The Cost of Knowing, page 15
I look down at her, at her big brown eyes. She’s not wearing any makeup today. Her lips are only slightly pinker than the rest of her face, and her eyelashes are thinner, and more brown than black, but those deep brown eyes are still mesmerizing, and they’re still smiling up at me.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says, folding her arms behind her back and wiggling her shoulders. “Guess.”
The last time Talia had a surprise for me—well, besides her recent blue hair—she bought a new sky-blue bathing suit with a built-in push-up bra, and I’m hoping for the sake of all my sanity that this surprise is nothing in that vein, especially right after that apology.
“I don’t know, Tal,” I say with a shrug. I don’t like all these I don’t knows I’ve been doling out lately, so I toss out an absurd guess. “A puppy?”
She rolls her eyes, and I smile. There’s nothing I love more than making her cringe at my jokes. I love that look on her face that’s both amused and disgusted with herself for being amused. I love her.
And then it hits me.
I’m not afraid to spend time with her.
I’m afraid to lose her.
That night next to the road, whenever she dyes her hair back to black, after whatever I do to earn her hatred. Whatever I do to make her look at me like that, I might lose her. But is keeping her away really keeping that night from happening, or am I just not enjoying the time we have together before it happens? She replies, bringing me back to the present, in which she’s grinning up at me without a trace of anger.
“No, but that’s a fantastic idea!” she exclaims, jolting me back into right now. “I’m sure Aunt Mackie would love to have puppy-piss yellow-splotched carpet in the living room.”
“Good point,” I laugh. It feels like I haven’t laughed, truly, like this, in days. Somehow, Talia’s company is exactly what I’ve needed all day. She’s the only person I can trust. If I lose her…
My eyes are stinging as I look from her eyes to her lips, and I really don’t want to cry right now. So I lean forward. She rests a hand on my chest and presses herself against me, kissing me softly. When she pulls away again, she rubs her nose against mine and says, “Guess again.”
“A kitten?”
“Kittens also pee, weirdo,” she giggles.
“A fish?”
“Bruh,” she laughs, “I think those pee too. This surprise doesn’t eat food, doesn’t breathe, and doesn’t pee.”
I pause for a second, trying to suppress a laugh as I give my next guess.
“A dead fish?”
She pushes herself away from me and points in my face.
“Something’s seriously wrong with you,” she laughs. “No, it’s not a dead fish.”
“Okay, I give up,” I say. “What’s the surprise?”
“You really give up?” she asks.
“I really, really give up.”
She smirks and glances down before reaching into her pocket and slipping out her phone. I try to think of anything I might’ve hinted that I’ve wanted lately. It’s nowhere near my birthday, which isn’t until December. Our six-month anniversary was two weeks ago, when we took our ice cream to the park and just talked. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive. I guess—by necessity or by preference, I don’t know—that’s just our style. Talia swipes her finger across her screen a few times, and finally she turns the phone to me. I see the familiar Ticketwizard site, and my heart skips as I realize she bought me event tickets, somehow. I glance up at her with a smile before taking the phone in my hands, canceling the vision of me scrolling down, and scrolling down. I arrive at the name, and my heart sinks.
Talia bought two general admission tickets to see Shiv Skeptic.
Shit.
This couldn’t get any worse.
Isaiah, and even I—just a little—are hoping this concert breaks the curse. Isaiah is hoping to face his biggest fear, leaving the house, and I’m hoping to get into this concert, hang out in the back, face my fear of huge crowds and seeing the future and overspending from my bank account. Maybe a speaker will burst twenty feet away and we’ll both be terrified but just fine, and Isaiah will get to enjoy even a little bit of time without this curse before whatever happens to him happens.
Now Talia wants to go?
This is wrong. All of this is so, so wrong.
I look at her.
I’m supposed to be excited about this. She’s expecting me to be excited about this. I want to be excited about this. But I’m terrified. I’m jumpy. I’m suddenly shaking.
“Talia,” I begin, my voice unsteady. I swallow and try to find the right words to say next, but I don’t have to.
“My mom bought them for us,” she says. “Before you ask where I got the money for these. She said it’s to thank you for everything.”
“For everything?” I ask, hoping Talia is going in the direction of thanks for taking care of my daughter and not in the direction of thanks for sending me a chunk of your paycheck every few weeks. I’m hoping to God that Maria didn’t tell Talia the extent to which I’ve been “helping” her out since Shaun passed. The last thing I need is to have to explain to Talia that I’m sending the money because I want to help, and not because I see her and her mother as charity cases, or worse, having to admit that I knew about Shaun in advance and did nothing about it.
“Everything,” she says, her eyes studying mine. “For everything… thank you.”
Shit. She knows.
“Talia, I meant to tell you at some point,” I say.
“I’m sure you did,” she says. “I don’t blame you for not telling me. I know myself. I’m too proud. Now that I’m sixteen, I’ll be making my own money soon, and I’ll find a way to pay you back, but until then, I’m just grateful we have groceries at home. So… pride aside, ego aside, thank you.”
She leans forward and kisses me, looping her arms around my waist and pulling me against her. She’s warm, and she smells like soap and shampoo, and my arm brushes against hers and I feel how soft her skin is. Pleasure pistons in my brain are firing at lightning speed, and I can feel my hands getting clammy inside the fists they’re still balled into behind her. Then, mid-kiss, my eyes fly open at the realization that she’s kissing me under the assumption that I’m going to say yes to the concert.
“Hey, uh,” I say, pulling away. “You’re welcome and everything, Tal, but I was actually hoping to spend time with Isaiah tonight.”
The light in her eyes goes out. Her smile falls. She lets out a single, sharp chuckle of disbelief.
“What? Does it have to be tonight?”
“I…,” I begin. “I promised him—”
“Alex, I know how much you adore music. And you’ve never been to a concert because you’ve had to work, or because it was too expensive. This is Shiv Skeptic we’re talking about. If there’s ever been a day for you to take a rain check on hanging out with Isaiah, this is it.”
“I’m sorry, Tal,” I say. I can’t even look at her as I lie to her face. “I want to go.”
I do not want to go. I’d rather stay home tonight and stand behind Talia in my room with my arms around her waist, vibing to the music, exploring her as much as she wants me to, kissing her neck, rapping along with her to all the songs she knows. But the reality is, every single moment I have with Isaiah is precious. If there’s anything that would make his last days memorable, it’s being able to live without his visions, and that means—hopefully—going to this concert. And if I went with Talia, my attention would be divided. I’d be distracted while Isaiah was surrounded by thousands of loud, drunk, high strangers. What if he’s kidnapped? What if he’s dragged into a nearby alley and mugged and stabbed? What if he bumps into the wrong drunk guy and he takes it as a hostile act and punches his lights out?
I take a deep breath and remember my dad’s words….
A man’s not a man without his paycheck.
And what I said to myself as I left Scoop’s…
But a man who doesn’t protect his family is no man either.
And I let my mind wander a bit….
But one man can’t protect everyone.
If I look away from Isaiah for even a second tonight, and something happens, I’ll never be able to live with myself. So, as I look into Talia’s doe-like eyes, full of disappointment, with one eyebrow trembling like she’s about to cry, I know I’m doing what I must, even though it breaks me.
“Wow, Alex,” she says. “Wow.”
“I really am sorry, Tal,” I say again. “Please know that. I really, really want to go.”
She lifts her arms and snaps at me, “Then fucking go. God, Alex, take some risks once in a while, like you used to! You’ve changed!”
Have I? Since the accident? I remember that day at the pool. I was afraid then. Afraid of losing Talia. As afraid as I am today.
Does she know I’m afraid?
“Talia, I can’t…,” I say. “I can’t do that anymore.”
“Why not?” she spits. “You used to. You used to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. What’s going on, Alex? Is there someone else in your life? Are we growing apart? Are you mad at me for something?”
“No, of course not!” I hurl back. “I just… have something I need to do tonight! It’s for Isaiah. It sounds ridiculous, but… I really just need you to let me stay with Isaiah tonight. Just for tonight. I promise if it were any other day, I’d be there in a heartbeat.”
“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?” she hisses. “Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
“Tal, this is the one time you can’t know specifics, okay? You think I need to be more open? Maybe you need to grow up—”
I catch myself.
“Talia, I’m sorry—” But it’s too late. Her eyes are flashing.
“I need to grow up?? I’m the one who understands that we only have three years left as teenagers before the world will expect us to grow up. I’m not going to waste those years trying to be an adult! Can you just be sixteen with me? For once?”
When you lose both your parents at twelve, your best friend at thirteen, and your little brother at sixteen, you don’t get to be sixteen. Not if you’re a man-in-training. Not if you’re the oldest. Not if you have an example to set. Not if you’re constantly fighting for a future.
“Talia, I don’t get to be sixteen,” I hiss. I’m angry now. Rage is racing through my veins like a drug. “You think any of these people see a kid when they see me?” I gesture to the dwindling crowd gathered around the body bag in the distance. “You think any of these people see a kid when they see me or Isaiah run out of our front door? Either of us could’ve been the one in that body bag today. I don’t get to be sixteen, because people judge me like a twenty-year-old! I’ve got a job, I’ve got a car, I do okay in school, and when I come home, that shit is still staring me in the face. Don’t tell me to be sixteen, Talia. Don’t you dare.” My eyes are burning. My cheeks and neck are burning.
“Alex, I’ve lost people too,” she offers. “I’ve lost my dad. I’ve lost my brother. My best friend. I can’t lose you, too.”
Wait, is she afraid I’m going to leave her? No, she can’t be. She’ll never lose me. If and when we come to the end of this, she’ll have to abandon ship first.
“You won’t, Talia,” I say.
She pauses, and I just look at her in silence. It’s not as simple as she wants it to be. How do I explain to her that it’s way more complicated than that, without explaining how? How do I make her see what I say, and feel what I feel? How do I explain to her that I’m doing the best I can? I can feel my jaw tense and my eyes brimming with tears. It feels like I’m being stabbed in the chest right now.
“It already feels like I have,” she hisses, and turns and walks away. Several times in the next few moments, I consider opening my mouth to speak, to say something, anything. But I hold on to a picture in my head that I hated at first. A sad smile plays at the corner of my mouth at the realization that the vision I’ve been wishing I’d never seen has now become my only assurance that there’s more to us.
One day Talia will stand in front of me, enraged, in the black dress she bought yesterday, after her blue hair is brown again, long after I turned down a magical night with her at the most perfect concert in the world, after both our wounds have healed from today.
I shut my eyes and play that picture over and over in my head.
This is not that fight.
I’ve seen us together after this fight.
I walk home alone.
9 The Talk
I FIND ISAIAH PASSED out on the sofa in the living room. There are pizza bite crumbs all over the silver tray on the coffee table and all down the front of his shirt. In the thirty minutes it took me to make Talia hate me, he’s eaten pizza bites on the sofa instead of the table like we’re supposed to, and passed out right in the open, covered in incriminating evidence.
“Hey, man,” I say, my voice gravel in my throat, before Aunt Mackie finishes giving whatever information the cops need beyond a man broke into a house, and the next-door neighbor shot him. Isaiah moves a couple of his fingers and sniffs as if something’s tickling his nose in his sleep. He drags an arm across his crumb-covered mouth and rolls away from me onto his side. “Hey, man, we’ve gotta get this cleaned up before Aunt Mackie comes inside.”
He looks over his shoulder at me and shakes his head groggily.
“But I’m sleepy,” he says.
I hear keys at the front door and snatch up the tray, brush the coffee table crumbs onto it, and dart into the kitchen. The last thing Isaiah needs in his last couple of days is to be grounded. If Aunt Mackie sees that he was eating these greasy pizza bites in here again and getting crumbs all up in her sofa, there’s going to be a tiff. If I can prevent even one of those, I’ll be doing good.
“Boys?” comes her voice, just as I turn on the faucet to rinse off the pan. I slip it into the dishwasher and hear the sound of Aunt Mackie’s short heels being shuffled into the coat closet in the foyer. I’ve forgotten to take off my Vans. I quickly kick them off and toss them into the pantry, where she won’t see them. Again, no need to stir up conflict, especially now when time is precious.
“We’re both home,” I reply. No response from Isaiah. He’s probably asleep again.
Aunt Mackie steps into the kitchen and slides her black Sherlock Holmes–looking designer trench coat off her shoulders with the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard.
“Everything okay out there?” I ask, watching as she slumps onto one of the barstools and buries her face in her hands. The tip of her nose, peeking out from between her hands, is red from the cold outside. Even the weather knows today is no ordinary summer day.
“Yes, baby,” she whimpers.
Baby? Aunt Mackie has called me Alex, or on bad days, Alex Matthew, since the day I was born. Something’s terribly wrong. I could, and probably should, wake Isaiah up so we can talk more about how to get rid of these powers. The concert starts in only nine hours, and we’re walking to the Wall, so that’ll eat into even more of our time.
Against my better judgment, I decide to stay. Isaiah needs me, but so does Aunt Mackie.
I slide onto the barstool next to her, gripping the back of the chair, canceling the vision of me hoisting myself up onto it, and then hoisting myself up onto it. I try to settle my shaking hands. It doesn’t work. I rest my arms on the ice-cold marble countertop and stare at her, and I realize her hands are shaking too. When they come away from her face, her eyes are red and puffy, and her cheeks are wet. My throat closes. Aunt Mackie is a fortress. Nothing rattles her. I’ve never seen her cry. I never even knew she could cry.
“Aunt Mackie?” I ask.
She glances at me and flashes a smile before reaching for a napkin from the cast-iron African napkin holder statuette in the middle of the island. She presses it into her eyes, and her chest and back swell with a deep inhale and sigh.
“Everything’s fine, Alex,” she says. “I’ve just been through a lot today.”
Aunt Mackie didn’t cry at our parents’ funeral. She stood there like a statue, with her eyebrows knit together in a determined stare as she said goodbye to her sister and her sister’s husband. I always thought she got by with substituting duty where sadness would be.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t be sorry. You don’t have time to be sorry. You’re a kid. You should be focused on kid stuff. Not… this.”
Not… what?
A murder down the street? We live thirty miles from downtown Chicago. Murder is as common on the news as the daily weather segment. Aunt Mackie pushes herself out of the chair and goes to the pantry door, swings it open, and gives me a smirk.
“Sorry,” I say, getting up to put my shoes away.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I think we’ve both had a hard day. Sit. Here.”
She holds out a tall bottle of white wine to me, with little bubbles dancing up the inside of the glass, like soda. I look from the bottle to her face, and back to the bottle.
“Go on,” she says. “Did your mom ever let you have any?”
I’m still staring at the bottle as I shake my head, reading the label.
Connaissance le Blanc Brut, 2003.
“What’s Connaissance le Blanc Brut?” I ask, although I’m sure it’s French for some type of white wine.
“Champagne,” she says, pulling two tall, clear glasses out of the corner cabinet Isaiah and I aren’t allowed to go near.
Champagne? Isn’t that usually for weddings and birthdays and stuff? What’s the occasion? Or did Aunt Mackie run out of wine and now she’s had a hard enough day to go for the good stuff in the back that’s been there since we moved in? The bottle’s all dusty and everything. Clearly, I’m staring at her like I’m confused, because she laughs and sets the bottle and both glasses on the counter in front of me.
