Page 69 of What You Left Me

I’m telling you about it because he got back with the help of this guy, Doc, like you’d get your head out of the banisters with the help of a parent or—in my case—an EMT with a saw. You’d get out of the tree with the help of a parent, or—in my case—Spitty with a mattress. There isn’t anyone here, Petra. It’s just me and my mind. There’s no one to help me out of the quicksand. You saved me from sinking down farther, from losing myself, but I’m the one that has to do the rest. Helping Spitty let go of that memory dream is my way out.I’m Doc. He’s Marty. I’m the mattress. He’s the kid in the tree. You see? I can set him free, Petra, so don’t you dare go to sleep and dream of me first. I don’t want to hear it.

You’re already so close. I know it. It’s like I can feel your breath on my face.

• • •

“Doesn’t it seem like if you get close enough, you’ll wake him up?” Mama Dorothy asks.

I jerk up. I’d been trying so hard to send Martin my message that I’d been leaning closer and closer until the space between us could be measured in inches, and I didn’t even realize. “Yeah, it really does.”

Dorothy strokes Martin’s head. “It hasn’t worked for me yet, but I keep trying.”

“So,” I start, holding out theo.

“Unplug one and it’s done, apparently. It’s my call.” She grabs my hand and squeezes tight, kissing my knuckles.

It doesn’t seem right. Bodies function every day without any thought. It’s all automatic. Breathing, speaking, sitting, standing. Even if I tried to think about it, stop myself from breathing, the breath itself would win eventually. I wish that would happen for Martin too. It’s so unfair.

There’s that word again.Fair.

A tear falls down my cheek onto my hand interlaced with Mama Dorothy’s. “Please don’t cry. You’ll get me going again.”

“I’m sorry. This must be so impossible for you. I hardly know him, and I feel this way. You—” I stop myself. “You.”

“Hey, it’s not about how long you’ve known someone. It’s about what you give them,” she says. She wipes a tear off my cheek. “Besides, moms are made of steel. We have to be. I’m thinking of this round as nothing but another one of his little tests.”

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Mr. McGee. Everyone else from the waiting room crowds behind him.

“Didn’t the nurse say two at a time?” Mama Dorothy asks.

“Yeah, well, you know teenagers,” Mr. McGee says. “The nurse buzzed the door open for me, and they all followed.”

Mama Dorothy gestures everyone toward us. “All of you hurry in here before someone comes to yell at us.”

The whole group files into the room. We stand shoulder to shoulder, like a pack of commuters snuggled together on the train in winter. Someone, the boy who must be Chris, closes the door, and the room becomes beeping machines and shuffling feet, everyone in a constant state of readjustment. For some, like Daniel, Cameron, and Aminah, this is their first time seeing Martin like this, and the reality of it paints their faces into sinking, sagging, sad portraits. It’s almost electric in here. Tears and desperate breaths. Whispered words. Wringing hands.

A synthesizer?

It’s quiet at first, a hand covering the sound. The hand moves away, and I comprehend what I’m hearing—the first few chords of “Jump.” Mr. McGee has his phone held up above his head.

“This one’s for you, Marty,” he says. The volume’s still too soft, but it doesn’t matter. We all know it. A foot starts stomping. A hand claps the beat. My voice hums the shrieking opening notes. The vocals come in, and in unison, we sing. Then there’s mumbling, some people knowing the words—the McGees and the older ladies, us kids faking it along—until we get to the chorus. All at once when Van Halen commands it, we do it. We jump.

The room shakes. A nurse immediately opens the door. “What in the—?” she starts. “There’s way too many of you in here!”

“Please,” Turrey begs, putting his smooth-talking confidence to good use. “We’ll be quieter.”

She rolls her eyes. “Five minutes,” she warns.

“Jump!” we shout when she leaves.

38

In a lot so packed cars are double-parked, Spencer still got his designated spot. As he walks up to his beautiful color-inverted orca of a Caravan, he can’t help but smile over all his good fortune. He got great parking. He got his last in-school suspension waived. He graduated high school.

He climbs into the driver’s seat of the White Whale. Fly rides shotgun. Neither has removed their robes, even though it’s hot as hell outside and Spencer hates his. Stronger than the hate is the love for what it represents—one last middle finger to the schooling system. Nobody can tell Spencer when he can or cannot leave his own graduation. To prove a point, he’ll be a yellow-clad rebel in a van made for a soccer mom with his best friend by his side doing the same.

Spencer takes the whiskey bottles out of the glove compartment. He’s already feeling woozy from the two he chugged before the ceremony and the one he drank with Fly behind the bleachers. He hands a bottle to Fly and takes the other for himself. The liquor burns less this time around, which is good, because he can chug it faster. Nothing is better to Spencer than having Fly do this with him. Stand by his side as he waves the black flag.

“You did it,” Fly says. “You got me first.” He looks so happy. Just like he should be. But he hasn’t touched his whiskey.