Something Like Gravity Page 25

  I suspected they had already gone to the amusement park without me while I’d been occupied with Chris, but that was okay—I was never a fan of roller coasters and spinning in circles.

  Gabby twisted around in the passenger seat and reached across the car to slather streaks of thick, pasty sunblock across my cheeks and down my nose, and then she pulled out my big floppy straw sun hat, which she must’ve found somewhere in my room, and planted it on my head.

  I cleared my throat—an explanation was in order. “Y’all? I know I’ve been acting crazy. I know I haven’t been a great friend lately—” I began.

  Hayden interrupted me. “We don’t have to do this, all right?”

  Gabby added, “We understand.”

  “No, I want to say this. I think I’ve been more messed up than I wanted to admit since Mallory”—I paused to give her name a moment to breathe—“and then the whole thing with Chris, it was—he was what I needed. I didn’t mean to disappear on you. And I didn’t mean to fuck everything up with him either. I just—I don’t know. . . .”

  “We know,” Gabby reiterated. “It’s forgotten, okay?”

  I nodded, because if I opened my mouth again, I was afraid I would start crying, and I was afraid that if I started crying, I wouldn’t be able to stop. So I just nodded and looked out the window, letting the wind blow against my face.

  Forty more minutes of loud music and no talking, and we were there.

  The River Adventures sign pointed us down a long dirt road that fed into dense forest surrounding the river. We pulled up to the cabin, and a boy who could not have been much older than us rented us three tubes and took us to the drop-in point in an old beat-up truck with the faded company logo on the doors, mumbling that he’d pick us up at the exit point in a few hours.

  He sent us downriver, and Hayden began distributing refreshments. She came prepared with an inflatable floating cooler full of snacks and tea and bottled water—she could always be counted on for things like that.

  She poured us each a plastic cup of tea from a gallon container I’m sure she had made fresh especially for this outing. After she distributed them, she raised hers in the air and announced, “To a fresh start!”

  “To a fresh start,” we echoed, tapping our cups together, and as we floated away from each other, I took a sip and immediately spit it out over the side of my inner tube into the river.

  “Oh my god,” I coughed. “That is not sweet tea!”

  “It is too,” Gabby said. “It just also happens to have some gin and vodka and tequila and cola.”

  “Oh Jesus!” I moaned, taking one more tiny sip. “Ugh, that’s terrible.”

  Hayden was drinking hers with a straw, and said, out of the corner of her mouth, “Tastes better the more you drink.”

  I sipped slowly as I pulled my sunglasses on, then I tipped my hat forward, and lay back, letting my hands dip into the cool water. The sun soaked into my skin, warming me from the outside, the hard tea warming me from the inside as I rocked back and forth on the water. There was hardly anyone else on the river today. It was quiet, peaceful.

  “If there is a heaven . . . ,” I began, my voice lazy and sun baked. “I mean, if we all get our own private paradise when we die, this would be mine.”

  This is what I said every year as we floated downstream in the current, holding on to each other’s hands. Only this year, I meant it in a new way, because there was a part of me that really wanted—no, needed—to believe it. I wanted to believe that one day I’d be doing this, and there along the shore I’d see Mallory again, waving to me in her two-piece bathing suit, holding her camera up to take a picture, shouting, “Smile!”

  “Yeah,” I heard Hayden say in response. I opened my eyes and sat up. Ahead of me, she was floating along, using her arms and legs to turn herself in circles, creating tiny waves that lifted my float up and down.

  I looked all around, but Gabby wasn’t there. Her tube was floating alongside me, empty. Before I could say Where’s Gabby, I felt hands pushing against my butt and back and thighs.

  “No!” I screamed.

  I tried to call out Gabby’s name, but I was already flipped over and under the water—river water up my nose and in my mouth—before I could get any sound out. Underwater, I was reminded of that avalanche feeling once again, of not knowing which way is up or down. But something inside me, some instinct I was not familiar with, turned me around and forced me to kick up toward the surface, which I broke, gasping and shouting and splashing at Gabby, who was already climbing back into her tube.

  “New rule,” she said. “Anyone talks about dying, they get flipped!”

  “Not funny!” I yelled, still gasping for air and dripping wet, fishing for my hat and sunglasses as I maneuvered myself back into the inner tube.

  Hayden paddled herself closer to me, and said, “Kinda funny.” She hooked her foot under my tube and then reached out to grab the handle on Gabby’s. She arranged us in a line, placing me in the center. We floated like that, not speaking, until we reached the end point.

  As I looked up at the sky, seeing the clouds moving slowly the way we were moving slowly down the river, I wondered about our toast, whether or not it would really be possible to get a fresh start, to put it all behind me: Chris, and the pictures and Mallory, and my parents, and Neil, and my two best friends whose hands I was holding, and all of the messed-up shit that had happened between all of us.

  Was it that simple? Just let go, and float away?

  CHRIS

  EARTH IS 4.5 BILLION YEARS old. The Sun is 4.6 billion. The Milky Way galaxy is 13.5 billion years old. Life on Earth, like single-celled bacteria life, began 3.8 billion years ago. Humans only evolved 200,000 years ago. Civilization itself is only 6,000 years old. We’re barely a blip on the cosmic radar. The course of even the longest human life is essentially nothing in the grand scheme. So one fucking summer is less than nothing.

  Which is all to say: I’ll get over her.

  I’ll forget this whole thing.

  Any moment now. I’ll get her out of my head.

  That was what I was thinking about as I watched Coleton trash-talking the Transformers pinball machine at the Battleground. Each time he tagged the ball with the flipper and it ricocheted throughout the course, the bells and alarms went off, lights flashing, all of it mixing with the noise of the other arcade games.

  After a long run that ended in the ball sliding up and over a side barrier—a truly frustrating conclusion—he glanced over at me, leaning against the machine next to him while he waited for the playout of his final score so he could start his second game. “Why don’t you play something?” he said.

  I looked down at the machine I had my elbow propped against—it was the Twilight Zone pinball. I’d played this one a million times while waiting for Coleton’s endless tries against the Transformers table. I was pretty damn good at it too—older machines are harder. I was the number three name on the scoreboard, or at least, I used to be.

  I fished in my pocket for a quarter.

  My hands were in position, hovering over the buttons on either side of the machine. For a second, I even felt a little thrill of excitement. Maybe being back here wasn’t the worst.

  As I pulled back on the bulky trigger, I prepared myself to slide into the swing of the game. I knew the goals and objectives by heart. I knew exactly which loops and ramps would maximize my points. I knew just how hard to nudge the machine with my hips to shift the ball and avoid a tilt. I knew that if I only triggered one flipper at a time, the hit would be stronger, the ball would fly more accurately. I knew I’d have at least ten, fifteen uninterrupted minutes of play as the unspoken rule of pinball came into effect and not even Coleton would direct conversation at me, as I needed everything to concentrate on the trajectory of that shiny metallic orb.

  But the metal ball sunk right between the two flippers. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Every shot just sent it straight into the gutter, and somehow I was too
slow or off target to keep the ball in play for even a minute.

  Coleton scored next to me, shouting, “Woo!”

  I kicked the machine.

  “Dude,” Coleton said.

  It felt good. I kicked it again. Harder.

  “Hey!” I heard a voice shout behind me.

  I turned around. It was the manager, the one we’d known for years, who let us play free on our birthdays, and who gave us free nachos when we won at something. Only, now he was yelling at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You got five thousand dollars lying around?” he shouted.

  “What?” I repeated, not nicely.

  “That’s how much that machine cost, so I suggest you find something else to beat up.”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “That’s fine, I’m outta here anyway.”

  I stormed out. Marched across the parking lot to the station wagon.

  “Chris!” Coleton had followed me out.

  I spun around and yelled, “What?”

  “What is your problem?” he said. He looked confused, and that made me feel even angrier. I didn’t want to explain anything to him; I didn’t have to explain anything, because no one deserved anything else from me.

  “Forget it, Cole,” I said, turning away from him to open the car door.

  “I mean, what happened to you?” he said, actually concerned. “Is it the girl?” And while I was thankful he didn’t say her name, he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He’d never lived outside his little make-believe world. He couldn’t understand what I was going through.

  It made me burn hotter. I spun around to face him again.

  “Yeah, it’s the girl.” I could taste the hostility in the air around me. “And me. And you. And my parents. Everyone—it’s all bullshit!”

  I was about to apologize, when he came back at me with, “Oh, so I’m bullshit, you’re bullshit, everything’s bullshit?” He was yelling—he never yelled. In all our years of friendship I had actually never heard him yell. “You know what I think is bullshit?”

  “Can’t wait to hear,” I said, because this was officially a fight.

  “You bailing on me for the whole summer, cutting me out, treating me like shit, and then you’re back and I don’t even call you on any of it, and now you’re acting like some kind of aggro douchebag!” He stopped to catch his breath. “That’s bullshit.”

  I had nothing for him.

  “This isn’t you,” he added. “What, you really wanna be this person?”

  Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to take this feeling, the buzz of it, and simmer in it for a while, because anger felt so much better than the crushing, debilitating sadness that had been threatening to consume me.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “And while we’re at it, why don’t you find your own ride home,” I told him. I got into the car and slammed the door behind me.

  I looked straight ahead as I turned the key in the ignition, but I could still see him out of the corner of my eye standing next to my window, holding his hands up toward the sky, saying, “Seriously? Real mature!”

  I wanted to speed off. I wanted to leave him there in the empty parking spot, watching him wave his arms over his head in the rearview mirror while I went off to find someplace better. But as I moved my hand to shift into gear, I turned the car off instead. And as I sat there staring at the building, it got all hazy and mirage-like. I blinked and blinked again, but my vision only blurred more. No. I wanted to stay like this, but that anger was collapsing all around me. I folded my arms over the steering wheel and let my head fall against them.

  I didn’t look up when I heard Coleton opening the passenger door and getting in. I didn’t look up when he asked, “Are you okay?” And I didn’t look up when he squeezed my shoulder for just a single pulse, and then said, “It’s gonna be all right.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” I mumbled into my flesh. “I fucking hate crying.” And it wasn’t just a stupid macho thing. Crying made me feel physically ill—my eyes would swell up and my stomach would hurt and I’d already felt nauseous for days and I didn’t want to do it anymore.

  “Yeah, so do I,” he said, like it was no big deal. “But . . . you gotta let it out.”

  MAIA

  ROXIE WAS THE ONLY ONE waiting up for me. She followed me up the stairs and into my bedroom, and watched closely as I changed and got into bed. I patted my hand against the mattress to get her to jump up, but she paced the floor next to me instead. I let my hand dangle off the side of the bed and gave her a half-hearted scratch behind the ears. Eventually she lay down on the floor next to my bed, and I fell asleep to the sound of her soft snoring.

  It was one of those nights where it felt like I had only blinked and it was morning all over again. That relentless sun rising even though I wanted it to stay night forever, because I knew already how fresh starts work, how each day would be one more day since the last time I saw Chris, and I would count the days until the number got so high, I couldn’t keep track anymore.

  I knew, because that’s what happened with Mallory.

  Roxie was still lying there on the floor in the same position she fell asleep in. I sat up, even though every bone in my body resisted. I swung my feet around, and as they touched the floor, she didn’t stir. As I stood, I realized the carpet was wet. I leaned forward to get a better look, and I could smell pee. She’d had another accident during the night.

  “Roxie,” I cooed. “It’s okay, girl.”

  I crouched down next to her, my fingers moving through her fur, down to the skin, and then my hand pulled away. I let out this sharp scream—a reflex. Her skin was stiff and taut and cool. I fell backward on my butt, right into the pee. It was cold and it instantly soaked through the back of my shorts. But I scrambled to my hands and knees and rushed over to her, touched her chest and her face, brushed back the scraggly fur around her nose and mouth. I tried to lift her head, but she wouldn’t budge.

  I didn’t know if I was screaming words or just screaming.

  “Maia?” It was my dad. I heard his footsteps as he came running up the stairs, yelling, “What in god’s name is going on up here?”

  That was when I looked up and saw that my mom was already standing in the doorway, motionless. Her makeup was done, but her hair was still wet and tangled from her shower. Both of her hands were clutching her chest, and her eyes were blank, the color slowly draining from her cheeks. Dad burst into the room, his face flushed, breathing heavily. He looked at me, then Roxie, then Mom.

  “Do something!” I yelled at them both, even though I knew there was nothing to be done.

  Mom stood in the same spot, not even blinking.

  Dad walked over and knelt down on the floor next to me, placing his hand on Roxie’s rib cage—we all watched as her chest remained completely still.

  He shook his head.

  I heard a low whine—a sound that could’ve come from Roxie, only it hadn’t. It was my mom, standing behind my dad and me, both hands now covering her mouth, but still that small animal sound escaped. Dad stood up again, and Mom immediately fell against him. His arms folded around her as she buried her face in his neck. It was a silent grief—I only knew she was crying because her whole body was trembling. As she moved her mouth away from my dad’s shoulder, I could hear her saying over and over, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  And Dad spoke into her hair as he smoothed it back, repeating, “I know, I know.”

  I had never seen my mother like this, not even after Mallory died.

  I needed to get away. I looked back at Roxie’s motionless body once, and then I left her lying there with my parents. I ran into the bathroom and stripped out of the pajama shorts that were now soaked with urine, and threw on the pants that were lying at the top of the laundry hamper. I went downstairs, grabbed my bike.

  But I couldn’t get far enough away.

  I was back in the middle of the road. Waiting. For a sign, or for Mallory, or for Chris, I wasn’t sure. But n
othing was happening. The sky was all wrong, too clear and cloudless, bright and blue. Nothing like the picture, nothing like that day we met.

  I rode past Bowman’s and the Gas n’ Sip and the school and Bargain Mart and the railroad tracks.

  Mallory was gone. Chris was gone. Now Roxie was gone too.

  At the stoplight I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I wanted to call Chris again. But I knew that wasn’t fair to either of us. I scrolled through my contacts—I knew the number was there from years ago, for getting ahold of Mallory when she’d let her phone die, which she always did.

  It went to voice mail; I was expecting no different. I waited for the tone to leave my message:

  “Neil, this is Maia. I know I’m probably the last person you want calling you, but I need to tell you something, or ask you something. Please call me back. It’s about Mallory.”

  • • •

  That evening, as the sun went down, Mom and Dad and I stood around a mound of freshly tilled soil under the big oak tree in front of the house.

  Mom and I had waited on the porch with Roxie’s body wrapped in a white cotton blanket while Dad dug a three-foot-deep hole in the ground. He scooped the blanket up in his arms, and we followed him to the tree, and he set her inside the red clay earth.

  We each said our own silent, private prayers as we took turns covering the blanket with dirt. Just when I thought we would all go back to our separate quarters, never to speak of this again, Mom knelt down on the ground, and sat with her legs crossed, looking out at the setting sun. Without a word, Dad sat down next to her. So I did too.

  “It feels like yesterday that you brought her home, doesn’t it?” she said, turning to my dad.

  He nodded and stifled a laugh.

  “You were so mad,” Dad said, and whistled. “I brought her home and you came barreling down the front steps yelling at me.”

  “Why?” I asked—I hadn’t heard this story.

  “Because we had a one-year-old and a three-year-old, and we’d agreed to wait until Mallory was in school and you were at least walking before getting a dog!” Mom shot Dad a look that was filled with, for once, something gentle.