The Drowned Forest by Kristopher Reisz Page B

would run up wearing a rubber dragon mask—but somehow representing their gym coach—and put Jeb White in a chicken-wing armlock. Or that, defeated and stripped to his underwear, Jeb would sing a song rhyming “loneliness and fear” with “Buzz Lightyear.” Or that finally he would battle with the dragon again, this time wielding the unstoppable power of rock ’n’ roll.
    I stood in the bowling alley snack bar, in an audience of nine people (including Steve’s mom), thinking this was what drugs must feel like. But you bounced around and pumped your fist. Bending your mouth to my ear, you yelled, “They’re pretty awesome, huh?”
    They were ridiculous, Holly. You could have played better with your feet. Your cheeks still glowed pink, though, even out of the cold. When you looked at Tyler, your eyes still shimmered.
    I asked, “You like him?”
    “No. But kinda.” You buried your face against my shoulder. “But really I just wanted to support him. He quit the marching band this year so he could focus on his real music.”
    “I was just gonna say he plays guitar like a guy who’s spent years practicing the tuba.”
    “Jane, don’t be like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like you always are.”
    Jeb decided not to slay the dragon—that’s not what the power of rock ’n’ roll was for. Instead they shared Pixy Stix and closed the show with a duet of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”
    “So does he like you?” I asked, as they sang against the thunder of bowling balls.
    “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, but there’s this other girl he really likes. Amber.”
    “But what? She didn’t come tonight?”
    “She’s not into music like this.”
    “Forget Amber, then.” And what else could I do but jump up into one of the booth seats? “Whoo! Banana Hammocks! Yeah!”
    The band looked over, a little startled. Steve’s mom looked over.
    “Encore! Banana Hammocks! Hit me again!” Then you joined in. “Tyler! Banana Hammocks! Yay, Tyler!”
    The band grabbed their instruments again. They started into something sharp, fast, and just barely holding itself together—the musical equivalent of getting shoved down the stairs. You loved it. You jumped around and hugged my neck.
    I yelled into your ear, “If he’s still thinking about Amber after this, we’ll kidnap him and you can have your way with him, yeah?”
    “Cool! Can I keep him tied up in your garage?”
    “Sure!”
    Now, without you, Tyler and me chuckle together, even though I’m mad at him.
    “No, you were so into us,” he says. “You were more into us than Holly.”
    “What? Whatever. I only made a total fool of myself hoping you’d get up the guts to ask Holly out. You’re welcome, by the way.”
    “Don’t lie. We had you revved up.”
    “Whatever. I just knew if Holly paid seven dollars to wear ugly bowling shoes and listen to that, she really loved you.”
    The word sucks all the air out of the car. Death rots the sweetest memories first, Holly. It hides inside them like a razor blade in an apple.
    But you did love him, didn’t you? Even though he was loud-mouthed and filthy-minded, you loved him, and God used your love to draw Tyler to the church. We saw the bigger-than-life rock star choke up and tremble the night he was saved.
    I judge people too quickly, Holly, I know. I’m prickly, I don’t give them a chance, Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam, I know, I know. But you know what? Happy little sunbeams don’t rescue their friends’ trapped souls from rivers. The sunbeams—Hanna Marie, Brooke, all of them—they cried for a few days, then moved on. They’re out goofing off and making out with boys. I’m all you’ve got left.
    They could move on because they don’t still need you, Holly. But who’s going to keep me from being prickly and judgmental all the time now? Did you even think about that before you went and drowned?
    I chew my thumbnail, peeling it away from the stinging quick. Fine, fine, I’ll try to be