Brandon looks up at me. “Did she have another camera?”
I shake my head. “Two more field cameras, but they were her cheap backups. They were in her suitcase.”
“What’s that?” He points to where light glints off a lens poking from a canvas bag.
“It’s her film camera. We don’t have a darkroom. And I have no idea what’s on there. I can’t drop off shots of carnage at CVS.”
“Mr. Gerardi does. Does it have film in it?”
I grab the canvas bag, and it rattles. This was her carry-on bag, and when I pull back the flap, I catch the scent of her hand lotion. Loss hits me in a wave, and I need to close my eyes.
Work, Juliet. There’s time for emotion later.
It still takes me a moment. Brandon and Rowan wait, like the good friends they are.
When I pull the film camera free, I see the rest of my mother’s effects. Tubes of lip balm. A tiny pack of tissues. The edge of her boarding pass, tucked into a side pocket. An old Us Weekly magazine.
A sad smile finds my face. I would have given her hell for that if I’d seen it. If that Saturday night had turned out the way it was supposed to.
I need fluff sometimes, Jules, she would have said.
A tear snakes its way down my cheek.
“Do you want me to take it?” Brandon says softly. “I can develop it and tell you.”
“No.” I shake my head. She didn’t use the film camera for work very often, and when she did, her shots were powerful. Anything on here would have been her own personal pursuits. Something she would have found personally meaningful. I can’t imagine her grabbing this camera to take shots of a car as it sped away—if she did that at all—but if anyone is going to develop these photographs, it’s going to be me. I hug the camera to my body. “They’re her pictures. I want to do it.”
“Okay.” He sits back.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’m glad you guys came over.”
Rowan wraps her arms around my neck from behind. “That’s what friends are for.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Tuesday, October 8 10:31:57 PM
Subject: Friends
Yeah. I’m okay. False alarm.
Did you talk to your mom?
False alarm? False alarm? What the hell does that mean?
The green dot sits beside her name.
TD: What’s the false alarm?
CG: Declan Murphy didn’t do what I thought he did.
It takes everything I have—and I mean everything—to keep from writing back JULIET IT’S ME TELL ME EVERYTHING PLEASE I’VE BEEN SO WORRIED I DID THIS TO YOU.
My hands are practically shaking on the face of my phone.
TD: What did you think he did?
CG: He got drunk and wrecked his car on the same night my mom died. I was worried he was involved somehow.
TD: And he’s not?
CG: No.
She is killing me.
TD: How do you know?
CG: My best friend’s boyfriend did an internship in a newsroom over the summer. He still has access to their crime beat database. He looked up both incidents. The times don’t match. Mom died before he even got in the car.
Oh.
I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s not relief. It’s not even a hollow victory. I didn’t kill her mother, but she has no closure. I still haven’t told her who I am—and now it’s too late.
I feel like I should apologize, but I’m not entirely sure how. Or why.
Another message appears.
CG: It was a long shot anyway. A coincidence.
TD: I guess their paths didn’t cross.
CG: No.
TD: Are you okay?
CG: I don’t know what I am.
TD: What can I do?
CG: Talk to me. If you don’t mind.
The words speak to me in her voice. I keep seeing her panicked eyes when she matched the dates in the cafeteria. I want to call her. I want to reassure her. She’s the fiercest girl I’ve ever met, but I want to sit in the dark and hold her hand to show her she’s not alone.
TD: Mind? I could talk to you forever.
She doesn’t respond for the longest time, and I wonder if she fell asleep.
TD: Knock knock.
CG: You made me cry.
TD: Most people say, “Who’s there?”
CG: Now you made me laugh. Who’s there?
TD: I didn’t really have a joke prepared. Why did I make you cry?
CG: I was so worried you were him, and I was going to have to stop talking to you.
I freeze. I read that sentence over and over again.
I was so worried you were him.
I can’t breathe. I have no idea what to say. This is a thousand daggers striking me all at once.
CG: Sorry. I’m a mess right now. Brandon—my best friend’s boyfriend—thought maybe there was a chance Mom took a picture of the car getting away, so we looked at her memory cards. It’s been an emotional night.
Tell me about it. I’m sitting here, choking on my heart.
At least she’s turned the conversation. I can force my suddenly numb fingers to type.
TD: Find anything?
CG: Nothing on the memory cards. But I’m going to develop her film tomorrow at school.
TD: Do you think there’s a chance?
CG: I’m scared to think there’s a chance.
My brain can hardly process the words she’s typing. I want to tell her that I can barely stay awake, that we can talk tomorrow, but I literally just told her I’d talk to her all night.
Maybe I should look up some knock-knock jokes.
CG: Did you talk to your mom?
Oh, good, something else I don’t want to talk about.
TD: No.
CG: Why not?
TD: Because I got home from work late, and my stepfather was practically standing sentry outside her door.
CG: And you can’t tell him you want to talk to her?
Her question is innocuous enough, but knowing that she doesn’t want to talk to me—the real me—turns her words more critical than I’m used to. It’s like talking to Alan. I hear accusations of failure between every word. It makes me angry, like I’m only good enough for her to see one half of my life, but the other half—the real half—is too screwed up for a girl like her.
My thoughts are a mess of exaggerations and hyperbole, and I know it.
I did this. I did.
I ruined it. This is my fault.
It’s one more weight on top of so many. I want to brace my limbs and throw them all off—but they’re too heavy. I can’t.
My fingers stab at the screen.
TD: It’s complicated.
CG: It’s only as complicated as you make it.
TD: Well, I guess I’m good at making things as complicated as possible.
With that, I close the app.
And delete it.
Then I curl in on myself and do everything possible to keep from screaming.
I have to stop breathing. That does the trick. I sit there in complete, still silence until my muscles are crying for oxygen.
I need to get myself together. My room is stifling, and I want to get out of here, but there’s only one place I can go that won’t have Alan calling the cops.
I pull up my texts and send another one to Rev. He’s ignored the last twelve, but those were all variations of me telling him to stop being such a pain in the ass.
DM: Please, Rev. I need you.
He responds immediately.
RF: I’m here.
DM: Can I come over?
RF: Always.
Rev is eating a bowl of Lucky Charms when I come in through the back door and find him in his kitchen. It’s the kind of late-night snack usually reserved for potheads, but Rev has never smoked a joint in his life. When we were younger and our friend
ship was more evenly divided between our houses, Mom would keep a box on hand just for him.
He never eats sugared cereal for breakfast. He always treats them like a secret vice. Maybe it’s a throwback to a childhood with a father who wouldn’t let him eat Lucky Charms. Or maybe he likes the sugar. I’ve never asked him.
He pushes the box my way when I approach the table, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s still wearing the same hoodie he wore in school, which is unusual this late at night. I wonder if he hasn’t taken it off, or if he put it back on when he knew I was coming over.
Either way, I have something to do with that. I don’t like this feeling. I can’t decide if I’m angry or ashamed.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
He still hasn’t looked at me.
I don’t sit down. “Still pissed?”
“Maybe. What’s going on?”
“Juliet said she’s glad I’m not me.”
He takes a spoonful of cereal but still doesn’t look up. “Maybe you could repeat that in English.”
“She said she’s glad I’m not Declan Murphy.”
“I think I need more information.” His eyes lift enough for him to nod at the cell phone in my hand. “Did she say this in an email? Read it.”
“I can’t. I deleted the app.”
He gives a little laugh, but not like I’m being funny, then drinks the colored milk from his bowl. “Reinstall it. Let me see what she said.”
“I just told you what she said.”
“No, you gave me the Declan-ized version. I want to see what she said.”
“What does that mean?”
Rev puts the bowl in the sink and finally looks at me fully. “Are you going to reinstall the app or not?”
His attitude is making me wish I hadn’t come over here at all. “Not.”
“Fine. Good night, then.” He walks out, hitting the switch by the doorway. Leaving me in the dark.
I go after him, whispering furiously because I know Geoff and Kristin will freak if we wake the baby. “What the hell is your problem, Rev? If you have something to say to me, say it.”
He doesn’t stop walking. “I did.”
“Would you stop and talk to me?”
He doesn’t.
“Rev!”
In a second, he’s going to be in his room, slamming the door in my face.
“Would you stop?” Without thinking, I go after him. I grab his arm.
Rev whirls and jerks free, shoving me away so forcefully that I hit the opposite wall. Picture frames rattle and swing.
His eyes are a little wild, but only for a moment. He blinks and the demons are gone. He’s startled. Regretful. Ashamed.
“I’m sorry.” My hands are up. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow, but this is my fault. I know better. “I’m sorry.”
The baby fusses, and we both freeze. After a second, she settles.
His parents’ bedroom door opens, and Geoff leans out into the hall. “What are you boys doing?” he whispers fiercely.
“It’s nothing,” Rev says. “Go back to bed. We’ll shut the door.” He glances at me ruefully, and his voice is ironic. “Come on in, Dec.”
In his room, Rev sits cross-legged on his bed, leaving me to take the desk chair. I straddle it and rest my arms on the back.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“My fault.”
“No.” He looks at me. “It wasn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”
He shrugs, but tension radiates from his form. He’s biting the edge of his thumbnail.
I frown and wheel the chair over to the end of the bed and rest my head on my arms. “What’s the story, Rev?”
“I keep thinking about him.”
His father. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He finally looks away from his comforter. “Do you really think I’m a martyr?”
“No. Do you really think I am?”
“Sometimes.”
Ouch. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘damn’ before.”
He winces. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“I think you’re allowed.”
“No, I’m not. Would you reinstall the stupid app so we can talk about whatever you came over here for?”
“You’re not allowed to lose your temper?”
His expression is pained. “Dec.”
“Seriously, Rev, you’re like the most laid-back person I know. If you don’t go off on someone in the cafeteria once in a while, people are going to think you’re inhuman. In fact, I was starting to worry.”
He doesn’t smile. He’s quiet, locked inside his head.
I realize I’m probably in the running for the Most Selfish Friend award. And here I practically shoved my way into his room. For what? Because I don’t have the balls to tell a girl who I am? Boo-hoo, Declan.
I edge the chair back a few inches. “Do you want me to go home?”
His eyes flick up. “No.”
“Okay.”
“But I do want you to reinstall the app.”
“Rev—”
“Seriously. I need to . . . to . . .” His voice is tight, and he makes a circular motion with his hands. “Uncoil.”
I hesitate, but he’s watching me expectantly. “All right.” I reinstall it.
There’s an email waiting.
I can’t make myself click on it. I can only imagine what it says. Her green dot is no longer lit. I toss the phone at him. “It’s the most recent chat.”
He tortures me by reading at the speed of someone who needs to look up every word in the dictionary.
After a few minutes, I want to grab it away from him. “You’re killing me here, Rev.”
“I was reading the earlier messages for context.” He sighs and tosses my phone at me. “I agree with her. You are good at making things as complicated as possible.”
“Do you think she hates me?”
“Which you?”
I wince. “Either one.”
“No.” He hesitates. “I think you need to tell her.”
“You read what she said. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
He shakes his head. “She said she’s glad she doesn’t have to stop talking to you.”
“No, she said—”
“That’s exactly what she said, Dec.” His expression grows a bit angry. “Exactly. Verbatim.”
“She said she’s glad I’m not Declan Murphy.”
“But you are Declan Murphy! You are not two people.” His fists are clenched, and his breathing has grown quick.
I shove my phone into my pocket and study him. “What is going on with you, Rev?”
He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just tired.”
I think of how he sat in the hospital with me, saying nothing. His silence was more supportive than anything he could have said.
I don’t know how to do that in return. Maybe I can offer something else, though. I pull out my phone and do a quick search, then turn it around and slide it across the bed.
He doesn’t reach for it. “Did she send more?”
“No. It’s a poem I had to read for English. Read it.”
He looks up, and the expression on his face is exactly the one I’d wear if he suddenly said, Hey bro, read this poem. “What?”
“Just read it. I think you’ll like it.”
Because he’s Rev, he doesn’t give me a hard time. He picks up my phone and reads it.
His expression evens out. “You’re right. I do like it.” He slides it back to me, and for an instant, I think his face will crumple and he’ll cry. His voice is a breath away from breaking. “But I don’t feel like my head is bloody and unbowed. Not now.”
The air feels weighted, like he’s going to say more, so I wait.
“Lately,” he says, more steadily, “I feel like everything is a test.?
?? He swallows. “And I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to failing.”
“Like how?”
“I almost hit you in the hallway.”
“I deserved it.”
His eyes flare with anger. “No, you didn’t!”
“Shh.” I glance at the door. “Okay. I didn’t. What’s your point?”
“I almost hit you.” He says this as if it’s significant.
“And?”
“And what if I had?”
“People around school would probably want to shake your hand.”
He glares at me. “Don’t joke.”
“You’re worried that you almost hit me? I’m pretty sure I would have gotten over it.”
“But what if I couldn’t stop?”
I stare at him. This question is so incongruous of what I know of Rev that it’s almost comical.
The expression on his face is anything but.
I wheel my chair back up against the bed. His voice has grown very quiet, so mine is, too. “You’re worried that if you hit me, you’d keep hitting me?”
“Or anyone.” He takes a breath. “When we went to Homecoming, everyone else made it look so easy. To have that kind of normal. But I’m so worried that one of these days I’m going to lose control. I don’t . . . I don’t know how it starts. And when it starts, I’m scared I won’t know how to stop it.”
Rev has never talked like this. When he does talk about his father or what he went through as a child, it’s always in the vein of making sure no one ever does that to him again. Never a worry of him committing any kind of abuse toward someone else.
Rev is kind. Gentle. Geoff and Kristin open their home and their hearts to children from all walks of life—and Rev does, too. I see it every day. I envy it.
“You’re not your father,” I say to him.
“You’re not yours, either.”
And right there, in the middle of his own crisis, Rev knows exactly what I need to hear. This is why he’s the perfect friend. And why I can’t wrap my head around him thinking he could ever hurt anyone.
“Have you talked to Geoff and Kristin about this?”
“No.” He rubs at his face again, and his eyes are damp. “I’m worried that they won’t want me to stay here if something happens. I don’t want to hurt any of the kids—”
“Rev. You will not hurt anyone. And they are your parents. They love you. Nothing is going to happen. I promise. Nothing.”
He’s quiet for a while, and I can see him rolling that around in his head. “But what if it does?”