Young Writers Society

Using the same characters from "untitled (freewrite)". Just randomness here because I didn't feel like working on my novel for MarNoWriMo. Enjoy the angst.

**

The air is oppressive.

I’m standing in the middle of the living room, and I swear that I can smell death. Three days since it happened, and her family has gathered en masse in a surge of love and support. They’re all in her living room, milling about and eating the food they brought; some are exchanging stories, trying to keep up a positive spirit while “celebrating her life.” Others are taking this opportunity to exchange birthday presents and other things that were forgotten or misplaced at Thanksgiving. A group of cousins are sitting on the floor, immersed in Junior Monopoly.

She’s standing across the room, looking dazed and not really staring at anything. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and there are bags under her eyes like I’ve never seen before. I haven’t seen her touch a bite of food all day, she’s not wearing any makeup, and her hair is in a slightly mussed ponytail at the base of her neck. I maneuver around a couple of her friends and survive a thorough cheek-pinching from her great aunt before I’m standing next to her.

“Hey.”

She turns her dark eyes on me, and I feel a stab of pain at the glimpse into her mind. She looks so small and lost, and I want to hold her and tell her everything is all right, but instead I say lamely, “I’m so sorry.” Sincere it may be, but they’re not the right words.

“Me too.” She’s not looking at me.

I hesitate, then, “Let’s go outside.” I take her hand without waiting for a reply and lead her out of the crowded room, filled to capacity with relatives I’ve never heard of and friends who are looking a little dazed.

It’s the first week of June, and the Texas air is warm and muggy and I’m thinking about all the mosquitoes that are going to bite her the second we leave the air-conditioned interior of the house. I close the door behind us and lead her to the swings where she and I used to play when we were kids. She sits in one; I take the other, and I watch her flip-flop clad feet push lightly against the grass to give herself a little momentum.

“This isn’t your fault, you know.”

She’s staring at the ground. The blades of grass are casting shadows onto her toes and it’s starting to get dark.

“Hey. Look at me.”

She lifts her head slowly, and her eyes are tired.

I’m not swinging. My arms are bent at the elbows and linked around the chains of the swing. “There was nothing you could have done,” I tell her. “You couldn’t have changed anything.”

She shakes her dark head. “No,” she says brokenly. “I could have. I could have stopped her. You don’t understand.”

I stand, leaving the swing to sway slightly in my absence. I kneel in front of her and cup her smooth face with both hands, forcing her to look at me. “Explain,” I say, my military efficiency kicking in.

“The night it happened, she wanted me to come with her,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. There is shame and regret in her face, and the intensity of it all hits me like a punch to the gut. “She wanted me to drive her to the movie and watch with her, but I didn’t want anything to do with her stupid little friends. I didn’t know that Blake would be there,” she says urgently, her eyes begging me to understand. “I would have talked her out of going if I’d known. But then she… she…” Tears flood her eyes and she can’t choke out any more words.

“She got into the car with him,” I say softly, one of my thumbs running along her cheek. “She made that choice, and there was nothing you could have done to stop her. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

She shakes her head and a few tears run down her face. One slides beneath my thumb, a cold contrast to the heat of the evening. “No,” she says. “I should have gone, I should have stopped her, I should have done something. If I had driven, gone to see that stupid movie like she wanted me to, she’d be alive right now. She wouldn’t be lying in a coffin six feet under, her body rotting before her life had a chance to get started.” She’s blubbering now, and she pushes my hands away from her face and stands.

I rise alongside her, but I don’t touch her and I don’t say anything.

She paces in the grass, the heel of her hand pressed to her forehead as she continues to cry and rant. “She wanted to be a doctor. Did you know that? I didn’t. I found it out at her funeral this afternoon when that girl she’s always hanging out with got up and spoke. She knew more about her than me, and I’m her sister! I used to make fun of her for reading Seventeen, but then I found out just ten minutes ago that she liked it for the college profiles. God, how could I have been such a complete idiot?”

Her shoulders are shaking with sobs now, and I can’t stand the sight of her in so much pain. I find myself standing in front of her and pull her into my arms, holding her close and telling her that everything is all right and it’s not her fault.

She stands there, her arms folded against my chest, her head leaning against my shoulder, and I can feel the sobs that make her body tremble and the tears make the front of my t-shirt wet with her pain.

Her arms go around my waist and my cheek is pressed to the top of her head. I hear her sob her sister’s name and I hold her tighter still.

When she stops crying and let go of her and sit in the grass at her feet. She sits beside me and leans her head against my shoulder. My arm is around her waist and I lift my other hand to point to the sky.

“Look.”

I feel her head shift a bit. “What?”

“Do you see it?”

She is quiet for a long moment. “Which one?”

“The North Star. It looks brighter.”

“You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“You’re not even looking.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” I turn my head to look at her face.

Her eyes are slightly puffy and her nose is still red and she looks so tired that it’s impossible to believe she’ll ever get enough sleep to recover. I tilt her chin up slightly, and turn her head.

“Right there,” I say very softly. “Look at it. Look hard.”

Her dark eyes are trained on the star. A cicada calls from somewhere in the yard and inside the house there is the sound of strained teenaged laughter.

“You’re right,” she says finally. “It is brighter. How is that possible?”

“It’s not. But to us, I think it just looks that way. She’s up there, you know. I’ll bet she likes it better up there.”

She shuts her eyes and a tear falls down her cheek. Her fingers are clutching a piece of grass. She drops it and covers her face with both hands. I feel her body shaking as she tries to get control of herself and she finally lowers her hands.

“Yes,” she says, sounding more like herself than she has in the past three days. “She’s up there, laughing and running and singing.” She tilts her face skyward and reaches for my hand.

My hand closes around hers and she squeezes. I squeeze back.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Then we’re quiet, and the air isn’t so oppressive anymore.