My Heart and Other Black Holes (7 page)

Real smooth, FrozenRobot, real smooth.

“Aysel,” she says, raising her eyebrows. She reaches her hand in through the open window. I know I’m failing the
“Southern Manners Test” right now. I should step out of the car and curtsy if I want to have a chance in hell of her approving of me. But I don’t need her to approve of me. It’s not like I’m asking for Roman’s hand in marriage. And anyway, there will be no me to approve of in a month.

“Nice to meet you.” I weakly return her handshake.

“Aysel’s a beautiful name,” she says. I’ve learned over the years that “Aysel’s a beautiful name” is the tactful substitute for “What the hell kind of name is Aysel?”

“It’s Turkish.” I scan her face for any reaction. Mostly, I’m interested to see if the stories of my father have had the same staying power they do in Langston. If there’s a possibility that Roman or his friends or his mother know about my dad and what he did. I’m pretty sure my dad is the only Turkish person to have made headline news in these parts of Kentucky. And recently, since Brian Jackson has been all over the news, the references to my dad have become more and more frequent. If she makes the connection, she doesn’t show it. Her heart-shaped face maintains the same genuine smile.

“Your family lives here in Willis?” she asks.

“Langston,” I say.

“I have some friends that go to House of Grace in Langston. Do you go there?”

She wants to know if I go to church. Clever. I have to admit I appreciate this woman’s nerve.

“My mom goes to St. Columbia.” It’s not a lie. Mom, Steve, Georgia, and Mike all go to church every Sunday. I sometimes go, but I haven’t been in a while. Right after I moved in with them, Mom used to force me to go, but she’s given up that fight. Mom is good at giving up on fights. I’m sure everyone at church has noticed my absence. They probably whisper about how I’m taking after my devil father.

Roman’s mom’s eyes brighten at the mention of St. Columbia. She places her hands on her wide hips and leans in toward me, crouching down by the window. The smell of her hair spray fills the car. “I hear that’s a nice church. I went to their Christmas pageant a few years back. Their choir director is really spectacular, yeah?”

I don’t know anything about St. Columbia’s choir director. I’m not sure how many different ways there are to sing “Away in a Manger” or “Silent Night,” but I nod like I’m in agreement with her, like I’m a normal human being having a nice conversation about my church, like I’m not a ticking time bomb of a monster. “My sister sings in the choir.”

This really makes her happy. Her smile is wide and straight, nothing like Roman’s crooked, almost hesitant one. “Oh, how great! I’m always trying to get Roman to be more involved with the church. It’s nice to see young people worshipping the Lord.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. To be fair, I don’t really know anything about my sister. We haven’t had a real
conversation in about two years, but I’m pretty sure she’s not worshipping the Lord. She doesn’t have the time to worship anyone other than herself. “She’s really into singing in front of people.” I don’t mention that Georgia also loves the sound of her own voice.

Roman’s mom’s smile is getting so wide, I’m scared her face is going to break in two. She spins to face Roman. “Aw, you picked up food for Captain Nemo.”

He hunches his shoulders, rounding his back, like he’s trying to hide the cup of earthworms from her. Whatever physical disguise he’s trying to assemble isn’t working. “Yeah, we picked them up on the way back from the root beer stand.”

She beams at me. “That’s so lovely!”

I nod at her, not sure what I’m supposed to say. I stop myself from asking who named Captain Nemo. Maybe it was her. She seems like a pet person.

It’s quiet for a couple of moments, and then Roman clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “Hey, Mom,” he says. “Can you give Aysel and me a second?”

His mom looks confused, and then a strange, fevered look washes over her face. The type of face people make after they’ve just completed a triathlon or climbed to the crest of a mountain. She’s beaming at me, like I’m this Christian angel here to rescue her forlorn son. She thinks she understands, but she definitely doesn’t. She has no clue whatsoever. Poor lady.

“Sure, I’ll see you inside, sweetie.” She takes off his baseball cap and runs her hand through his short brown hair. She hands him back his hat, and as if in exchange, he hands her the earthworms.

“Can you take these with you? I’ll feed him when I come in,” Roman says.

“You got it.” She handles the cup with care, like the worms are some kind of precious cargo.

Before she turns to go, she gives me one last smile. “It was so nice to meet you. You should come over for dinner sometime.”

“Uh, that’d be great,” I lie.

As she walks away from us, she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll even look up some Turkish recipes. I’ll make you some traditional food.” She grips the plastic cup with both hands, cradling it, and then hurries toward the front door, her clogs clicking against the driveway’s asphalt.

I’ve only eaten Turkish food a couple of times before, when my dad had some friends from out of town visiting. One of their wives took over the kitchen, and I remember the aroma of oregano and olive oil and sumac filled up the whole house.

“So that’s why I need you,” Roman says.

“Your mom?” I say. “She seems nice.”

He shakes his head at me, his lips pulled in a thin line. “Right. Nice, but way overprotective. I’ll need help getting
away from her so we can, you know . . .”

That’s one of the tricks of teenage suicide. You have to be able to get away from your guardian’s watchful eye long enough to make sure you’re really gone before someone finds you. Nothing’s worse than someone cutting you down from the rope before you’ve actually suffocated or pulling you out of the car before the carbon monoxide has done its job. Looks like Roman has figured out he can’t off himself at his own homestead; Mama Roman would be all over him.

“And you don’t have transportation,” I add. He needs me to get to his dying place. I’m not used to being needed. I kind of like it. I wish the black slug inside me would eat that feeling. Liking things is dangerous.

“That too,” he admits.

“Why not ask Travis or Lance?” I wink at him. “They can both drive, right? You could just ask them to drop you off at the bridge near Main. Tell them you’re taking a trip. A very long trip.”

He glares at me. “I don’t think anything about this is funny, Aysel.” He makes a line in the grass with his sneaker.

Way to make me feel like hell, FrozenRobot.
“Sorry,” I say.

“Can you hang out on Saturday?”

“Hang out?” I don’t think in the history of my entire life I’ve ever “hung out” with someone. Even when I was friends with Anna Stevens, our get-togethers always had a
purpose—collect and catalog fall leaves, build a model airplane, watch a PBS special on African beetles.

“You know what I mean. Like get together to plan this thing,” Roman says. He tosses his baseball cap back and forth in his hands and finally puts it back on.

It’s a funny thing, but for a moment I pretend that we’re planning something other than our joint suicide, like a bank robbery or a prank or even something simple like a presentation for English class. I imagine that we are two normal teenagers, that I’m really going to come over and let his mom cook Turkish food for me, that we’ll spend the evening listening to music and laughing while watching stupid videos on the internet.

I take a breath and I feel my rib cage expand. Nope, we’re not normal teenagers. Yes, the black slug is still there, devouring any happy thoughts I allow myself. “Saturday night works for me. I’ll put it in my calendar as Death Day Planning.”

He smirks. No half-moon smile this time. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “We should exchange numbers.”

There’s something poetic about the fact that the first boy to ever ask for my number is the same boy I’m going to die with. I bet John Berryman would have had a field day with that. Actually, probably not—he would likely find it very boring.

I give Roman my number and then add him as a new
contact. I put him under FrozenRobot. He squints at my screen.

“What?”

“Why’d you put me under that?”

“It’s easier to think about you like that.”

He shakes his head at me again. “You should stop trying to make this easy. Nothing about this is going to be easy.”

I know, FrozenRobot. I know.

FRIDAY, MARCH 15

23 days left

M
r. Scott is tapping his foot on the linoleum floor like he’s auditioning for a role in
Waiting for Godot
. The bell rings and he springs into his spiel. “Today is one of my favorite days of the year.”

I look at the date. Pi Day was yesterday. I wonder what else could get Mr. Scott so geeked out.

He frowns as his eyes scan the class. We’re all slouched at our desks, most of us trying to pretend like we aren’t spending every second staring at the clock.

Mr. Scott sighs. “Doesn’t anyone want to know why I’m so excited?”

“I do, Mr. Scott,” Stacy Jenkins says. She flips her shiny auburn hair and gives him her token suck-up smile.

“Anyone else?” he prompts, and the class groans.

“I’m glad to see how enthusiastic the young minds of the future are.” His attempt at sarcasm falls flat. We all continue to look at him with glossy blank stares, our mouths slightly open. I bet if someone filmed Langston High’s classrooms and then compared the footage with film taken of mouth-breathing sea creatures, the similarities would be striking.

“What’s going on, Mr. Scott?” Stacy coaxes. I don’t admire many things about Stacy, but I have to admit it takes some ovaries to talk to your physics teacher like he’s a puppy. Mr. Scott doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“Today I assign my world-famous physics photography project.”

The class groans again. Projects are the worst.

“You’ll each be assigned a partner.”

More groaning. Scratch what I said before. Group projects are the worst.

“Oh, come on,” Mr. Scott says, smiling. “My students always love this project.”

“What do we take photos of?” Stacy asks as she twirls her pencil between her fingers.

“Patience, Stacy. I’m about to explain that,” he says, and for the first time ever, I sense a bit of irritation in his voice.
I wonder if Mr. Scott dreamed of being a physics teacher when he was our age. I doubt it. I bet he thought he’d land a fancy job at NASA or something. Poor guy. I can think of few fates worse than teaching the young minds of Langston, Kentucky.

Mr. Scott continues, “You are going to take five photographs in the real world that represent the principles of the conservation of energy theory. The photographs must be related to a theme of your choice.”

“Theme?” Tyler Bowen interrupts.

“Yes. Theme,” Mr. Scott says. “In the past, I’ve had students use basketball as a theme. All of the photos were taken at a Langston High game. Other past themes have been amusement parks, dogs—”

“Like shopping could be a theme?” Tanya Lee volunteers.

Mr. Scott winces and then quickly returns to his neutral facial expression. “In theory, you could take all your photos at the mall.”

Tyler Bowen raises his hand. This is new, him raising his hand instead of simply blurting out whatever’s on his mind.

“Yes?” Mr. Scott points at him.

“Do we have to take the photos ourselves or can we just pull them off the internet?”

Another wince. “Good question. You must take the photographs. A big part of your grade is going to be—”

“That’s not fair,” Stacy protests. “This isn’t photography class.” Stacy isn’t as good as Georgia at masking her whines as valid arguments, but I’d still give her an A for effort.

“You aren’t going to be graded on the quality of the photographs per se,” Mr. Scott says quickly. “But I’m going to expect that you’ll . . .” He trails off. “Hold on. I might as well pass out the worksheet that better explains the project before I continue rambling.”

The class mutters, a mixture of groans and sighs. Mr. Scott’s face reddens and he fumbles with the worksheets. “Does someone want to help me pass them out?”

No volunteers.

“Aysel?” he says in a pleading voice.

“Uh, sure.” I stand up from my desk even though I would rather eat staples than interact with my classmates. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I pass out the worksheets. No one seems that interested in looking at me either. Every time I reach someone’s desk, I sense the person stiffening their back, holding their breath, willing me to go away. Part of me wants to shout that they don’t have to be afraid of me, but another part of me, the bigger part of me, holds it in because I’m not so sure.

Once I’m back at my desk, Mr. Scott continues explaining the project. He tells us that he expects us to mount our photographs on white parchment paper and then organize the photographs into a booklet. Each photograph is expected
to have a detailed written explanation under it, describing the history of the principle and the formulas that correspond to it. We’ll be graded on the clarity of our photographs, our descriptions, and our explanations of the physics principles involved. We’ll also earn points for how well organized our booklet is and the creativity of our theme. Additionally, if we don’t have access to a digital camera, we can borrow one from the library. Mr. Scott is leaving little room for excuses.

“So now all that’s left is to choose partners,” he says, clasping his hands together. “I think the most fair thing to do is pull names out of a hat.”

As predicted, the class erupts with protests.

“That’s totally not fair,” Stacy says.

“Yeah,” echoes Tanya. “We should get to choose our own partners. Especially since our grade depends on them.”

Mr. Scott scratches the back of his neck, his eyes twitching. “In the years that I let people choose their own partners, I got unoriginal themes and uninspired photographs. In years where the partners were chosen at random, I got much more creative work. I think it has to do with pushing students out of their comfort zone.”