We’re both so bruised and battered that it feels as though we’re both going to try and support the other, only to break and unintentionally let them fall. I don’t want to do that to her. I love her so fucking much. The last thing I want to do is let her down. I need her more than I need the air in my lungs, but I also need her to be okay…which leaves me in a complicated, confusing situation. She won’t be okay with me around. Currently, she’s sacrificing her own sanity for the sake of mine, and that’s not healthy. For her or for me.
In the end, because I’m a weak piece of shit, I do drive over to the Parisi’s place. I don’t go inside, though. I sit on the curb, at the end of their driveway with the engine idling, watching the lights go on and off in the house as Silver and her father move from room to room. The snow that paused earlier returns with a vengeance, and for a little while I feel cocooned inside the car. With the air vents blowing hot air on full blast and the steady, throaty purr of the engine vibrating the entire vehicle, the world falls away and nothing exists apart from me, the Camaro, and the promise of Silver, safely tucked away in the house at the top of the driveway.
She texts me eventually.
SILVER: You thinking about coming inside?
She must have spotted me out of a window. Slowly, I type out a response and hit send.
ME: Will you still love me if I say I can’t?
SILVER: No matter what.
Cursing myself for being such a weak fuck, I start the Camaro’s engine and I drive off into the night.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Message received from…Maeve Rogers…on Sunday, January second at eight twenty-two pm.
‘Hi Alex. Me again. I’ll stop calling if you actually pick up, y’know. Listen…I know this is tough. You miss your brother. I can’t even imagine how much you miss him. It’ll help if you talk about it, though, believe me. I’ll be here, when you’re ready. Just…just please, call back, okay?’
Press one to save this message. Press two to—
Message deleted.
12
SILVER
“Good morning, students of Raleigh High! Principal Darhower, Ms. Gilcrest, and the rest of the Raleigh High faculty would like to wish you all a bright and happy new year! We hope you enjoyed the Christmas holidays and made the most of your time with family and friends. After a long and well-earned break, we now return to Raleigh to create, learn, and excel in all fields of academia. The date is Monday, January the third, students. Let’s make today excellent in every way!”
As one, the entire student body stands in stunned horror, heads cricked at weird angles, staring at the brand-new PA speakers that have been mounted in the hallways, classrooms and changing rooms of Raleigh High. Shiny and new, the speakers have metal cages around them, bolted to the walls, as if Darhower and his cronies think we might object to the new additions and rip them from the walls.
“While our under-the-sea theme has been a big hit for numerous successive years, a new initiative at Raleigh means that we’ll be opening up a ballot box outside the cafeteria this week, where suggestions can be made for this year’s senior prom theme. Please note, all suggestions must be sensible and within reason. Any inappropriate, vulgar or offensive suggestions will be dismissed out of hand without discussion. Thank you for your attention, students. Go, Roughnecks, go!”
Confused chatter breaks out in the hallway as a loud, cheery chime blares out of the speaker, signaling the end of the morning’s announcements. We’ve never had a PA system at Raleigh before, never needed one, but this new addition to our small, controlled eco-system is a welcome one in my eyes.
See, for the time being, no one’s looking at me as I shove my books into my locker and rummage through my bag, trying to find a working pen. They’re all too astonished by the weird, old-new technology that’s invaded our little world to be thinking about Silver Parisi. I embrace the moment, reveling in an anonymity that cannot last. Raleigh’s a small town, and people gossip here like mother hens. Everyone knows what happened during break. Jacob Weaving’s larger-than-life presence is noticeably missing already, and it won’t be long before my fellow students begin to ask questions.
I have a few questions of my own. Namely, where the hell is Alessandro Moretti? He texted me the other night, so obviously he has a new phone. He hasn’t made any attempt to find or talk to me since then, though. Hasn’t shown up at the house. I dropped by his apartment yesterday, but he didn’t answer the door and the Camaro was gone. It’s as though he’s just fallen off the face of the earth.
This was not how the start of the year was supposed to go. Alex and I were supposed to come back to Raleigh on top of our game, ready to buckle down, get through the remaining months before graduation, focus on getting good grades so Alex could apply for custody of Ben. Now it feels as though none of it is worth it. College doesn’t even seem like a consideration anymore. Further education’s more of an afterthought at the moment. Without Ben…Jesus, I don’t know what Alex will have to work towards now.
I take the long way around to get to my first class of the day, walking the outside perimeter of the building in order to avoid the long hallway that leads to the gym. I can still hear the wet slap and squeak of my bare, bloody feet fighting for purchase against the linoleum whenever I close my eyes. At some point, I’ll have to face my fears and walk that hallway. Worse, I’ll have to actually go into the gymnasium. For today, however, I’m showing myself a little kindness and making an exception. Not to mention, taking the outside route to class also has the added benefit of avoiding all of the senior prom posters that are already covering every free inch of wall space inside the hallways of Raleigh High. A year ago, I would have been so pumped up about our last hurrah as seniors before graduation, but I was an entirely different person back then.
The wind claws at my jacket, trying to rip it from my body as I hurry toward the south entrance of the school where the English labs are located. My hand’s on the ice-slick handle, bitingly cold, when someone grabs me by the shoulder…
I react without thinking.
I twist and launch my right fist into the air at the same time, half expecting it to hit nothing. Pain jangles up my hand, into my wrist and then my shoulder, letting me know that my aim was true, though.
“Ahh, fuck! What the fucking…!” A guy in a leather jacket dances back, nearly slipping over on a patch of ice, holding a tattooed hand to his face. When he removes the hand, his palm is spattered with blood…and my heart stops dead in my chest.
At first, I think it’s Alex. A much older, worn version of him that’s been left out in the wind and the rain for a couple of decades. His eyes, a deep, chestnut brown, are so similar to Alex’s in both color and shape. His dark hair, and the cut of his jaw, and the way his nose juts uncompromisingly from his face…all of it seems so Alex that for a second I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.
Then the guy turns his attention to me, our eyes meeting, and I realize my mistake. His eyes are nothing like Alex’s after all. They’re harder. Unkind, unforgiving and flinty, in a disturbing way that makes my blood run cold. The resemblance is undeniable—I even see Ben in the man standing before me—but he isn’t the Moretti I fell in love with.