, my mind is always somewhere else. On someone else.
Bram.
“Logan,” Aden says. My small smile hasn’t lasted. I’m staring at the floor biting my thumbnail—the dark blue polish I’m wearing is flaking off and onto my teeth—and not because I’m thinking about the song I’m supposed to be writing.
Aden’s voice doesn’t sound impatient, but I can tell he’s called my name more than once, by the way his eyes look.
“Do you want one?” He’s wiggling a can of beer in his hand.