Bright Eyes

16. No One But Us

    Your mom left your dad after she found out he had been cheating on her for years, thought Lyn, and she brought you and your sister with her.

    "Dad was called back to California to manage the other branches there."

    You all were going to move there with him, Lyn added, in her thoughts, until your mom found out.

    "I began freshman year here, in Ravenwood, while she went to study in—"

    Another hellhole, but worse than elementary and middle school. Thank you very much.

    "—Immaculate Heart, an all-girl Catholic high school. We haven't seen each other for two years. And in those two years, I guess things might have happened, and now she's, um . . . different."

    Lyn glanced up at him, then.

    "I didn't recognize her the first time I saw her in The Raven's Nest. She dyed her hair black. She lost some weight. She used to wear all these sweaters and long-sleeves, in different colors. But now she looks more like an alternative girl with her black jeans, her black jackets, and all those bracelets on her wrist. Actually, she wears a lot of black nowadays. I mean, she still reads a lot, and she's still quiet most of the time, but she's different. And maybe that's it, people change over time—just like Lyn."

    From the back of the room, Mrs. Chase nodded, scribbled something on Damien's evaluation form. Then she said, "Thank you, Mister Bautista. Now"—she glanced at her list, read a name—"Miss Taraschi, it's your turn to present."

    Lyn stood and walked over to the front. She held a piece of paper in her hand, and she kept her eyes on it, refusing to look at anything or anyone else, ignoring the eyes that wordlessly questioned the scratches on her face and hands. She began with, "This is a poem I wrote about Damien Bautista." A pause, an inhale, then,

You

The question, harmless, out of the blue:
"Who are you?" I asked. And
"You know me," you said.
But I don't think I do,
A memory of a boy long dead,
A story come to an end.
I don't know you,
Not anymore.

It took two,
Two years, without a single sight of you.
The boy I once knew
Now faded like a ghost,
A shell of who he once was,
A shadow left to mourn.

We were kids once upon a time,
Blissful in our ignorance,
The epitome of a stupid quote—
Until the perfect crime,
Kiss and never tell, a secret long buried
Alive, crept out of its tomb.

Now a picture torn in two.
You paint your mask, agony
Concealed in a hoax of a smile—
Bathing yourself in hedonistic revelry;
At night, a drink too many.

Yet beneath it all is shattered you,
Never did you shed a tear,
Quietly mending your broken heart with stale glue—
Because boys don't cry over what they fear.
But that isn't always true.

    And with that, a moment's silence, until Mrs. Chase said, "Miss Taraschi, is writing poetry one of your hobbies, besides reading as Mister Bautista mentioned earlier?"

    "Yes, Mrs. Chase."

    "And, Mister Bautista," said Mrs. Chase, her eyes on the stocky, brown boy seated amidst his classmates. "Do you even know Miss Taraschi writes poetry?"

    Without a beat passed, Damien replied, "Yes."

    Lyn chuckled, then muttered, "Liar." Your tongue speaks the language of lies and broken promises, she remembered. A line written in the margin of her draft, one that never made it to the actual poem.