Chapter Thirty-Nine
“If I look like I’m about to mash his face into a brick wall, please intervene,” I said, pacing about, still clad in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that concealed any and all female characteristics of mine. I wasn’t in the mood to change, for I actually felt like my old self in the clothes, and was relaxed. Comfort over fashion always won.
“You’re crazy, you know that, Turner?” Justin commented, as he shoved an entire muffin into his mouth with one bite. Despite Justin’s misleadingly fit exterior, the boy ate like an SUV guzzled gas. Nonstop. When we were younger, he never seemed to stop consuming food, but wouldn’t put on an ounce of weight. As metabolisms went, Justin’s might have been even better than mine.
“So I’ve been told,” I smirked, watching as he tossed yet another cupcake with blueberries in it and a reputation for being “ugly” down to his stomach.
“What’d he do again?” my best friend from another lifetime asked groggily.
“He took me to a Celtics game, pretty much waving a big, neon flag that said ‘I know your secret’ in my face. It was awful,” I shook my head, continuing to mindlessly walk in the circular path I had set for myself. We were in Justin’s kitchen, alone, because both his parents had already left for work earlier. His older brother was still asleep upstairs, probably passed out from a night of drinking—based on what Justin had told me about the lifestyle that he now led.
Last night was bad. Really bad. All I wanted to do was kill a foam stress ball, strangling it with all the built-up rage, conveyed through my hands. Within minutes of calling Justin, asking if I could come over, he met me at a construction site near where I was, an old landmark of ours that had previously been a pizza place. Not surprisingly, Justin had come all the way over to the outskirts of Boston, where the arena was located, no vehicle with him. Even when we were younger, he liked to walk. He felt restricted by a car’s walls, and much preferred the aspect of freedom that walking gave him.
After meeting up with me, I told him a short rendition of the rather long story: I was mad. He understood immediately, and we then proceeded to head over to his house, on foot. I was tired, but it didn’t matter—I was with Justin. Though years had passed and we were barely in touch, Justin was the type of person that I could always rely on, no matter what. We were best friends at one point, and shared a connection that was never going to be broken.
When we got to his house, his parents were both already asleep, but he jotted down a quick note that he taped to the fridge, informing them of my presence. After we got to his room, he gave me some clothes to sleep in, and then talked some more, before I fell in into a deep slumber. Even though the main thing that I had done during the day involved an act of blissful unconsciousness, I was still tired because of, well, that continent that started with “Eur” and ended with “ope.”
The first thing I did when I got up this morning was text my mom. She had sent me over thirty-nine messages, basically asking where I was, if I had died, when I’d be back, if had gone out to murder someone, how long I’d be away, if I found the condoms she had conveniently stashed away in my purse (Monica’s judgment was a topic that most veered away from), and who was with me. Not a single voicemail was left by the woman who gave birth to me, because verbal communication was clearly not something anyone used anymore… except of course for Eric Wilson.
I had twelve missed calls from Eric, but only five recorded messages left. Each was a little over four minutes in length, and I neither had the energy nor desire to listen to them. I neglected to respond to Eric, though sent a concise passage to my mom: “In Boston with Dylan. @ Justin’s house. Be back whenever. See you soon. Love you. Bye.”
As parents went, I couldn’t complain about mine. My mom was great. I had limits, I really did, but she was very lenient with my behavior and everything in my life. Now, if I hadn’t been a good student in school or decided to take up smoking various grasses behind a building as an extracurricular, then she probably wouldn’t have been as trusting or indulgent with me. She knew I illegally drank substances other than water here and there, but tolerated it because it had never been that much of a problem. I wasn’t an alcoholic, nor did I ever envision myself becoming one. The fact that I had the independence to skip school and not tell anyone anything about it was truly a gift. Thanks, mommy.
“Why does it matter if he knows, though?” Justin questioned, finishing a glass of milk in one large gulp to even out his digestion of solids. “Isn’t your boyfriend the one who can’t find out?”
“Boyfriend?” I scrunched my eyebrows together in perplexity.
“The football player you told me about. He’s the real key here, isn’t he?”
“Who? Eric?” I grew even more confused, assuming that it was Eric to whom he was referring, seeing as how it was only football player I would’ve talked to him about.
“Yeah, him,” Justin nodded.
“We’re not, uh, together exactly. And, besides, I’m irritated with him right now, too,” I shook my head, not wanting to think of Eric.
“High school dropout, over here,” Justin pointed both his thumbs to himself. “Please don’t use big words.”
“You dropped out?” I almost screamed in shock at his words.
“When I turned sixteen. School was never my thing, you knew that,” he said as if it weren’t a life destroying decision to which he had come.
Though I didn’t like it at times, I took my education very seriously. Sure, I had no issue with missing a few days every once in a while, but that was because I was making good grades, a senior, and my college career had been firmly set since I was a freshman, resulting in a lack of concern. Stopping my learning all together seemed like the dumbest resolution to make. Without a valid high school diploma, the limits were infinite.
“Well, you’re an idiot,” I voiced my thoughts.
“Thanks, Turner, it really means a lot coming from someone with a life as messed up as yours,” he said smugly.
“Oh? My life’s messed up? Says the gang member…” I rolled my eyes, wondering if Justin would still have gone down the same unforeseen path if I had stuck around. I knew it wasn’t my fault for leaving, but there was always that “What if?” looming about in the back of my mind. What if I had stayed in Boston? What if I had said no to that proposition so many years ago? What if I hadn’t changed?
“Co-gang leader, actually,” he corrected proudly, as if amounting to the position was some kind of an honor. Justin, the boy who hated any and all forms of conflict, turned gangster. I for one would never have anticipated it.
“Congrats on your promotion,” I muttered sarcastically.
“Thanks! Wanna meet a drug dealer next?” he asked in a serious tone, though by the mocking look on his face, he was only saying it to screw with me.
“Not especially,” I declined.
“Small words, ‘member?” he reminded me, though I was almost positive that both the words “not” and “especially” were in his restricted vocabulary.
“Oh, sorry,” I mocked, “No! No, I don’t. Though, I’ll probably regret asking, why?”
“Because there’s one sleeping upstairs,” he doubled over in laughter at the horrified expression my face wore at his inference.
“Your brother is not a drug dealer,” I said firmly, refusing to believe it, even if it did prove to be true.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he shrugged complacently, enjoying himself far too much than deemed acceptable by me. “If you want, we can go upst—” he was thankfully cut off by the low sounds of a doorbell. Well, Dylan definitely earned himself a brownie point or two with his interruption that occurred at the precise moment needed.
“Here, I’ll get it,” I offered, walking over to the aged door with cracked paint of an eggshell shade covering it.
“No,” Justin objected, rushing past me, as his hand secured around the door handle. “For all you know it could be a murderer. Besides, I’ve seen you mad, Turner. Wouldn’t want to turn into a murderer yourself, now would’ya?”
“I’m not going to kill him!” I protested.
“Damn right, you’re not!” he laughed, slowly opening the wooden panel that allowed entrance and exit, the brass hinges unpleasantly squeaking ever so much as he did so. His large form blocked my view from seeing the individual on the other side, much to my dismay. “So, you must be Dylan. I’ve heard so much about you!”
“Who are you?” I heard Dylan grunt from the other side.
“Oh? Turner didn’t tell you? I’m her kid’s dad,” Justin said, probably earning a stunned look from Dylan that I could only imagine. “Yeah, I’ll never forget that one night we did it and then found out she was knocked up… Boy, did we have fun that ni—”
“Justin, shut up!” I hit him on the back of the head, trying to push him out of the doorframe with all the strength I could muster. He didn’t even budge an inch as I attempted to push him out of the way. “Dylan, he’s joking!”
“I, uh, figured,” I heard Dylan say, though wasn’t convinced. “So, you’re, uh, Justin, the best friend from the picture.” I was surprised he had remembered the photograph in my room, and even more astonished that he had made the connection of whom Justin was. It was taken a while ago; I for one wouldn’t have noticed it was the same guy.
“Not sure which picture you’re talking about, but, yeah, I’m the best friend… and you’re the kid she’s mad at,” Justin said, sizing Dylan up with a single flick of his eyes. In comparison, the two weren’t that different. Actually, they were, but, from a looks standpoint, they could potentially pass as cousins. Not quite brothers, but maybe some distant or close relative type of thing.
They both possessed dark hair, though Justin’s was longer, sweeping just over his eyes, as it always had, while Dylan was rocking the fuzzing, military style, most commonly referred to as a “buzz cut.” Their lightly tanned skin tones were about the same, probably an advantage to both also being Italian. Body wise, Justin won hands down, but the similarity was like comparing unicorns to squirrels. Justin was a “gangster” and probably spent the majority of his time committing physically strenuous tasks, whereas Dylan was a mere high school student, who played basketball on the weekends, and most likely did a few pushups before going to bed each night. Justin was also a few inches taller than Dylan. Then, there were their eyes.
Even when we were younger, Justin always had a sad, somber look that consumed his irises. They were this deep ashen shade that reminded me of raindrops. Rain was generally clear, but had a tint to it that always made me think of the color gray. Then, there were Dylan’s eyes. They had a different intrigue about them than Justin’s. There was something about Dylan’s eyes that was just, well, captivating and mesmerizing—as if you couldn’t look away once you had glimpsed at them for even a few seconds. The two boys were different, but had both somehow made impacts on my life for worse or for better, whether I liked it or not.
“Yeah, I, uh, guess I am,” Dylan said. “Can I, uh, come in?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, sure,” Justin unblocked himself from the ingress, allowing Dylan entry.
“Did you sleep well? Sorry about the lack of pretty much anything in the condo. We haven’t spent any time in it,” I apologized, a sarcastic edge percolating into my voice. Last night, I had texted Dylan the address to the condo my mom had bought, as promised. It was tempting to not say anything, letting him roam around Boston senselessly, but, even in an enraged state, I was still a good person. This morning, I had sent him Justin’s address, telling him to either show up or not. Evidently, he showed.
“I slept fine, thank you,” he said causally. “And yourself?”
“Turner and I had quite the sleepover last night,” Justin said, placing an arm around my waist, as he was trying to provoke the boy he had only just met. “But, not a whole lot of sleeping happened.”
“Again, he’s kidding,” I insisted, twisting my way out of Justin’s hold.
“So, are you still, uh, mad at me?” Dylan gulped bravely.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “but I’m calmer than I was last night. I don’t think I’m ready to spend the next four hours with you car, yet, but I’m getting there.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, most likely surprised with how composed I appeared—“appeared” being the main term in the sentence. I had learned long ago how to internalize my emotions so that it merely seemed to the outside world as if I was fine. Sure, I would overreact here and there, but, for the most part, I was a pretty impassive person. It wasn’t healthy to keep everything bottled up, and I knew that, but it was just who I was. Displaying feelings was simply not in my nature.
“Enjoying your stay in Boston so far?” I questioned nonchalantly.
“Uh, yeah, it’s nice,” he searched my face for any telltale signs of fury that were going to lead me to combusting.
“Wanna see my gun?” Justin offered, his hand hovering over the waistband of his pants. Both Dylan and I gaped, our eyes practically growing larger than basketballs. “Kidding! God, does anyone know how to take a joke anymore?”
I looked over to Justin, and then to Dylan, and then back at Justin, deciding upon probably the worst verdict I had ever made in my life. “Justin, I think we’re going to head out.”
“Oh! Turner, you just got here! What am I going to do without you?” he whined.
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” I mumbled.
“Or someone,” he smirked.
“Yeah, this is why we’re leaving,” I determined.
“Dude, do you wanna borrow a gun for self defense?” Justin asked Dylan as if he was conversing about something normal like lending him an umbrella to shield from the nonexistent rain. “I already gave Turner one by accident. Bad move on my part.”
“Justin, shut the fuck up!” I groaned, burying my head within my hands in frustration. He began to laugh, clearly finding my reaction amusing—something that it most certainly was not.
“He’s, uh, joking, right?” Dylan inquired apprehensively.
“Yes!” I exclaimed.
“This chick with a gun? What type of guy do you take me for? Even when she’s totally fine, not ready to kill anyone, I still wouldn’t trust her with a weapon,” Justin remarked, as I poked his shoulder in protest.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I snorted.
“Any time, Turner, any time,” he smiled.
“I love you, Justin, but we’re going to leave now before you too are put on my proscription list,” I said, walking over to give him a parting hug.
“You’re what?” Dylan and Justin questioned in unison, as Justin returned the gesture, securing his arms around me tightly.
“I was making a reference to the list of people wanted dead in Ancient Rome,” I explained, aware that it had gone way over their heads. I withdrew from Justin, stepping a pace back. “Never mind.”
“Okay,” Justin accepted. “Now, am I ever going to see those clothes again, or should I plan on having one less pair of pants and a shirt in my closet?”
“I’ll mail them to you,” I said, lacking the energy to change out of what I was wearing.
“Sounds like a plan,” he nodded. “Bye, Turner, try not to kill him.”
“Bye, Justin,” I said, as the three of us walked back over to the door. Justin kissed me lightly on the cheek, waving as Dylan and I silently made our way out of his house.
“Nice meeting ya, bro!” Justin called from the doorway to Dylan.
“You too,” Dylan returned with a nod of his head, as we approached his red vehicle that was parked on the side of the fractured sidewalk. I waved to Justin one last time with a grin, sad that the visit had been so short. In the back of my mind, though, I knew that I had to get back home. Monica gave me independence, trusting that I would still be responsible. I wasn’t about to lose her trust.
After getting safely into the truck, Dylan started it up, beginning to drive, not a word spoken between us. It was starting to feel all too much like situation that had happened a little over twenty-four hours ago with Eric. We were leaving my hometown, and the only thing on my mind was getting answers.
“How?” I finally asked, shattering the reticence with three letters. “How did you know?”
“Let’s play a game,” Dylan offered, instead of responding how I had wanted. “You ask a question, and then I get to ask one, and we have to answer truthfully. Ready to play?”
I contemplated his proposal for a few seconds, before realizing that if he knew I played basketball, everything else was pretty much irrelevant. “Sure. Now, answer my question.”
“Do you remember that party you threw at the beginning of the year?” I nodded mutely, as he kept speaking, “Well, there was one part that you couldn’t seem to remember, Lizzie. You were really smashed, and I wasn’t. For some reason, you decided that you wanted to take me someplace, so, you did,” he paused, exhaling lightly. “You grabbed a basketball from your garage before we went, and were dribbling it as we walked. It was like the ball wasn’t even there as you drunkenly talked to me. You didn’t drop the ball once, Liz. Not once—”
“And to think, all these years I had thought I was uncoordinated while drunk!” I shook my head, internally beaming as I thought about what it had meant. My ball-handling skills (no sexual innuendo intended) were just that good.
“Anyways,” he continued, “we got to the park, and you dragged me over to the basketball court. I had no idea what you were doing. You asked if I wanted to know a secret, and then told me that you played basketball, but nobody was supposed to know. And you know what you did next, Lizzie?”
“What?”
“You shot the ball into the net from half court. You could barely stand straight, Liz, and still managed to make that shot. It was ridiculous,” he recalled in awe.
“Why didn’t you tell me the next day that you knew?” I bit the bottom of my lip, hungry for more information.
“You said you wanted to keep it a secret. I assumed that that meant from me too, so I didn’t want to worry you,” he said, surprisingly thoughtfully.
“And why are you telling me this all now?” was the final thing I wanted to know.
“I’m not really sure, actually,” he laughed quietly. “I guess I was just done lying and keeping the truth from you. Are you?”
“No,” I whispered honestly. It was the reality. I wasn’t finished. I was close, but not quite there yet. “And I can’t tell you when I’ll be done.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, Dylan, I’m sorry,” I looked down to my lap, wishing that I could say something to him. I couldn’t. Not yet, at least.
“Okay, then tell me this, Liz, was anything you said real?” His inquiry got me off-guard, as it was harsh and unlike him.
I sighed, rubbing my fingers on the temples of forehead. “Everything I say is ‘real’, I just—”
“Neglected to mention that you happened to be some basketball prodigy,” he interjected with hostility.
“I wasn’t lying, just not telling the whole truth,” I tried to defend myself, but, even to me, it sounded like a lousy argument. My case would’ve been thrown out of the court faster that a bullet train if it was my justification.
“It’s the same thing,” he pointed out, his fingers visibly tightening around the steering wheel. “So, is there anything else that you can tell me that you lied about?”
I thought for a moment, knowing that I couldn’t tell everything I wanted to. “What I’m wearing now is how I would normally dress if it wasn’t for this thing I can’t tell you about.”
“Well, that was vague,” he commented. “So, you play basketball and that sketchy guy was your best friend. I’m thinking tomboy.”
Wincing at his word choice, I uttered a mere, “Eh.”
I despised that word. Tomboy. A “boyish” girl. Why did the way that a girl decided to dress or act have to be compared to the behavior of a boy? Society was a cruel thing, judging people so quickly. When I was younger, that was whom I was categorized as. Conversing with girls about makeup and the latest celebrity gossip had never appealed to me, and it still didn’t, so I was the “tomboy.” The reason I had a bad association with the term was probably because of the context that it had been used. It was an insult. Something used to try and knock down my confidence. It was demeaning and generalizing, also. Tomboy. Absolute bullshit.
“Why aren’t you playing basketball at school?” Dylan interrogated.
“I believe it’s my turn to ask something, actually,” I dodged the inquiry.
“Fine. I have nothing to hide,” he said openly.
“Is there anything you can tell me that you lied about?” I threw his one of his queries back at him.
“Yup,” he said, unexpectedly. “Remember that time I told you about my first girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” a recollection of the story he had surfaced in my mind. He fell for her, and she fell for his best friend. Classic romance, right there.
“Well, I lied,” he expressed bluntly.
“You lied?” I repeated slowly.
“Yeah, the girl never existed, and the entire story was B.S.,” he said, as I tried to process what he was telling me.
“Why did you lie to me?” I demanded. Though the tale itself hadn’t made that much of an impact on my perspective of him, the concept of it had.
“Why did you lie to me?” he turned my words against me.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I circumvented the real reason once again.
“I didn’t want to know if you were sorry, Lizzie, I asked why you did it,” he pressed. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m going to figure you out, Lizzie. Just you wait.”
“This is going to be a very long ride, isn’t it?” I groaned, feeling a throbbing headache coming on out of anticipation.
“Yes, yes, it is.”