whose house Rhonda had been walking home from when the van hit her, this girl had thrown herself at the foot of the grave when they were about to start putting the ceremonial dirt in it, and clung there at the edge while Rhondaâs mother held her shoulders. Julie told me, when we were lying on her pink bed, talking about it, âIt was weird of her to do that. I think it was wrong. I hate that fucking bitch, too.â
Shari helped Rhondaâs mother go through Rhondaâs room, and Shari was there when Rhondaâs mother found cigarettes in her closet and pot in her sock drawer. Julie said sheâd asked Shari about a couple things, like some pictures, and some letters she was sure Rhondaâd saved, and a couple things Julie had given her when they were best friends, just dumb little things, some safety pins with colored beads on them, particular little macramé bracelets, and Shari said sheâd looked, but didnât know what Julie could be talking about, she just hadnât found those things in Rhondaâs stuff.
Sitting on the curb with CiCi, I was thinking about trying to tell that, but of course I couldnât figure out how to tell CiCi because, among other things, I was the asshole in that story, and in the face of it, how could I tell her what I really wanted to say, which was that Rhonda did really mean something to me, and that I had lost something real?
There was a particular half-dream feeling that happened to me sometimes at school, but also in my dreams and also in ridiculous places like grocery stores and parking lots, where I felt sure Rhonda was near, because I thought I saw the movement of her hair somehow, but I couldnât tell if I was following her or if she was following me. If you think of the story where the bear goes around and around the tree looking for the monster, and follows his own footprints. Or better, if you think of binary stars, how they revolve around a common, invisible source of gravity that doesnât exist without them. Imagine us: weâre walking around the school, and the crowd dissipates, so itâs just us, circling the school, until itâs like the school itself dissipates and itâs just us, walking. Weâre walking in smaller and smaller circles. Soon, itâs like weâre bound, front to back, like weâre simply layers of one person, doubles, each each other, which is what it means to be moving in the tiniest circle imaginable, which is turning in place, which means, basically, alone.
I sat on the curb, holding the little paper package for Julieâs birthday, listening to CiCi suck at the last of the ice with her straw, and I felt panic. I couldnât picture anything coming out of my mouth without bats flying from between my teeth and getting in her hair. I started to feel unable to experience time, there on the curb. I had no idea how long weâd been sitting, silent except for the rattling of the ice in her plastic cup. I couldnât tell if maybe time was passing for her, but not for me. I couldnât say a thing. It didnât matter what. I couldnât say, âSo, CiCi, how ya been?â
Then Ted came out, and we all got back in the car. Even with the windows down the heat made the air feel solid, and the air came in like a single force. Even when we got back to Tedâs apartment, I couldnât say a thing. Ted said, âWhy are you being so crappy?â and CiCi chattered about what they might want to eat for dinner, why didnât he keep anything in the house, how they could make hamburgers but he didnât have bread of any kind and she didnât want to go back in his dumpy car in the fucking heat. Then he took the new baggie of pot from his front pocket and put it on the kitchen counter, and I realized I was supposed to go home, so I did. A different day, I might have felt gracious, making a knowledgeable exit like that, but that day I didnât. I felt heavy and empty at
Shari helped Rhondaâs mother go through Rhondaâs room, and Shari was there when Rhondaâs mother found cigarettes in her closet and pot in her sock drawer. Julie said sheâd asked Shari about a couple things, like some pictures, and some letters she was sure Rhondaâd saved, and a couple things Julie had given her when they were best friends, just dumb little things, some safety pins with colored beads on them, particular little macramé bracelets, and Shari said sheâd looked, but didnât know what Julie could be talking about, she just hadnât found those things in Rhondaâs stuff.
Sitting on the curb with CiCi, I was thinking about trying to tell that, but of course I couldnât figure out how to tell CiCi because, among other things, I was the asshole in that story, and in the face of it, how could I tell her what I really wanted to say, which was that Rhonda did really mean something to me, and that I had lost something real?
There was a particular half-dream feeling that happened to me sometimes at school, but also in my dreams and also in ridiculous places like grocery stores and parking lots, where I felt sure Rhonda was near, because I thought I saw the movement of her hair somehow, but I couldnât tell if I was following her or if she was following me. If you think of the story where the bear goes around and around the tree looking for the monster, and follows his own footprints. Or better, if you think of binary stars, how they revolve around a common, invisible source of gravity that doesnât exist without them. Imagine us: weâre walking around the school, and the crowd dissipates, so itâs just us, circling the school, until itâs like the school itself dissipates and itâs just us, walking. Weâre walking in smaller and smaller circles. Soon, itâs like weâre bound, front to back, like weâre simply layers of one person, doubles, each each other, which is what it means to be moving in the tiniest circle imaginable, which is turning in place, which means, basically, alone.
I sat on the curb, holding the little paper package for Julieâs birthday, listening to CiCi suck at the last of the ice with her straw, and I felt panic. I couldnât picture anything coming out of my mouth without bats flying from between my teeth and getting in her hair. I started to feel unable to experience time, there on the curb. I had no idea how long weâd been sitting, silent except for the rattling of the ice in her plastic cup. I couldnât tell if maybe time was passing for her, but not for me. I couldnât say a thing. It didnât matter what. I couldnât say, âSo, CiCi, how ya been?â
Then Ted came out, and we all got back in the car. Even with the windows down the heat made the air feel solid, and the air came in like a single force. Even when we got back to Tedâs apartment, I couldnât say a thing. Ted said, âWhy are you being so crappy?â and CiCi chattered about what they might want to eat for dinner, why didnât he keep anything in the house, how they could make hamburgers but he didnât have bread of any kind and she didnât want to go back in his dumpy car in the fucking heat. Then he took the new baggie of pot from his front pocket and put it on the kitchen counter, and I realized I was supposed to go home, so I did. A different day, I might have felt gracious, making a knowledgeable exit like that, but that day I didnât. I felt heavy and empty at
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