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  ME: And you were still wearing your mowing clothes at the time the police arrived to the crime scene.

  JULIAN: Yes, and they were drenched at that point, from lifting my mother’s body out of the tub.

  ME: You mentioned before that the fight with your dad started out verbal but ended up physical. Was that the norm for you two?

  JULIAN: No.

  ME: So, what was the norm for you and your dad?

  JULIAN:…

  ME: Julian?

  JULIAN: My father and I went our separate ways, for the most part.

  ME: Can you look at me and say that?

  I press PAUSE. Still Julian doesn’t move; he just keeps jabbing the stick at nothing.

  “Look at me,” I insist.

  Finally he does. His eyes look broken, as if they could drown me in just one blink.

  “I’m on your side as long as you’re being honest with me.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Because you won’t tell me.”

  He looks away again. “What do you want to know?”

  “How is it for you…no longer having your parents around, I mean?”

  “It’s surreal,” he whispers. “Like a nightmare that I can never wake up from. I wish I’d done more to protect my mom. Maybe then she’d still be alive.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for your mother’s death.”

  “Why can’t I?” He shrugs. “I do it all the time.”

  “Do you feel she protected you?” I ask, fully aware the question’s loaded.

  But this time Julian doesn’t deny the fact that he needed protection—that he and his father didn’t simply go their separate ways.

  “We used to bury stuff,” he mutters. “My mom and I.”

  “What stuff? Bury it where?”

  “My mom used to say that if we buried the stuff we didn’t like—the stuff we wanted to go away—it would just disappear, the way Steven had. And so we’d crawl underneath the picnic table and bury all of our demons—symbols of the things that we wanted to go away. We’d bury them like a corpse.”

  “What were the things you buried?”

  “Steven. I buried him more times than I’d like to admit. There must be at least a hundred slips of paper in the ground with his name, not to mention things of his that I was able to sneak away without my dad noticing: storybooks, race cars, mittens, a shoe. But still his memory never faded.”

  “And how did that affect you?”

  “I could never live up to the person Steven would’ve been—could never do as well in school or at sports. I wasn’t nearly as good-looking. I didn’t run as fast, didn’t speak as well.”

  “And all of this was according to your dad?”

  He shrugs again. A stray tear rolls down his cheek. “After a while, I started to believe it too.”

  “Even though it’s crazy. I mean, who knows what kind of person Steven would’ve become. And as for burying your problems…it doesn’t work. They’ll just show up someplace else.”

  “I know, but when I was younger I didn’t. That’s probably when my hope died.”

  I reach out to touch his arm, running my fingers over the pickax tattoo, noticing the goose bumps on his skin. “Is this to dig a hole—to bury what bothers you?”

  He looks into my face; his eyes are raw and red. “You’re the only one who knows,” he says, in a voice that’s just as broken.

  “I really wish I’d known you back then.”

  “We should probably head back.” Julian pulls away and continues to pick, prod, and poke at the invisible fire.

  I scoot in closer and take his hand again, forcing him to drop the stick, able to feel him trembling against my touch.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says.

  “I do.” I weave my fingers through his, able to feel that charging sensation again, pulsing through my veins, sending tingles all over my skin. “You don’t have to bury your pain anymore. You can tell it to me or whisper it to the stars.”

  Julian looks up at the sky, perhaps making a wish on a star. I hope that’s what he’s doing for real. I hope I’ve given him a reason to be optimistic, because, aside from love, I can’t think of anything better.

  Tuesday, October 20

  Late Night

  Mom and I were at the park, sitting side by side on the swings. I tried to keep the same pace as her, but she kept making her swing go twisty.

  “Come on, Juju!” She leaned back, let her feet shoot up in the air. “Look at me!” she squealed. Her head tilted back. Her hair reached the ground.

  I flipped my legs up, but not like her. They didn’t touch the chain. Mom rolled backward, fell to the ground. A stick punctured her forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I hopped off my swing.

  “Whoa,” she said, looking out into space. Blood ran from her cut, but she didn’t seem in pain. She touched her forehead. Her thumbs pressed against her temples; her hands reminded me of bird wings: frail, white, fluttering.

  “Can we go home?” I asked her.

  She looked at me, taking a moment to focus. The pills she’d started taking made it hard. They stole her away, brought her into a fog. I imagined that I looked cloudy.

  “We’re not going home yet,” she said. Her eyes were full of bloody vessels—“from lack of sleep,” she told me.

  “Jackson’s grandma died,” I said. “He went to her funeral. Are we going to have a funeral for Steven?”

  “We already buried Steven. He went bye-bye into the ground, remember?”

  “But everyone just went home after that. There wasn’t a party to say good-bye.”

  “Daddy and Mommy didn’t want a party for our son’s death. Daddy will be leaving for work in a half hour. We can go home then. But for now, let’s just play.” She got up. Her skirt was covered in leaves. The ends of her hair were dirty. She ran straight for the monkey bars.

  I followed after her, more confused than ever. Jackson had said that funerals were for saying good-bye. I wanted to say good-bye to Steven, more than I wanted presents on my birthday or Christmas to ever come again, because I thought that maybe that was the missing key, the reason Steven still had such a heavy presence in our house. Even though we’d buried him in the ground the year before, we’d never officially said good-bye. It was as if his corpse had somehow come home with us, filling our days with nothing but sadness, guilt, anger, and blame.

  When I get back to the house, Mom is pacing the kitchen floor with her phone clenched in her hand.

  “Hey,” I say, shutting the door behind me, already able to sense the tension in the air.

  “Where were you?” Her tone is sharp. “I’ve been texting you for the last hour.”

  I reach into my pocket for my phone, noticing the missed messages.

  “A friend needed my help.”

  Her eyebrow shoots up, accusingly. “What friend? Tori? Jeannie?”

  “A new friend.”

  Mom turns her back to go into the cupboard. I wonder if she notices how suddenly bare it is. “Hungry?” she asks, grabbing a couple boxes of cereal.

  “Starving, actually.”

  She plucks the milk from the fridge and then sets us up at the kitchen table with bowls and spoons. I take a seat and pour myself some Alphabet Crunch.

  Mom sits down across from me. “Is this new friend a boy?”

  I add some milk to my bowl. “It’s no one that you know. Just someone who needs my help.”

  “That’s not exactly clear.”

  I know. It isn’t. But, “I can’t really talk about it.”

  Mom looks toward the door, the light just dawning on both of us. “Why did you come in through the back? You didn’t walk home, did you? At this time of night?”

  I stir my bowl of cereal, trying to spell the word screwed with the cinnamon letters.

  “Day?” Her eyes are wide, like fishbowls.

  “I wouldn’t have walked in the dark, especially not by
myself. You’ve raised a smart girl. You have to trust me on that.”

  “You didn’t use the bike path at this time of night, did you?”

  I shake my head, almost able to see the wheels turning inside her head as she tries to figure things out—why I’m out so late, who this friend might be, why I came in through the back if I supposedly didn’t walk. “Someone’s in trouble,” I say. “And they’re trusting me with their problems—really personal stuff—so I really can’t say anything about it.”

  She looks toward the window. I pray that Julian doesn’t come out of the barn.

  “Trouble, as in physical trouble?” she asks. “Is this person in an abusive situation?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I see.” She chews her bottom lip, the wheels still turning.

  “I could have lied,” I remind her. “But I figured that you, of all people, would understand. I mean, you help people all the time and don’t say much about it.”

  “Because sometimes I can’t say much about it. Sometimes there are confidentialities that I need to uphold.”

  “Exactly, so you understand.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.” I take a bite.

  “Are you sure? Would you even tell me?”

  “I told you this, didn’t I?”

  She stirs her cereal, continuing to study my face. “The police were only recently here,” she reminds me. “There’s a boy on the loose.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? He’s been accused of murdering his father.”

  “But maybe he isn’t guilty. Maybe that’s why he escaped from juvie.”

  “Could be, or he could’ve escaped juvie because he is guilty, and because he knew he’d be convicted at a trial.”

  “Okay, why are we talking about this boy?” I grin.

  “You tell me.” She stares at me—hard—without a single blink.

  I shrug in lieu of answering, feeling my face burn, unsure what she’s thinking. But I can tell she’s unsure too.

  “Well, I don’t want you walking around by yourself at night,” she continues. “I need to know where you are. And you shouldn’t be out past nine without my permission.”

  I hold back from reminding her that she’s not exactly available to ever give me that permission.

  “You should’ve texted me,” she says, as though reading my mind.

  “You’re right. I should’ve. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  The tension in her face finally lifts. “Is there anything that I can do to help your friend, or to help you help your friend?”

  “Not at this point.”

  “But you’ll let me know…”

  “I will,” I promise.

  She continues to stare at me, as if there’s writing all over my face.

  I shift uneasily in my seat, trying to maintain a neutral expression. “Is something wrong?”

  Her bowl of cereal is full; she’s yet to take a bite. “I’m just really proud of you,” she says.

  The words hover in the air before finally landing on my head and seeping into my brain. “Really?” I ask, completely befuddled.

  “Really.” She smiles.

  “Well, thanks.” I say, thinking about the irony. After all my years of trying, it took something like this—something I truly care about—to finally get her attention. And, for once, I wasn’t even trying at all.

  At school the following day, I make a beeline for Max’s homeroom, hoping to catch him before class. He’s sitting at his desk, positioned away from the door. I go inside and sneak up behind him, noticing he’s working on something for French.

  “What’s this?” I ask, going for humor over melodrama. “Did someone not get to finish all of his homework last night? Too busy delivering iced coffee to under-caffeinated damsels?”

  “I’m pretty busy,” he says, refusing to look up from his notes.

  “I’m really sorry about last night,” I tell him.

  “It was no big deal.”

  “Well, to me it was.” I sit down in the seat in front of him. “It’s just…you were being so nice to me, telling me what a difference I make. I kind of just wanted to feel like that person.”

  “And you thought that kissing me could help?”

  “I know. It was stupid.”

  Max looks up at me finally. “I’m busy,” he says again. His face is stern, like he really wants me to go.

  The response slices through my heart. I leave the room, feeling even worse than just moments ago—and so much worse than last night.

  Later, at lunch, I tell Tori and Jeannie about the kiss: “I totally regret it,” I say, focusing on Jeannie, suspecting how she feels about him.

  “Wait,” Tori says, dropping her fork mid-bite; a splattering of tomato sauce lands on the table with a splat. “You and Max Terbador exchanged actual tongue spit.”

  “Can we please refrain from using his full name while I’m trying to eat?” Jeannie asks.

  “We did,” I say, to answer Tori’s question.

  “And?” Tori asks, her eyes gaping wide.

  “And I feel terrible now,” I say, still angled at Jeannie. “I mean, Max has got to be one of the sweetest guys I know.”

  “And you just stomped on his heart.” Tori tsk-tsks.

  “Thanks. I feel so much better now.” I feed my funk with a bite of brownie.

  “How was the kiss, at least?” Tori asks. “On a scale of one to thigh-quivering, that is.”

  “Honestly, maybe a three.” I grimace. “But it wasn’t his fault. There just wasn’t any spark.”

  “Well, then why did you kiss him in the first place?” Jeannie bites.

  “Part temporary insanity?” I tell her. “Another part curiosity?”

  “A third part general horniness?” Tori laughs.

  I roll my eyes. “The kiss had nothing to do with being horny.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem.” Tori points at me with her fork.

  “Okay, so I still don’t get why you kissed him,” Jeannie says.

  “Is it terrible to say that maybe part of me wanted to feel something?”

  “Which part?” Tori winks, revealing an orange-and-yellow striped eyelid that matches her scarf.

  I’m tempted to ask who her look du jour is inspired by, especially since she’s also wearing a navy-blue jumpsuit and a super-high faux-ponytail (that matches her pink hair). She looks a little like Belda Bubble from the Cartoon Channel, a superhero girl who fights crime with her bubblegum.

  “That’s not what I mean.” I sigh.

  “What were the two of you even doing together in the first place?” Jeannie asks. “And what activities and/or dialogue transpired pre-kiss?”

  “It’s a really long story,” I tell them.

  “Well, I’m all ears,” Jeannie insists, leaning in to listen better.

  “Okay, but I need a little longer than just the six minutes left before the bell rings.” I nod to the clock on the wall. “For now, let’s just say that I’ve been on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster—”

  “And so you decided to take a ride on the Max Terbador?” Tori proceeds to do the Cabbage Patch (the seated version of it, anyway), complete with circling hips and an arm motion that always reminds me of caldron-stirring.

  “Again”—Jeannie snaps—“with his full name. And, wait, does this recent lapse in judgment mean that Max won’t be taking us to the party on Saturday?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” I take another bite of brownie.

  “I really wanted to go,” Jeannie says.

  “Because partying it up on a Saturday night is so up your academic alley.” Tori feeds a forkful of ziti into her mouth. “Will you be squishing it in before or after your six-hour study session at the university library? Or perhaps between the library and your volunteer shift teaching refugees how to read?”

  “For your information, I no longer volunteer at Power to Read,” Jeannie says. “I’m at the soup kitchen now.
”

  “Right.” Tori rolls her eyes. “Your lecture on diversifying the college portfolio must’ve somehow slipped my mind.”

  “Going to parties is also diverse,” Jeannie argues. “Who wants a girl that’s all work and no play?”

  “You could play with me on Saturday night,” Tori offers. “I’m going to Bojo’s church social. The theme is forgiveness, and it’s BYOCF&S (Bring Your Own Comfort Food and Slippers). Want to come?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Jeannie asks.

  “I’m not so sure that Max wants anything to do with me right now,” I tell her, “but I’m sure he’d still be happy to take you to the party.”

  “Which is what you’d secretly prefer anyway, am I right?” Tori snatches a Bugle from Jeannie’s bag and gives her a knowing look.

  Jeannie’s face turns as red as my raspberry Jell-O. “How many times do I need to say it? I do not have a crush on Max Terbador.”

  “Would you mind refraining from using Max’s full name at the lunch table?” Tori mocks her. “I’m trying to properly digest my food.”

  I give Tori a high five, after which the bell rings and both Jeannie and I are saved.

  After school, I sit outside by the Eco Warriors’ memorial garden and check my phone for messages, hoping to find one from Julian’s friend Barry.

  Instead there’s a voice mail from my dad. “Hey, there,” he says. “Any chance you could stop by my new place on Friday? It’s on your way home from school, 33 Macomber Avenue, right across from the post office. I have the day off, so I’ll definitely be home. Hope to see you. Bye.”

  I click off the phone and swallow down his words. They taste like battery acid and burn a hole in my gut. I hate that home for him is anyplace other than with Mom and me.

  “Hey,” Jeannie says, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. She takes a seat beside me on the bench. “Sorry if I was being kind of weird at lunch, about that Max stuff, I mean.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m the one who should apologize.”

  She shrugs, but she doesn’t deny it. “So, what’s up?”