Personal Effects (13 page)

“There’s something, isn’t there?” Lee asks.

I swallow hard. Nod. But that’s it. That’s all I can do.

“You’re not going to tell me what, though, are you?”

I shake my head. “Can’t,” I say. Bite down to hold it in. Take a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“Well, something is progress, so long as it’s something good. Something productive, positive. Something worthy of your memory of him. Something that isn’t beating up your classmates,” Mr. Lee says. And despite everything, I smile.

Mr. Lee’s face flashes some new emotion and then resettles into his bland nonjudgmental mask. He grabs the clipboard again.

“Well, then that’s your homework for next week. I want to know three things you did to honor your brother’s memory, and three things you want to do in the future. They can be small things, even personal things, like looking at a photo album or writing down a memory — even talking to someone about your brother. But three things you actually did, and another three you want to do. Take the time to put some real thought into this, Matt. I think you might surprise yourself.” Mr. Lee grins at me. I want to wipe the smile off his face, but I can’t bring myself to say anything that might. Not with this little gnawing feeling inside that he’s right.

Time to step up.

I reach for my backpack, but Lee waves me back down.

“Now,” he says, like we’re best buds, “let’s talk about some strategies for dealing with anger in a more productive way, OK?”

Sure. Whatever. Talk away, Guidance Man. I’ll be over here plotting.

I nod in the right places. Offer a suggestion or two. Watch the clock. Finally, he’s satisfied.

“I think we’re making some progress, Matt. Good work.”

Good work. What a crock. Yeah, I’m gonna do something for T.J. Something big. Biggest thing anyone could do for T.J. now. But somehow I don’t think Lee will approve.

I take my time leaving Guidance, hoping the halls’ll be clear before I have to stop at my locker. Instead, Shauna’s there, frantically looking at her watch, waiting for me. When she looks up and sees me, she relaxes for a second, then tenses up again with a whole new kind of anxiety.

We haven’t talked since I blew off our plans on Saturday night. She’s left three messages and sent a bunch of texts since Sunday. I didn’t call her back. Not even yesterday. Unreturned calls and texts are pretty much the worst thing I can do to her — she always assumes the worst, every version of the worst in turn. The last time she worried herself into a fit, I promised never to completely ignore her calls again. I’m an asshole.

From the look on her face, now that she knows I’m alive, she’s heading past worried and sliding into pissed off. I know it’s up to me to fix things. And I’ll need her help. But there’s no way I can explain in thirty seconds in the middle of the hallway.

“Hi,” she says, but it sounds like “Fuck you.” Definitely pissed.

“Hey.”

“Everything OK?” Not too pissed, if she can bring herself to ask.

“Yeah.” I wave my pass at her. “Another soothing encounter with Guidance.”

“Mr. Lee?” Small flicker of something there. Maybe not
too
too angry.

“Yup, Mr. How-Does-That-Make-You-Feel? himself.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Now that I can’t smell his particular blend of coffee, smoke, and aftershave anymore? Fine. A little tired, but . . .” I try my best grin, and get only a small pink smile in return.

“So, things are . . . OK?” There are so many questions wrapped into that, and I don’t think any of them are about Guidance.

“Yeah. I still have a ton of crap to make up by next week. And finals.” I make a gun with my hand and shoot myself in the head. She doesn’t laugh. “Yeah,” I say, “fine.”

“I meant . . . yesterday?”

Fuck. I thought she’d let it go. “Just another Monday,” I say, ducking into my locker.

She blows out a breath, loud near my ear. “OK,” she says. “Look, are we . . . ? Did I . . . ? Are you mad at
me
?”

“What?” Buzzing, in my ears. “No. No, I’m not mad at you.”

“Because you’ve been acting really weird, and you blew me off on Saturday night, and I waited for you to call Sunday, or yesterday, but . . .” She throws one of my own shrugs back at me. “Look, I know I was a bitch when you blew me off on Saturday, but . . .” She blows her hair out of her eyes. “When you didn’t call me back, not even yesterday, I got worried, and . . .”

“I’ve just been breaking my ass trying to get all this stuff done. And I had to do the storm windows on Saturday, and then —”

“If it’s your dad, you know you can —”

“There’s nothing —”

“Matt.” She tucks her chin to her chest. “This is
me.
”

Well, there’s no arguing with that. I’m gonna tell her anyway. But not here.

“It’s not Dad.” Her eyebrows arch. “Well, not any more than usual.”

“But there is something.” She steps a little closer, uses all her skills at intimidating me with her eyes. “I know there is. So talk.”

The bell rings, jolting me, even with pass in hand. Not so much her.

“The bell.” I cringe at stating the obvious. She couldn’t care less. “I’ve got to get to the library, Shaun.”

She doesn’t react. Or move. She’s not going anywhere. She sets her jaw and holds on to my locker door. Great. Her line in the sand. Terrific. The second bell sounds and she doesn’t even flinch. Shit.

“Go. Meet me here after school.”

“And?” she asks, already shifting her bag to run to class.

“And we’ll go somewhere.” Not enough. “We’ll go somewhere and I’ll tell you.” I look her in the eyes. “I’ll tell you everything.”

That gets me a real smile and a quick squeeze of my arm. Then she’s gone in a blur, her curly hair bouncing around.

The morning limps by in a kind of fuzzy-around-the-edges haze. I do Spanish and Ritzler’s class, but then retreat to the library to work on a makeup English paper.

In the bend past the cafeteria, I run into Pinscher, literally, as I am rounding the corner. He’s got a couple of guys with him, like they’re on guard, on alert, for me. Pinscher steps back and out of my way before he can stop himself. I hold my ground.

In the stalemate, I can’t help but stare at his face, still kind of puffy or something. Like he’s wearing a floppy mask of his own face. I almost feel sorry for him, almost, but then I remember all the shit he said, and that shirt. My hand clenches into a fist.

Pinscher swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I force my hand to relax, and I walk sideways, my open hand up in front of me, hoping to make it clear I have no intention of jumping him — at least not without provocation.

“Be cool,” Michael says, one hand on Pinscher’s shoulder, the other palm up to me. “Everyone’s cool.”

We move around each other, rotating so that we each edge toward where we were heading before we ran into each other.

“We OK?” Pinscher asks.

“No.” We’ve never been OK. “Pull some shit like that again . . .” I trail off. Jake steps past Pinscher toward me. Stevie grabs his arm to stop him. “But stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. All of you.”

Pinscher nods and I nod back. I make my arms fall limp. After a beat, Pinscher holds out his hand to shake. I ignore it, keep staring at his face.

“Come on, Matt,” Michael says.

No way will I shake that asshole’s hand. “Just stay away from me.”

I force myself to turn around and walk away, but I don’t relax until I hear their footsteps moving in the other direction.

There are only a couple of other losers in the library trying to catch up on end-of-the-semester stuff. Ms. Roberts keeps squinting at me if I even dare breathe too loud. But I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is Celia. T.J. and Celia.

Images from T.J.’s pictures keep flashing in my head between sentences from Celia’s letters, almost like a slide show, but one that’s been edited out of order or messed up. I can close my eyes and see them against the red-black of my eyelids.

One of the smaller pictures: Celia and some guy dressed for skiing. Both of them falling over, laughing, their dark skin vivid against the snowy background and ski clothes.

Picture of a house, white and gray. And trees, near a river.

Two little boys, holding plastic guns. A mosaic, scarred and battered.

I thought he had redeployed right after he left us. But he went to visit her, without telling me.

So many of the letters talked about people I don’t know, have never even heard of. She wrote about a party they had for him before he left on the last deployment. It made me dizzy to think about all these people who knew him and to wonder who told them he was gone, if they even know.

After the first fast read, I’d read through her letters more slowly, more carefully, tucking each back in its envelope before moving on, keeping them in order. I’ve read them so many times that parts of them are burned on my brain. When I close my eyes, I can see her signature branded on the inside of my eyelids; always signed the same,
Love you, C.
Her flowy script and a loop to the single letter, so that it looked like more. Always telling him she loved him, she missed him, she said
they all
did, whoever “they” were.

Her mushy stuff and
missing him
s were hard enough to read, but a lot of them were full of details and stories that made me feel like I was reading about a stranger in a magazine or newspaper. Like this “Theo” wasn’t my brother at all.

She sent cards: for Christmas, T.J.’s birthday, Valentine’s Day, others, some for no reason at all, obviously sent with packages, because there were no envelopes. One birthday card had had something taped to the inside of its cover, gone. I wish I knew what.

I didn’t even know T.J. would want Halloween stuff. Did he tell her, or did she just know? Dad and I sent T.J. food and news and magazines, and things he needed. I know we did. And yet I wonder how much better her packages were, how much more special. If she knew to send things we didn’t. Maybe she sent him sexy things.

I keep trying to picture T.J. with the people in the pictures, and in the letters, but the words are all wrong, the images all strange. I can’t even make sense of some of the words. Not like I can’t read them, but that none of it seems real. So, in my head, the words all jumble together in weird combinations, like the Mad Libs we played as kids.

“Matt?” I jump. Ms. Roberts twists her mouth to the side. “Are you in need of assistance?”

“No. Thanks.” I pull myself up in my chair.

“Then I suggest you get to work.”

I try to work on the paper. But I can’t. There are more important things to think about, to plan.

A
FTER LAST PERIOD
, S
HAUNA
’
S WAITING AT MY LOCKER
, like I knew she would be. She probably left class early and ran all the way, just to be sure I couldn’t sneak out.

“I heard about the hall,” she says. “You OK?”

News travels fast, unless Michael took it upon himself to run right to her. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re great.” She laughs, but nothing’s funny.

We walk in silence out to the parking lot.

“Is there going to be trouble?” she asks, resigned to it.

“No.” I turn so she can see my face. She bites the inside of her lower lip. She isn’t sure whether to believe me. “At least not today,” I add. “Probably not even this week. So, no, I don’t think so.”

She studies my face until she’s satisfied that I’m telling the truth, then hands me the keys. I drive when she’s really excited or trying to say she’s sorry. Today, probably a bit of both. She bounces toward the car, all nervous energy and excitement.

“Where to?” she asks once we’re buckled in.

“The river?” I suggest.

She looks at me for a beat, blinking, clearly understanding that something really is up if I don’t want to go to her house, where her mom will feed me.