( SCOTT )
The trial doesn't go like we had assumed it would. Taking the stand to testify against Jackson Walters and Derek Ritz was, by far, one of the most anxiety-producing things I've ever had to do. Though the judge reiterated about fifteen times in a span of two minutes that "what is said in this courthouse stays in this courthouse only," I couldn't stop the worry of the jurors breaking the oath creeping in as Mitch's actual cause of death was revealed.
None of them even really knew who we were anyways, but it was still nerve-wracking. Who knew how many of them would go home tonight, Google our names, and learn every little thing about us? Who knew how many of them would pretend to be a fan on some Instagram account and contribute to the masses of people who think Mitch committed suicide?
I couldn't stop my bouncing knee, or the bloody fingernails, or the slight quiver in my voice while I talked, while I peeled off my sweat-covered shirt to reveal the scar from the bullet wound, while I talked about how Walters' and Ritz's doings let to Mitch's suicide. Every word that came out of my mouth tasted like poison, and I had to fight to keep the secrets hidden—like they should stay. Because they're the kind of secrets that not even Kirstie knows, or would suspect.
After over a week, we eventually won the case, and Walters and Ritz were imprisoned for attempted murder. As we exited the courthouse, cameras flashing and people yelling questions at us, I should have been slightly happy. I should have felt like justice was served. But I didn't—I couldn't.
Because Ritz and Walters were only half of what forced Mitch to leave. The person—or people—who got Mike and Nel are still unknown, are likely still out there somewhere. We don't know anything about them other than that they have some sort of thing against Mitch, just like Ritz and Walters did.
Now, Kirstie and I sit side-by-side near our gate at Nashville International, snacking on sugary foods even though it's two-thirty in the morning. As much as we've always despised early morning flights, staying away from the media, the fans, and essentially the outside world has been our number one priority lately. The talk about us had died down a little, but the trial hyped us back up again. And Jonathan figured a two-forty-five a.m. flight from Nashville to Dallas International would be the best way to hide.
But I don't think he was really thinking about the fact that a) these two airports are never quiet, and b) somebody actually has to come and pick us up. And quickly. Because, when we're back in Texas, it's like the curtain has fallen; it's our hometown, some people even know where our parents live. In L.A., if anybody knows where we live, they don't say anything about it. And there's usually so many people and so much traffic that it's a lot easier to hide if/when you step outside than you would think.
I've never been a fan of disguises. Or of hiding. If a fan noticed me and came up to me one day I was out walking around, I'd gladly smile, greet them, sign something, take a picture with them. The whole nine yards.
Well, a year ago, at least.
Now, it's like Mitch's paranoia is slowly becoming mine, creeping into my head and threatening to swallow me whole—and I'm mortally terrified that somebody's going to pull another gun on me; that people will notice me and start asking me questions about Mitch, about the future of Pentatonix; that I'll accidentally let something slip out that I'm not supposed to, just because I'm so overcome with anxiety and stressed-out by whoever these people are.
But, for now, Kirstie and I just sit in front of the windows with our carry-on bags beside us, playing on our phones to try and blend in with the rest of the exhausted passengers sitting around us. I wonder why they've decided to take a two-forty-five a.m. flight to Texas. Maybe it's for the same reason. The rest of the crew is heading back home, too—either on a plane to LAX or in a Suburban to Owensboro.
Kirstie and I's boarding passes and plane tickets and licenses and social security cards say Richard Lewis and Taylor Lewis, respectively. Avi's and Kevin's say Benjamin Johnson and Oluwole Johnson. Because it certainly wouldn't be pretty if the attendants saw the names Scott Hoying and Kirstin Maldonado, or Avriel Kaplan and Kevin Olusola. I can bet they'd ask us what really happened to Mitch—because, by now, since we've been keeping quiet, there's only a handful of people who still believe he was killed in a car crash. Some people think one of us killed him, some people think he committed suicide, some people think he was kidnapped, some people think he was murdered,... and others think he didn't even die at all.
It seems to be the question of the century—What happened to Mitch Grassi?—and it's, like,... can people ever just leave us alone?
I lift my eyes from my phone screen to watch a couple of tired-looking businessmen walk by, lazily pulling their suitcases behind them. I follow them with my eyes until they're out of sight and I'd have to move my head to see them again.
Suddenly, Kirstie speaks. "Scott," she says quietly, in such a way that it almost reminds me of that security guard last December. I turn to look at her, but her eyes are still trained on her phone.
"What?" I ask.
"You're doing it again," she says in return, still not looking up from the screen. Her voice is thick with exhaustion, monotonous, and for once I can't wait to get on the plane so we can at least try to get some sleep—even though I highly doubt that's actually going to happen.
"I'm doing what again?" I say, genuinely confused as to what she's referring to.
She sighs, double-clicking the home button to get rid of the last couple of apps she's visited, and then locking her phone. She sits up, finally turning to look at me. "Right before you were arrested back before... well, back before all of this, I guess. You were closed-off, just like you are now."
I swallow. "Well, I am also trying to recover from my best friend's suicide." My voice is low, but, because I'm so exhausted and broken inside, it doesn't sound as menacing as I would like it to.
Kirstie isn't fazed, though. She only blinks, and then continues, "You think I'm not trying to recover, too? Scott, we've talked about this before—you're not the only one hurting."
"Why are we bringing this up now?" I ask, my volume low and teeth pressed together. "When we're both already on-edge, not to mention the fact that it's two-thirty in the morning and we're not asleep."
"Yeah, but we wouldn't be sleeping anyways, Scott, even if we were at home. Remember what you told me a few weeks ago? That nighttime is when your 'demons' come out, and you're unable to sleep? There's a reason we're on sleeping pills," Kirstie points out, and I can't help but admit she's right.
I bite the inside of my lip, but don't say anything. She sighs again, then, and says, "It's been seven months since he left. Back after we went on a much-needed hiatus following the world tour? It was seven months before something, like, clicked in you and you spiraled out of control. The drinking, the driving while intoxicated." She shakes her head. "All five of us were pretty touchy and on-edge, especially with, you know, Trump in office and everything going on in the world at the time. But I wasn't blind to everything that was going on with you and Mitch, even if you liked to keep things hidden. I bailed you out once, didn't I?"
I still don't say anything. "Scott, I don't know what it is. I don't. And I don't know if you even do, but I think you need to find out. Talk to somebody, I don't care if it's me or not." She swallows, her eyes looking behind me for a moment before returning to mine. When she speaks again, she's even quieter, and I have to strain to hear her voice over the announcers and other passengers.
"I know what you're feeling. Okay? We're all fighting through this together, and it's okay if we sometimes relapse; I've had way more than just one of those," she says. "But I also know that these last few months have hit you harder than anyone else. And... and I know your mind is flooded with insecurities and doubts and what ifs, and it fuckin' sucks, but... sometimes you just gotta fake it 'til you make it. You know?"
I swallow down the lump in my throat, my eyes trailing away from hers for a moment. "That's what I've been trying to do, but it's... it's hard," I whisper, voice cracking.
Kirstie nods. "I know, Scotty," she whispers right back. "But it's almost Christmas, and we're gonna be spending the next few weeks with our families. You'll see your niece and your nephews, and, sure, they might still not understand where Uncle Mitchy is, but they love their Uncle Scott so much more." She smiles sadly, reaching over to place a gentle hand on my knee. "It's..." She inhales shakily. "It's so damn hard, but... remember? The only way to get through the storm is to lean on others for support. We're all here for each other."
I just nod with tightly-pressed lips, looking into Kirstie's eyes and seeing the pain, the anguish, the sadness that's suddenly shining through. The vulnerability, the desperation, the hopelessness. I know I'm not alone in this, but my mind usually tells me otherwise. Walls are hard to build up and I constantly wonder how Mitch was able to do it so well, how he was able to mask his emotions so damn well that even I couldn't see through him.
It hurts to know I couldn't have saved him, but Kirstie's right—family has always been number one for all of us, and we're finally going home to spend some time with them that's not following a funeral. I'm sure they're going to ask about Mitch,—especially Landon and Zachary and Archer, but I'll just tell them the kid version of all of this, something they'll actually understand.
And hope that they'll think the painted smiles are real.
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( KEVIN )
Church has always been my happy place. When life gets hard or I feel myself giving up in some way or another, the third pew on the left side is where I usually find myself either sitting or kneeling, gazing up at the altar and thinking or praying or apologizing. The outside world is crazy, and sometimes it just gets to be too much, and I have to find a way to ground myself, clear my head. And, throughout the years, I've found that prayer is the best way to do just that.
It's my first time home since May, and I feel a sense of nostalgia, sitting alone in my childhood church, Christmas flowers and wreaths and decorations surrounding me. I look over to my right, at the pew where my family and I used to pray every weekend. I can still picture little six-year-old me wondering why everybody's heads were down and eyes were closed, why every boy was in a suit and every girl was in a dress, why none of them ever talked in voices above a whisper. The memory makes me smile a little.
"I can still remember the day you were sitting right over there with your family," Father Davenport says, startling me, as he slowly walks down the center aisle. A nostalgic smile plays on his face, too. "Your sister was just born, and she was asleep in her baby carrier. Everyone was quietly praying, and you didn't know what the heck was going on or what you were supposed to do."
I laugh, not remembering that particular time but imagining it in my mind. Father Davenport has a sparkle in his eye as he approaches me, smiling down at me. I stand up to be eye-level with him. "Hello, Kevin. I haven't seen you in ages."
I nod. "Yeah, I guess it's been a while, hasn't it?" I look around the church for emphasis, sighing in content. "It's good to be back, though. Life in the city can get a little... crazy."
Father nods, turning to walk up to the altar; I follow close behind. "Leave the craziness to God; He'll sort it all out for ya." He pauses to climb the steps up to the altar, and I respectfully drop to my knees at the foot of the stairs, bowing my head while Father continues up. I can hear his soft footsteps, but I'm not exactly sure what he's doing.
A few minutes, later, though, he returns to my side, genuflecting beside me, and then the two of us stand up. He has a framed photograph in his hand, and I immediately recognize the picture: the Christmas concert that the children's choir put on, back when I was still in elementary school. The image is grainy, but we're all wearing red robes, the corners of our mouths pulled out into pearly white smiles. I instantly recognize myself, standing in the back row because of my height, and smile a little.
"Almost thirty years ago to this very date," Father Davenport says, his eyes grazing over the photograph for a few moments. He sighs, then, looking up at me. "I must say that, though I'm glad you're back home for the holidays, I'm a bit surprised. What with everything that's been going on with you and... Pentatonix, was it?" He shakes his head sadly. "The media's all over you."
I sigh, tearing my eyes away from little me and meeting the pastor's. "Yeah, it's been... a whirlwind, to say the least. Some days are definitely easier than others, but I guess that's just how life works, you know?" I nod towards the cross hanging behind the altar. "But I've been keeping my eyes on The Lord. That's how I've been getting through all of this."
Father nods, a look of pride in his eyes; it almost looks like he's going to start crying soon. "I remember hearing from several parishioners a few months back, following the passing of your bandmate. They were worried—for your safety and for, you know, what might happen next." His voice is gentle, calm. "And, I have to say, I didn't really realize how much support you and your band had until... until that happened. It surprised me, and I'm so happy that The Lord has blessed you with all of these people who will always have your back."
I smile, nodding gratefully. I'm not sure what, exactly, to say, so I just respond with a simple, "Thank you." While he goes to return the picture frame to its home, I let my eyes fill as I stare up at the freshly polished cross.
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( AVI )
As much as I had been expecting Hanukkah to feel different this year,—what with everything that's happened since the last one—it actually doesn't. Despite the fact that I've been back home plenty of times since May, whereas the rest of the band hasn't, there's something about this particular time that makes it more special. It could just be because it's the holiday season, but something tells me it's not.
There's a smile on everybody's face as we leave the synagogue, heading back to my parents' house for dinner and catching up. Esther and I slide into the backseat while our parents and Joshua talk to our grandparents for a moment, and I suddenly feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me. And I know Esther realizes it, too, because she's the first one to say something about it.
"This situation is all too familiar," she says, her hands on the back of the driver's seat as she looks out the window. "My goodness, I think we should get out of the car before this gets too weird."
I laugh, leaning forward as well, as I follow her gaze. "I remember back when we were both old enough to ride shotgun, and we couldn't help ourselves from darting out of the synagogue and into the front seat."
Esther laughs, throwing her head back as the memory returns. When she looks back at me, her eyes are covered in a film of reminiscence. "And then we'd never be able to actually stay there anyways, because Mom would always kick us out."
I'm still smiling, watching our parents and brother talk to our grandparents. "Do you think we should stop being little kids and actually go out and socialize?"
Esther seems to consider the thought for a moment, her nose scrunching up in fake concentration. "Nah," she decides, sliding backwards on the leather seats. "I like pretending we're kids again. It's fun."
Over dinner, my family and I recall our favorite childhood memories—mostly of Esther and I and our cousins. I think more tears are shed from laughing so much than latkes eaten, but it's heartwarming. Camaraderie resonates around the dining room table, and only continues when we clean up and then gather in the family room for the lighting of the final candle and the blessing.
"I remember when, Avi, you got your first bike," one of my aunts says, leaning forward a little bit so everyone can hear her better. I sit across from her on the floor, leaning up against the loveseat, Joshua and Esther sitting on it behind me.
"You obviously still had your training wheels, but, by this time, Esther was already riding, like, mountain bikes, and you were angry," she continues, and I join in with the laughter at her choice of emphasizing words. "Esther made fun of you all the time when you two used to ride up and down the street, do you remember that? And, Avi, you were so mad that you couldn't be just like your big sister."
"Aww," Esther says condescendingly, reaching down to ruffle my hair. I swat her hand away, my own immediately flying up to make sure my hair isn't messed-up. "Oh, it looks fine, you big baby," she tells me with an eye roll.
"See? Just like that," my aunt says, pointing over at us, and the entire room erupts into laughter. "But by the time you finally got your training wheels off, Esther apparently decided that she didn't like bikes anymore, and so you were left out alone in the dust."
"I remember that," Joshua says, shifting a little bit. "Avi would go around the house, pleading with everybody to go riding with him. And everybody always said no." He chuckles.
I frown, giving everybody a look. "You guys were mean to me," I say, but I don't mean it. Because the laughter that ensues is enough to make that frown, though playful, never want to crawl onto my face again. The laughter warms my heart, makes me remember why I love spending time with family so much, makes me realize just how important it is to have a support group when you're going through a difficult time in your life.
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( KIRSTIE )
The air is so still that I half expect snow to start falling at any second now. It's a bit chilly for a December in Texas,—low fifties instead of mid-sixties—and so a couple flakes wouldn't seem so out of the ordinary. As Scott and I walk in silence through the cemetery, our soft footsteps hitting the earthen ground the only noise for what feels like miles, I almost want it to start snowing. It would make Christmas seem even more like a silent night than it already is.
We walk hand-in-hand, eyes on the ground as one boot steps in front of the other, already having the route memorized despite the fact that we haven't visited the Grassis in a little while. My right hand, which holds a bouquet of Christmas roses to replace the old ones, feels weighted.
After a couple more yards, I finally look up, slowing my steps as the three gravestones come into view, each decorated with Christmas wreaths, roses, pionsettas. Beside Mitch's is a small Christmas tree with plastic, spherical, gold ornaments, a thoughtful addition that a fan must have set up before we got here.
We stop, letting go of each other's hands, and I let my eyes slowly graze over the engravings in each of the three stones—the engravings that still look somewhat new. My heart constricts with the fact that, one day, these gravestones will be as faded as some of the other ones surrounding me. That, one day, they might just crack and crumble and decay.
I gasp for air at the thought, feeling a wave of panic wash over me, and then quickly try to erase it from my mind. I begin walking towards Mitch's grave, kneeling down in front of it.
"Hi, Mitchy," I whisper, only loud enough for me—and hopefully him—to hear. "Merry Christmas. We wanted to come and visit you, to tell you that ourselves. We know how much you used to... love Christmas." I press my lips together, pulling out the old bouquet of roses in the vase and replacing them with the new ones, sprayed with fake snow. "I hope you're feeling better now. Remember that we're here if you ever want to visit sometime." I smile a little, picturing Mitch standing in front of me in my mind. I kiss my fingertips, and then reach forward to press them to his stone. "I miss you. Love you, Mitchy."
After another moment, I stand, glancing up at Scott as he stands there, his eyes glazed over with a faraway look. His jaw and fists are clenched together, and I'm not entirely sure if it's out of anger or sadness, or if it's just his emotions all spiraling together and fogging his mind.
The night is silent as I walk back over to him, gently grabbing onto his fists and easing his fingernails out of the palms of his hands. I take his right one in my left, squeezing tightly, and then we just stand there, looking at the three gravestones.
The three that shouldn't be there.