The night before his bus ride home, Caleb has a dream that he died. A dream that he's sure was a premonition of an untimely demise; a "vile consequence yet hanging in the stars." He sounds panicked, speaking in harsh whispers that indicate he isn't supposed to be on the phone so late, and I have to return the same hushed quietness. My father is strict, setting rules into place that ensure I won't turn out as much of a headache as my older siblings.
"I think you're anxious to see us after being away for so long," I say, staring at the quiet infomercial on my tv. It's supposed to be off, I have church in the morning. "You're having anxiety dreams."
Caleb is silent for a long time. "I think you're right, Audri Shay. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
I hang up and keep staring at the tv, resigning myself to the fact that death will be on my mind for the rest of the night. Caleb is the only one I ever tell about my thoughts, how often the fear of being murdered or kidnapped crosses my mind on a day-to-day basis. What death is like, if we dream or if we forget we ever existed in the first place. A few months ago, right after the drama I'd accidentally caused in my oppressive private school, a boy none of us knew very well died. He was a sophomore to my junior, and the principal made us all sit in the gym and have a crude memorial service for him that was ruined by the utter indifference most of the student body had.
Mostly they whispered about how he died, that he got caught up in some risky drug business and paid for it. Others whispered about how dumb that sounded, that this isn't the movies, but then they were reminded about Caleb Bradshaw and his near-expulsion from Sycamore Grove High School.
The worst part about Junior year was the speculation about my best friend, the boy I've known since I could barely use the bathroom by myself. Our mothers know each other very well, so it's obvious that we would too, whether we wanted to originally or not.
It's no secret that Caleb had a sudden shift in mood around the beginning of last year, that he'd started to get even moodier than teenage boys tend to be, restless and fickle and unable to sit still for good or for bad. Going to more parties, doing so many things at these parties, and trying what seemed like his hardest to get kicked out of school despite several pleas and donation offers from his mother. I like to think that kids that go to Catholic school are more likely to get into trouble, and nothing proved that more to me than watching my best friend hit rock bottom.
News spread over our grade like wildfire, that the handsome guy that hates being called 'Dicaprio' was totally ingesting drugs like candy at Claire Summers' parties; his girlfriend, my enemy and his blight, who seemed to possess him more and more as time went on. Eventually he stopped coming to school, and eventually he stopped talking to me.
Eventually I told his mother and she shipped him off to New York, so his grandmother could look after him and make sure he went to rehab meetings while simultaneously taking online classes to make up missed credits. Ms. B isn't one to be played with, and she'll be damned if he doesn't graduate with the rest of the class.
The more I think about him, the more anxious I get. When he left he was moody and snappy, with bags under his eyes and an inability to physically sit still longer than a few seconds. He was so jumpy and skittish and mean but I loved him all the same. Too much, and in secret, because I didn't like to think that I thought of him as more than just a boy I knew.
Ms. B had gone to see him a few weeks ago and returned elated that he was so handsome and looked so alive again, like she was used to him looking, and the thought scared me more than anything. I don't know why, but it's been so long, and i've never been away from him for longer than a day.
