The Language of Silence (3 page)

Chapter
Five

Ed
:

“Can I ask what you’re doing?”

I slam the lid of the washer close
d with a bang. “Thought it was pretty obvious,” I lamely joke without turning my head to look at my mother.

Mom playfully slaps me in the back of the head. “Don’t be such a smart ass.”

I rub my hand against her point of attack and turn to face her, leaning against the rumbling, angry machine. “I’m so sorry, Mother dearest. With your gracious permission, I was hoping to do a few loads of laundry. If that pleases the lady of the house,” I counter, mimicking the affectations of all the male stars of the classic movies Brett used to make me and Tristan watch. Against our will. Of course.

Mom crosses her arms. “I can see that. I’m surprised you even know how to use one of those things.”

“Now look who’s being the smart ass,” I laugh.

Mom smiles. N
o doubt happy not to find me slitting my wrists after Tristan’s funeral. We have barely seen each other since the event. She’s been busy working doubles, and I’ve been busy avoiding her.

“You hungry?” she asks.

“I’m a growing boy. Of course I’m hungry. I’m always hungry.”

I follow
Mom into the kitchen. She gets to work, popping a frozen pizza into the oven. “Any big reason for actually putting effort into what you look like?” Mom asks casually.

Too casually. She knows something’s up.
She would never understand why I was planning on working my way into the Wendall High elite. I barely understand it. My reasons for doing so change so often even I can barely keep them straight. Part of me wants to see what Tristan was so desperate to protect. Another part of me wants to pull them all in only to abandon them, show them they mean nothing. And a small part, the tiniest, darkest part, wants for one second to know what it would feel like to be one of them.

And thanks to Tristan’s death, I can.

Like Brett said, they’ll let me now.

I shrug. “No reason in particular. Just figured it was about time I started taking care of my own stuff. Soon enough
, I’ll join all those idiots who pay outlandish amounts of money to get this so-called higher education everyone is gushing about, and I won’t have you around to do my laundry for me.”

Mom raises an
eyebrow. “All the idiots who pay outlandish amounts of money? I hope you’re not including yourself in that category. You’ll be in the ‘I have to take out every loan I can and then pay outlandish amounts of money plus interest later’ group. Thanks to your dear old mother here.”

My mother says it all with her usual wry sense of humor, but I can tell it’s a sore subject for her. She’s done the best she could for us, but she’ll always think it was never enough. No matter how many times I tell her otherwise.

“Guess what’s coming on television tonight?” she asks, artfully changing the subject. A family trait I proudly carry on.

“Some sort of reality show where the worst of American society gets paid mil
lions of dollars to suck at life,” I scoff, pulling two cans of soda from the fridge.

“Well, probably, and don’t act you don’t love those shows.
But that’s not what I was referring to.
The Outsiders
,” she says.

I freeze.
Literally. It’s as if my brain has forgotten how to demand that my body move. I should see a doctor. This isn’t normal. They probably make pills for this.

“What’s wrong? You love that movie. I swear
, you and Tristan...” Her voice trails off. She’s staring at me in that way I hate—that mothers-see-all way. I want to run up to my room, but damn if I can get my legs to work. “I’m sorry, Ed. I just thought maybe it would be nice if we sat down and watched it together. I was flipping through the guide earlier, and I saw that it was coming on, and I couldn’t help but remember that week you two were over here and watched it every night.”

I nod. Numb. I remember too.

“Maybe we can watch it, and we can talk about him. I miss him too, Ed,” Mom says softly.

I nod. Still numb. Still unable to move.

My mom busies herself around our small, cramped kitchen, no doubt giving me a bit of space. The oven buzzer goes off and suddenly, I’m free from the claws of Mr. Freeze. I bolt to the pantry to pull out paper plates and napkins, but mostly I move so my mother can’t see my face.

“Maybe next time it’s on,”
Mom says from behind me, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.

All I can do is nod.

****

Later that night, I l
ie awake in my bed. I won’t be able to sleep until I find it. With a groan, I throw the covers off of me and stare at my mess of a room. It has to be in here somewhere. It has to be.

I start with the massive piles of dirty clothes that lay like poorly place
d mines all over my room. An hour later, I still haven’t found the damn thing. But my room is starting to look mighty inhabitable.

If I got allowance
, this would be worth an extra ten bucks for sure.

I scratch the back of my head, surveying my humble abode
, begging and pleading with my subconscious to remember where I put it.

It’s stupid really. It shouldn’t mean so much to me, but I still need to know where it is if I ever plan on sleeping again.

And then it hits me.

The box where I keep all my comics.

Of course.

I fall to me knees and jut my arm under my bed, feeling around frantic
ally for the box. I can’t help but sigh with relief when I pull it out from the dark abyss of underneath my bed. There are no monsters under there. Only hope. A small moment of comfort.

I yank the lid off the box, and there it is. Sitting right on top.
Relief floods through me.

The copy of
The Outsiders
Tristan gave to me.

I open the cover to find the inscription he left for me on the title page:

Ed,

Thanks for listening.

Tristan

My stomach drops. I was wrong. There are monsters under my bed. This monster is called guilt.

I had listened
, Tristan. But not enough.

Chapter
Six

Ed
:

My distaste for the glorified zombies belonging to Wendall High School’s Let’s-Be-on-Every-Page-of-the-Yearbook-Club is no secret. But even I have to admit that one of the club’s most prominent members, Georgina Fritz, is pretty damn hot.

Ridiculously hot.

She fulfills every requirement ever written to qualify for drool-worthy status—legs that seem to go on for eternity, hair that, no matter which way she flips it, seems to fall into place, clothes that are a little too tight or short, but teachers tend to forget the dress code around her because she’s just nice to look at in them.

Cliché? Sure. But even I must admit that years and years of evolution have somehow warped some part of me into wanting her. Some man millions of years ago decided this was what he wanted, and we were all damned as a result.

And of course, I can’t stand her.

Sure, somewhere
deep inside, there
might
be something of worth. But, overall, I loathe her.
              I can’t stand her for her ability to make men feel small just because she can. I can’t stand her for all the boys who can’t complain about how she hurt their feelings with a cold glance or nasty refusal because society would label them soft. I despise her because despite my claims that I can’t be pigeonholed into some small, suffocating definition of the teenage boy, I’d sleep with her if given the chance.

She’ll think I’m weak because of Tristan’s death. I already know what cards she’ll play in this game. She’ll attempt to comfort me, always wanting to appear sympathetic to those beneath her. Like all good queens would do. And when a proper amount of time has passed, when nobody remembers how a boy died driving home drunk on Wilmington Ave, she’ll find a way to put me right back into my proper place.

The politics of high school don’t just stop because some unlucky bastard lies six feet underground. No. The game continues. It’s just the rules that change.

But I’ll win the war before she even knows there is a war going on.

I see her glance up at me from underneath her bangs. She sips on a straw
, leaning her cheek on her hand, her elbow resting on the lunchroom table. Her JCrew top fits tight against her chest.

Yes, I notice.

She takes a long pull on her straw.

I can’t help but swallow.

She tilts her head. She’s taking me in. She’s designing her attack.

But I’ll make the first move.

I push my chair out from the table and head toward the trashcan. I throw my trash away and head out of the lunchroom without a second glance. I have laid the trap. I wait in the hallway outside of the cafeteria. I pretend to look at the newly posted flyers on the dangers of teenage drinking.

Right on cue.

Georgina rushes out of the cafeteria, almost colliding with me. Her shoulder brushes against mine and my skin tingles. She takes a step away from me, pulling down her shirt, which has ridden up seductively in her haste.  Surprise passes over her face.

She thought she would have to chase after me.

“You left this,” she replies, holding up my Physics textbook.

“Thanks,” I mumble, tearing my eyes from her and turning my attention back to the flyer.

She sighs. “I’m so sorry, Edward.”

“Ed.”
Only Brett is allowed to call me Edward. And it’s been forever since she has. Once we had a long conversation about her distaste for nicknames. She told me that I was named Edward, and it was a discredit to any name when someone took it upon himself or herself to shorten it. I remember making some comment about her reading too many hippie lovin’, down-with-the-state, protect-your-identity,
1984-
ish books. She has called me Ed ever since.

Georgina clears her throat. I have missed whatever she has said. Lucky for me, I have an excuse
—uncontrollable, undeniable grief.

Thank you, Tristan!

She points to the poster. “I know we aren’t friends, Ed, but if you want to talk sometime…”

“What do you care?” I snap. The angry, introverted, mourning man is just the sort of brooding male girls go crazy for. Of course, I guess I
am
angry. And introverted. But I can’t mourn someone who left on his own terms. And I know that’s how it was.

It’s no different than when a celebrity dies. Like the almighty King of Pop. The same people who were calling him a child molester years ago were crying and lamenting him the minute he died. They used to call his kids freaks, and yet they clung to the idea of them during the memorial. I am one of the closest people to Tristan and his death, and that makes me a hot commodity.

People love others’ misfortunes, and Georgina wants a front row seat.

“Everybody liked Tristan, you know. He was great. Maybe I haven’t been the nicest person to you. I know I haven’t. But it shouldn’t surprise you when I say I feel his loss too. As a Christian, I offer you someone to talk to if you need it.”

Wow. People really use the Christian line. I wouldn’t have a problem with it if I thought for once second she meant it. I’m all about a higher power if that’s what gets you through the day. I almost believe her when she says it too. She oozes earnesty. She’s had a lot of practice.

I think back to the copy of
The Outsiders
that Tristan gave me, and I remember the night he was referencing in his note. I also remember what part Georgina Fritz played in that night, and I remember she’s a snake.

My eyes find the floor. I bite the inside of my cheek and begin to rock back and forth. She moves closer to me. “Want to get out of here? I can get us some passes.”

Georgina has made it a point to volunteer as a student aide after school every year since freshman year. The girl is smart, and I know she has the power to pull some strings. Is this how the lords of the business world start out?

“Alright,” I reply, jerking my head into a nod.

She grabs my hand and leads me down the hallway.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Seven

Brett
:

I don’t know what to wear.

Today
, the school is having some sort of memorial/public service announcement in order to honor/condemn my brother. I know I could stay home. My mother won’t care. She won’t even notice. She finally has an excuse to ignore me.

But to stay home would make this whole experience about me. And it’s about Tristan.

I make my way to my brother’s bedroom and rest my hand on the doorknob. Before he died, I would often roam his closet for some graphic tee to wear, but today, I can’t open it. I don’t think of it as a shrine. It’s nothing like that. I’m just not ready for what I might find in there. I don’t want to find any evidence to confirm what I already know. Every time I think of him being gone, dead, my mind comes back to this.

This isn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. There has to be someone to blame. My brother’s death was no accident. The longer I wait to start searching for his killer, the more likely it is he or she will be able to get away.

Yet, something inside stops me from rushing into an investigation. Some feeling I am unable to identify, but it’s there. I take a deep breath. I count to ten. I vow to go to school and pay attention to everyone there.  Today’s goal? Make a list of suspects.

I throw on my Wendall High School hoodie and grab my mother’s car keys. I see the irony as I take them. The whole town thinks my brother died in a drunk driving accident, and here I am, underage, without a license, driving.  If they had a Wall of Shame at the DMV, the Jensen family would be the number one stars.

I don’t care what they think.

I wish.

Ed’s mom lets me in without questioning me. I ask her if I can use her shower. She hands me a towel and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. This is the most unbelievable thing about Ed’s mom—she understands more than most that sometimes words are not enough, and most times, they aren’t needed at all.

After showering, I pull a towel tightly around my chest. I leave my pajamas and hoodie lying on the bathroom floor. My hair is dripping wet. I close my eyes and strain to hear the sound of drops hitting the bathroom floor. I just need a moment that is about me before the chaos that awaits me at school. I hear Ed’s mother running the sink in the kitchen. I sigh.

I walk quickly from the bathroom into Ed’s room. I realize this is only the second time I have been in his room without my brother. The pain overwhelms me. I know Ed has decided to ignore the loss, write it off as some twist of destiny, but I have felt nothing but pain every second since he has been gone.

The cold air causes my skin to erupt in goose bumps. I pull the towel tighter. I only glance at Ed. He’s still sleeping, the blanket pulled over his head, and only his arm pushes out from the covers as if he is reaching for something.

I pull open his closet door and begin to go through his collection of t-shirts. I hear him stir, but ignore him.

“What the hell, Brett
?” he yells groggily.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I reply, refusing to turn around.

I hear the bed creak as he moves to sit up. “What…what…what are you doing, Brett?” he asks. His anger suddenly diminishes. I know it’s the shock setting in.

“I need something to wear.”

“Obviously. Your lack of clothing tells me that much,” he snaps. It’s almost funny to see his emotions go so unchecked, unregulated.

I turn around to face him, one hand clutching my towel and one hand on my hip. “Calm down, sugar plum. It’s not like I’m standing here naked. I have a towel on.”

“Just put some fucking clothes on, Brett.”

I sigh. “F-ing clothes? Huh? And here I was thinking no clothes was the way to go about that.”

He closes his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. “Brett,” he warns.

“What? Did you think I came in here to seduce you? Still a member of the boys
-do-not-touch club. Not even boys who now date Georgina Fritz,” I squeak, forcing as much sass as I can between my words.

“Please.”

“Fine. I just need to borrow a t-shirt.” I turn back to the closet and rummage through his shirts. I can’t help but laugh as I pull out a t-shirt featuring The Clash. “Really, Ed? How predictable can you be?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Look at me. I’m a non-conformist. I hate anything mainstream. I wear seventies band t-shirts and mock anything popular. If it is mainstream, then F it,” I say, throwing the t-shirt at him and closing the closet door.

“Says the girl who has read the entire
Twilight
series. If that’s not mainstream, then kill me. It’s too early for one of your rants, Brett.”

“Yes, I have read it. Sits right on my shelf next to Melville and Austen. Unlike some people, I’m multi-faceted.”  I move and take a seat on the edge of his bed. He pulls the covers tighter around him. I can’t help but smile. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Ed?”

“Brett, what’s this about?” Something about the way he says my name leaves me empty. Suddenly, I find no reason to joke anymore. Ed and I have been playing this game for years, seeing how far we can push each other. But in this moment, I don’t want to play anymore. I want it to be over with. Even if it destroys me.

I clutch my free hand into a fist to keep it from reaching for him. I bite my lip to keep from asking him to give me what I really need. I pick up his Clash t-shirt and head toward the bedroom door.

“Brett.”

“Sorry I dripped water all over your floor,” I reply, refusing to face him. Suddenly, the idea to come here seems idiotic.

“Why did you come here?” he asks as if he can read my mind. Maybe he can.

“My bathroom is a mess.” It’s not a lie. It’s still covered in two
-week-old vomit. My mother is using my brother’s death as an excuse to shut down into herself. She has never been very motherly, and now she can use her child’s death as an excuse for all her flaws. I can’t bring myself to clean it. It’s the only thing that makes his death feel real. “Can I borrow this?” I ask, lifting the shirt in the air, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has us trapped.

“Sure. I’ll see you in school, Brett.”

I nod and quickly leave.