Five Minutes More (16 page)

I squeeze Seth's beanbags, jammed in my sweater pocket, and look over the railing trying to spot him.

“Why are we having an assembly?” I ask Marissa.

She looks around, then slouches in her seat. “Watch for Keating,” she says, pulling out a sparkly pink lipstick. She checks out her reflection in the tiny mirror on the end of the cap, then remembers I asked a question. “Oh, it's some suicide guy.”

I freeze. Marissa is still talking, but I can't hear her. All I can hear is the sound of my own heart thudding in my ears.

Sit up
, I tell myself.
Breathe. Act normal.

Mr. Connell makes a bunch of announcements—at least I think he does. I see his lips move, and everyone else seems to hear him.

The “suicide guy” is all in black—black jeans, black turtleneck sweater. His dark hair is short and spiky as if he's always running his hands through it. He moves around the stage like some kind of
TV
evangelist revving up the crowd. And then I hear one word. Just one: Signs.

I can see my dad's face even without closing my eyes. Oh God, did I miss signs? Was he trying to tell me? He gave me his Red Sox cap the week before. I didn't know that meant anything. I didn't know. When he got back from Mexico, he slept almost the whole next day. I didn't know. I didn't know.

I'm shoving my way down the aisle, past people's knees, before I realize I've stood up. I make it to the girl's bathroom just in time to puke up my cornflakes. I rinse my mouth for a long time under the tap at the sink, but the sour taste won't go away.

When I come out of the bathroom, there's Seth, in jeans and his gray sweatshirt, leaning against the banister where the stairs start down to the second floor. He looks over at me, and I don't know if he's waiting for me because he saw me leave or if he bolted for the same reason I did. Neither one of us says anything. We just stand there staring at each other.

Finally he inclines his head toward the stairs. “Want to get out of here?” he says.

I nod.

He almost smiles. “Let's go,” he says.

We walk without talking, up the hill behind the school, across the square. Seth seems to know where he's going. Me, I don't care.

I don't even know this part of the city well, but Seth obviously does. When we get to the old stone wall at the back of
where the hospital used to be, he stops and boosts himself up onto the ledge. It's like a higher, longer version of the wall around the old part of our school. He leans down and offers me his hand. I put my other hand on the top of the wall and pull myself up. Behind him I can see what looks like a path through the scraggly trees and bushes. Seth starts along it, still holding my hand.

We come out in an open area. The grass is long, dried yellow and brown, beaten down by the winter, stained with dirty snow in the shaded places. I can see part of what I'm guessing is the old foundation from the hospital poking out of the ground. Some crumbling bricks along one side make a kind of alcove. It's surprisingly warm in the sun. He lets go of my hand then, and I rub my palm with my fingers, missing the warmth of his already. Seth sits down and brushes off a place for me.

The city is spread out below us like something built of blocks and toy cars. Up here it seems so small, and I seem so big.

I study Seth's face. His eyes are red and there is dark stubble on his cheeks. “Why didn't you tell me about your brother?” I ask.

He clears his throat but keeps staring straight ahead. “I thought...you might have known. There were a lot of rumors last year...when it happened.”

“How...” I stop, press my lips together and start again. “How did you know about my dad?”

“I just...I just figured it out...from the way they wrote about what happened in the paper...it was the same way they
wrote about my brother. They didn't say he killed himself but...” He lets the sentence end, unfinished.

“And what? You figured we could be friends because we're both some kind of freak?” My voice is getting harsher and louder. “Because your brother and my father...you thought we should start hanging out?”

“No!” Seth swings to face me and sucks in a shaky breath. “I thought you would understand. I thought that I could talk to you and you wouldn't ask any questions or give me that pity look I get from everyone else. I thought maybe we could be friends and it would be normal.”

Tears prickle in my eyes. “You should have told me,” I say in a soft voice.

Seth studies my face. “And then what?” he asks. “Would you have wanted to be my friend?”

I can barely choke out the words. “I don't know.”

He turns away from me and looks out over the city again. I can't stop shivering. I pull the sleeves of my sweater out through the arms of my jacket and down over my hands. Then I press my hands between my knees to keep warm.

There's garbage scattered all over the ground around the old stone foundation, bits of paper wrappers, coffee cups, beer cans, empty wine bottles. One of the bottles near my feet is broken, almost into two even pieces, as though someone had just snapped it in half.

Seth lets out his breath in a soft sigh. “That afternoon we'd had a fight,” he says. “About who ate the last piece of pizza. I was so mad.” He looks down at the ground. “Can you believe it? Mad over a stupid piece of pizza. I took off out of the house
and I said, ‘I'll be glad when you're gone. When you leave for university, I'll be so happy I'll have a big freakin' party.' That's the last thing I ever said to him.”

“But you didn't really mean it,” I say.

“No. But I couldn't take it back.”

I put my hand out, hesitate, and then touch his arm.

“I wish I'd said, ‘Man, I'm glad you're my brother.' I wish I'd asked what was going on in his life, if he was okay. Mostly, I wish he wasn't dead. Every day I wish he wasn't the one who was dead.”

I take a shaky breath. “The night before...I was at the door and...he hugged me and he kissed the top of my head and...and...he said, ‘I love you so much,' and...I...I...I was in a hurry and so I didn't say it back. I just said, ‘Me too, Dad,' and...and would it have killed me to say...to say the words?” I look away. “He had...he had a disease... ALS. It's...it's bad and I keep wondering, did he think we wouldn't love him anymore if we knew he was sick?” The tears slide down my face and drip off my chin.

“I tried to be perfect after Eric died,” Seth says. “I tried to be like him. He could do anything. He was one of those people that just...shined. Just being around him, you could feel it. He didn't even mean to kill himself. He was at a friend's house and they were just goofing around with this gun. I wanted to make up for it—you know, for my mom and dad. But I couldn't. You can't make up for that kind of thing.”

He reaches for my hand. “Last week was the one-year anniversary of Eric...dying.”

“The day in the auditorium.”

Seth nods. “Yeah. I'd just come from the memorial service. I told my dad I'd made the track team, and you know what he said? Nothing. He just looked at me and turned and walked away.”

“He was upset. He didn't mean to—”

“Yes, he did. And I don't blame him. My father ran cross-country in high school. He was good. Nationally ranked good. Summer after graduation, he broke his leg. He could still run but he was too slow. Eric was as good as Dad used to be—maybe better. It was my dad's second chance.” He shakes his head. “You think I don't know that the only reason I made the track team was the pity vote? I'm not a jock. I'm not Eric. Every time my father looks at me he sees what he lost.”

“Is that why you cut your hair?” I ask.

“Yeah. Dad was always after me to keep my hair short like Eric's. He always said my hair was ‘artsy-fartsy.' He didn't even notice I got it cut.”

“Was there stuff we didn't notice?” I asked. “Back there at the assembly, that guy, he said there were signs. Did I miss them? Was there some way I could have stopped him?”

Seth just stares at the ground. After a moment he gives a slight shrug. “I don't know,” he says.

Silence.

“Sometimes I wonder where my dad is now,” I say softly. “What he is. What he's feeling. If he even has them anymore. Is he in heaven or hell? Or are there even such places? Maybe he doesn't feel anything. Maybe he's nowhere. Maybe he's just nothing.” I take a breath and let it out. I can't sit anymore.
I wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweater and stand up. “Let's go,” I say.

“Where?”

I look around. “I don't care. I just want to walk.” My bottom lip is shaking. I can't talk about this anymore. “Can we do that? Please?”

Seth looks up at me. He nods slowly. “Okay.” He gets to his feet, and for a second we just stand there. Then Seth reaches for my hand. And I give it to him.

We walk around for hours without talking very much. Seth buys fries from a chip wagon and we share them, holding the cardboard plate between us. Slowly we work our way back down the hill. We stop at a bench by the water a couple of blocks from school.

“You know we're going to be in trouble for just taking off,” Seth says.

“I don't care,” I say.

“Connell will probably call your house. What's your mother going to say?”

I kick a piece of broken pavement over the lip of the sidewalk. “I don't care about that either.”

He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. “There's some stuff I have to do, but I'll walk you home first.”

“No, it's okay. It's not that far.”

We both stand up. Seth is still holding my hand, and I don't want him to let go. “So, I'll see you,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” Seth says.

I give a quick nod.

He smiles then. For the first time all day, he smiles. “Okay.”

He squeezes my hand. “Tomorrow,” he says again.

He jams both hands in his pockets, gives me one last long look and heads down the sidewalk. I watch him for a minute, and then I head off in the opposite direction.

My stuff is still at school. I don't want to go in, though. I don't want to see Mr. Keating or the Malibu Barbie guidance counselor or anyone like that. So I lean against one of the big maple trees by the corner across from the school and watch for Marissa.

She comes out of the door with Andie. Crap! But Andie just stands there long enough to flip her hair out from under the collar of her jacket. Then she heads for the student lot.

I watch for a break in the traffic and then cut across the street from corner to corner. I don't want to get any closer to the school. If Marissa's going home, this will be the way she comes.

She turns then and does start down the sidewalk toward me. I wait, hands in my pockets until she glances ahead and sees me.

“Where have you been?” she says. “You never came back. What'd you do? Fall into a black hole in the bathroom or something?”

“I was sick,” I say.

Marissa frowns, studies my face. “Okay. So where'd you go? You didn't go to the nurse's office. Keating was pissed. He sent me to look for you.”

“I don't want to talk to him right now,” I say. One of my knees keeps jerking back and forth, back and forth. In my
pocket, I press my fist hard against my leg. “Could you go back and get my stuff out of my locker for me?”

“Yeah, all right.” She pulls the strap of her courier bag over her head and hands the bag to me. “Hang on to this,” she says.

I point over my shoulder, across the intersection. “I'll wait over there for you.”

Marissa stares at me for a second. “I'll be right back,” she says and then heads toward the school.

I wait, back against one of the trees that line the sidewalk, and it seems like forever until Marissa returns. She hands me my backpack and the little woven black purse she gave me for my birthday last year. I give her back her own bag.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Are you sure you're all right?” she says.

I tuck my purse inside my pack and sling it over one shoulder. “Yeah. I'm just hungry.”

“Want to go to Gallaghers?”

“I think I'll just go home,” I say.

Marissa opens her mouth, then presses her lips together again like she was about to say something but changed her mind.

“Thanks for getting my stuff.”

“What's going on with you?” she blurts.

“Nothing. I told you I was sick.” My leg is twitching again. I dig my knuckles into my thigh to make it stop. “I have to go.”

Marissa steps in front of me. “You're lying, D'Arcy. I know you weren't sick. I know there's something going on with you that you won't tell me.”

I look past her at the knobby peeling bark on the tree and bite the inside of my cheek so I won't get mad and say something I shouldn't. “There's nothing going on.”

Marissa takes a step sideways so I have to look at her again. “That's a load of crap,” she says. “I know you.”

“You don't know anything,” I say. Then I turn and walk away very fast. I hear Marissa calling my name, but I just keep walking.

I'm almost a block away before she catches up to me. She grabs my arm. Hard. Her nails pinch even through my jacket.

“Why are you acting like this?” She's almost shouting and half out of breath from running after me.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say, wrenching my arm free. I jam my hand back in the pocket of my jeans so I won't rub the place where she grabbed me.

“Yeah, you do. You've been different since your dad died.”

She tries to touch me again. I step back.

“Look, I'm really sorry about that. It sucks.”

I press my lips together. Clench my teeth.

Marissa stands in front of me, feet apart, both hands gripping the strap of her bag where it cuts across the front of her body. When I don't talk, she shakes her head. “You're my best friend, you know. But you're turning into somebody I don't know. You're scaring me.”