June 9, 2023

10:30 p.m.

The day of

“Mom, did you know that a group of elephants is called a memory?”

“A memory of elephants,” she says pondering the collective noun. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“It’s also called a herd or a parade, but I like memory better,” I say. 

My sentence is punctuated by the chime of the doorbell. I jump off the couch, haphazardly throw my book about elephants on the coffee table, and issue a silent apology to it for the rather violent action. Henry must be home. I want to tell him what I’ve learned about elephants today, especially since he is a young bull about to leave the herd. 

I imagine Henry telling me to explain, so I do.

“What I mean is, you are ready for the next chapter of your life. College.” 

“Lily, what did you say?” 

“Nothing.”I hadn’t even realized my thoughts had become spoken words.

“Can you answer the door?”  

When I open the front door, it’s not Henry standing there. It’s a police officer, his mouth reminding me of my pink ruler, all straight and serious. Of course it isn’t Henry. Henry would have just let himself in. 

“Mom?” My voice cracks as I call her name and when she gets to the door, I scurry behind her.   

“Mrs. Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Officer Walters. Is Henry Brooks your son?” Straight and to the point. Just like that ruler.

“Yes,” my mother stammers, the color draining from her face. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?” 

“Perhaps we can take a seat and talk?” The officer asks.

“No,” my mom says. The response surprises me, and based on the officer’s raised eyebrows and open mouth, it surprises him too. 

“No,” my mom says again. “It can’t be good if you are asking me to sit. What’s wrong? Tell me.” 

Suddenly my dad is there, ushering my mom and the officer toward the couch and chair I just vacated. I hover on the periphery and watch. 

“What’s going on?” My dad asks, squeezing my mom’s hand and readjusting his body so he is sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning forward as if he is about to be told a whispered secret.

“Your son, Henry, was discovered at the bottom of the quarry, deceased.” 

I don’t hear anything else the officer says because my heartbeat is pounding in my ears, and his words are bouncing around in my brain over and over and over again. Deceased. Deceased. Deceased. It can’t be true. I need proof, I need to see him. 

“Where is he?” I interject. All three adults turn to stare at me as if they forgot I was here, but nobody answers my question.

“Where is he?” I ask again in case the officer didn’t hear. 

The officer glances at my mom, but her eyes are glazed over, focused on something far away. “He’s been transported to the hospital,” the officer says. 

“How do you know it’s him?” I ask.

“One of his friends witnessed what happened, and we found a driver’s license in his pocket, but we do need an official identification.”

“What happened?” My voice breaks again. The officer’s leg is bouncing slightly and he rubs his hands together. Henry taught me that these nonverbal signs indicate discomfort or anticipation. 

The officer looks at my dad, who nods and says, “Please, what happened? He told us he was going to a bonfire with his friends to celebrate the end of the school year.” 

A tear falls down my father’s pale cheek as he speaks, and even though I must remain focused, my mind momentarily wanders and my stomach flips because I have never seen him cry before.

“According to his friends’ statements, he left the bonfire and walked through the forest to the quarry alone. By the time Lauren found him, he was on the ledge preparing to jump.” 

“Jump?” My mom squeaks, just like a mouse. 

Fun fact: a group of mice is called a mischief, but there is nothing mischievous about the tone of my mom’s voice or the look in her eyes. Her eyes are watery, like she might cry or vomit at any moment. I take a step back to avoid the potential germs. 

“I know this is a difficult question to answer, but was Henry suicidal?” 

I don’t like idioms, but this is exactly the appropriate usage, I am sure. The officer’s question is the straw that breaks the camel's back. In other words, my mom starts to cry. The heaving, wailing kind of crying that could maybe just defy the laws of physics and pierce through a vacuum. I push my hands against my ears to try to block it out, but I can’t. The officer says something about a note, but I am already running for the stairs. My body knows where I am going before my mind does.

I crawl into Henry’s bed and pull the comforter over my face. Even his sheets smell like him. After fifteen minutes I hear Mrs. Beverly, our neighbor, call my name, but I don’t answer. She eventually finds me and explains that she is going downstairs to be with my mother while my dad and Mr. Beverly accompany the officer to the hospital to identify Henry, now that the body has been “fixed up” and pictures taken. She chokes on her words and I peek out from under the sheets to see if I need to perform the Heimlich, but she doesn’t appear to have a piece of food lodged in her airway. I disappear again and eventually so does she.

For what feels like hours, I recite all the facts I have learned about elephants. They are amazing creatures. One chapter of my book details the grieving process. When a member of the herd dies, the other members gather in a circle around the body until the matriarch decides it is time to leave. When they leave, they aren’t saying goodbye forever because they revisit the death site every year to caress what remains of the bones, to roll them gently under their heavy feet, and to stick their trunks through the mandibles in greeting. It’s like they are saying, hello; we love you, we miss you, and we always will. 

Eventually, I hear the latch on the front door and then my father’s voice. In response, my mom starts crying, “NO! NO!” 

I cover my ears again. I didn’t realize I was holding on to hope until my mother’s cries confirm what I feared the most. Henry is gone and he’s not coming back. 

“I love you and I miss you and I always will,” I whisper. Just in case he can hear. 

Eventually I fall asleep, listening to the bellowing cries of the matriarch as she mourns her baby. It’s something I will never forget. A memory. A painful one.

Chapter 1

I wake at 6:28 and spend my extra two minutes staring at a spider by the window in my bedroom. It appears to be an American house spider. Not a threat to me, unlike the black widow or brown recluse. When the alarm clock sounds, I turn it off quickly, slide out of bed, make the bed, visit the bathroom to conduct my morning bathroom rituals, which concludes with a thorough, 20 second hand washing per CDC guidelines, and return to my room to change into my Monday clothes, which I conveniently laid out last night. I am a practical person, so for practicality, I have a clothing set for each day of the week: black yoga pants, a gray shirt made from bamboo fabric, and to spice things up, a rotation of different colored hoodies. Simple and comfortable. 

I do not understand when my classmates talk about style and aesthetic or “cute” outfits or fashion trends. It all seems like a waste of time and brainspace, and as often as I would like to verbalize this to others, it is an example of something that should be left unsaid for it runs the risk of being offensive. I know this because last year I told Ashley that she was jeopardizing the intelligence of our generation by ignoring the lesson on climate change to discuss with her friends what colors were most flattering for their skin tones. She gave me the finger, a sign of hatred, and told me to mind my own business. After class, once I had safely absorbed all the information on rising global temperatures and changes in extreme weather patterns and their consequences, I thought I would try again to make it up with Ashley by telling her I didn’t think bright green, the color of her nail polish, was flattering for her skin tone. She gave me the finger again, and realizing I had offended her for a second time, I hurriedly returned her gesture with a peace sign.

This is exactly the reason I try to avoid small talk. It tends to get me into more trouble than it’s worth. Henry, my older brother, once told me that small talk is a way to build trust and rapport with somebody as well as building a foundation for further conversation. He told me it can be perceived as jarring and rude to jump right to the main point, even though I still think it saves time and should be less confusing for everybody. Thinking about Henry’s advice and about what I have to do today makes my stomach churn with nervous energy, and I hurry down the stairs to the kitchen to grab breakfast before making my way to the bus stop. 

“Morning Lils,” my dad says, looking up from the newspaper to make eye contact before returning his attention to the crossword. My mom sits on a stool next to him and points to four across and exclaims, “resolute!”

“Good morning to both of you,” I reply as I open the refrigerator to retrieve the milk. All-bran cereal is underrated among the teenage population, although I, at 14 years of age, understand the importance of receiving approximately eight ounces of fiber through whole grains every day.

“David, did you hear me? It’s resolute.” 

“Honey, the whole neighborhood could hear you.” 

It’s true, my mom’s crossword puzzle induced exclamation was probably around 70 decibels. Why she thought that was the appropriate volume at 6:45 in the morning is beyond me. My mom turns her attention to me.

“Lily, good morning. It’s a big day.” 

I practice my nonverbal affirmation of understanding by nodding. I resolutely do not want to have this conversation, but I take a seat next to her and begin eating my cereal. 

“Your dad and I were talking,” my mom glances quickly at my father, “and we think this is a wonderful opportunity for you to start exploring your interests. Maybe you could join a club or find some friends who enjoy doing the same things as you. We know it might feel overwhelming, but now really is a perfect time.” 

Realizing that both my parents are waiting for a response from me, I decide to give them some reassurance. 

“Okay, so this is like a mission?” 

“Honey, you don’t need to think of it like that,” my mom sighs before continuing. “It is just part of the high school experience and we want you to keep an open mind to these new opportunities.”

“I will. I’m not sure about finding friends though. This isn’t kindergarten.” Finding friends has never been easy for me like it was for Henry. My mother’s eyebrows furrow slightly at my words and she runs her hand up and down her right temple a few times. I think I know what these signs mean.

“Are you feeling worried?” I ask.

“Yes. But that is just part of being a parent. I want your first day to go well.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, mom. I don’t think I will find a best friend today, but I will try really hard not to make any enemies.” I hope this is reassuring enough. 

My mom smiles and stands up to hug me as I am swallowing my last bite of all-bran. My dad comes over and tousles my hair so that it probably looks like an invasive sparrow has been nesting there. 

“We’re proud of you Lils,” he says. “Have a good day and we can’t wait to hear about it tonight.” I stand up, pull both of them into a family hug and then diligently make my way over to the sink to clean out my bowl and make my lunch before heading to the bus stop. Luckily, I arrive five minutes early and I have time to rehearse Henry’s rules in my head. 

Rule 1. Speak clearly and kindly.

Rule 2. Let the other person talk.

Rule 3. Listen carefully.

Rule 4. Do not leave a conversation before ending it.

Rule 5. Never lie. 

I added that last one. Not lying is a value of mine, and I think Henry would have approved since it is important to me. I check my watch. 7:13. As if on cue, I hear the bus rumbling around the corner, and I sigh in relief, but am also acutely aware of my sweating palms and the fact that I am repeatedly flapping my hands by my sides. My “happy arms” as my parents call it. Except I don’t always do it when I am happy or excited. Right now, I’m nervous, there’s no denying it, and perhaps it is because of everything that is on my list to accomplish. 

Mission 1: Solve my brother’s death.

Mission 2: Survive my freshman year of high school.

Mission 3: Make a friend. 

These missions feel difficult, maybe even close to impossible, but impossible has never stopped me before. The thing is, every time I bring up Mission 1 to my parents, it makes them upset, and by that I mean it usually ends with crying and “please, Lily, can’t we just put this behind us?” No. My brother, my role model, my gentle, patient supporter is dead and the cops ruled it a suicide even though I know it wasn’t. He would never leave me without saying goodbye, never.   

The bus pulls up, comes to a stop and shudders. The weight of all three missions are on my shoulders, and that might seem like a lot for a 14-year-old. The bus doors squeak open and I climb on. But I can do this. I can do all of it. Just like Henry always told me I could.  

Chapter 2

I will admit, the valiant thought of: I can do this, falters as soon as the bus pulls away from the curb and I realize that getting on was a major mistake. It is pure chaos and it is almost too much to take in. First I focus on finding a seat, and am pleased when I notice an empty row near the middle between the tires. A safe seat if the bus is to crash. After I sit down, I start to make some observations. 

Five seats ahead of me on the left side of the aisle are two boys blowing bubbles out of pink chewing gum. It appears they are engaged in a competition of  “Who Can Blow the Biggest Bubble?” even though there is a NO GUM sign posted at the front of the bus. This is an example of rebellious and risk-taking behavior. Open defiance. When the bubbles pop, they sound like mini explosions and the gum smells like strawberries. And I hate it. 

Behind me, a kid with oversized glasses and a lot of red, curly hair wears headphones and incessantly taps the back of my seat with his foot. I turn around and stare at him, making eye contact for five full seconds, but he looks away nervously and clearly does not get the hint. He continues to tap the back of the seat, presumably to the rhythm of whatever song is playing through his headphones. Every tap feels like a seismic wave that travels up my spine, into my brain and I groan, checking my watch, which makes me groan again. I have been on this bus for a whole two minutes.  

I literally start counting each second as it passes when I hear one of the worst sounds I could possibly hear right now. An open sneeze. The culprit: a minuscule girl with pigtails, chapped lips and a red nose. I turn in horror to see the infectious droplets raining down around her and I immediately stand up to open the window. I do not stick my head completely outside the window like a dog enjoying a car ride, because to be clear, I am not enjoying any of this, but I do put my mouth close enough to the opening to breathe in fresh air. We stop and the voice of the bus driver comes over the intercom and says, “Please put your head back inside the school bus,” and then mutters, “Can’t believe I have to say that to a high schooler.” 

Everybody on the bus turns to stare at me, and I feel heat rush to my face. I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable with all the attention on me, but come on! Does anybody else realize the threat of an open sneeze? Too many germs. Too many possible illnesses. As my heart pounds, I sit all the way back down in my seat and say, “Sorry, sir.” I don’t even try to explain my reasoning, so instead I resort to applying a generous amount of hand sanitizer and rub my hands vigorously together. It’s still quiet and everybody is still staring at me. 

I am about to tell the bus driver that we can resume the route when the most recent passenger to board the bus, still standing in the aisle, says, “Well this is awkward.” To my relief, everybody shifts their gaze to stare at her and I do too, taking in everything about my savior. She has dark brown hair with pink highlights. The pink reminds me of the color of the clouds right as the sun is rising. The girl also has a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose where her blue-rimmed plastic glasses rest, and she wears cargo shorts, striped socks pulled up to her knees, dangling jellyfish earrings, and a shirt that says GeNiUS at work, not to mention dozens of friendship bracelets on each wrist.  

“Everybody sit back down, so we can keep moving,” the bus driver barks. Jellyfish girl moves swiftly down the aisle toward the empty seat next to me and I realize her shirt is a combination of elemental symbols. Ge for germanium, Ni for nickel, U for uranium and S for sulfur. I can’t help but smile. It’s science humor and it’s funny.  

“Hi, I’m Georgie,” she says.

“Hello. My name is Lily,” I reply. If you feel there isn’t a threat to do so, it is proper etiquette to respond to such a statement by giving your name. I don’t detect a risk because after all, she just saved me from my embarrassing situation. Because the exchange of names has occurred, we are now acquaintances instead of strangers. 

“Hi Lily, what’s up with the bus driver? Seems a bit grumpy.” 

“I think it is against the rules to open the windows. I was just trying to-” 

“Catch some fresh air. I totally understand! It smells like sweat and unwashed clothes in here. I just moved from Oregon, and last year I always walked to school, but because I’m unfamiliar with the area, I decided to take the bus today.” 

“Probably smart to avoid the risk of getting lost, hit by a car, or kidnapped,” I respond.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Georgie continues as if she knew what I was going to say before I said it. “You know, I am a bit nervous today, are you? There are so many expectations for high school. I hope I don’t mess up my future on the very first day.”

I have a feeling Georgie is not really waiting for a response to her question, and even so, I am not sure what to say to reassure her. Luckily, she starts talking again. 

“You know, you are the first person I’ve met. Are you going to be a freshman too?” 

I nod.

“That’s so great! Maybe we’ll have some classes together. Do you want to sit together at lunch? I don’t have any other friends.” 

I feel my mouth drop open. Friends? We can’t possibly have had sufficient time to build trust and rapport to move from acquaintances to friends. However, I’m not really an expert on friendship. I wish I could ask Henry about this, about the rules of becoming friends with someone. 

Before I have much more time to analyze the situation, the bus stops and I look up to see we have reached our final destination. I follow Georige off the bus, eager to escape the peeling vinyl and the lingering embarrassment from the window situation. I am immediately overwhelmed by swarming students as they jostle past one another to get to the entrance of the school first. I am a person who can exhibit great focus and determination, so I focus on not tripping and not causing anybody else to trip. But I lose sight of everything when I notice something that doesn’t make any sense. A full grown man dressed in a tiger onesie. I come to a complete stop and Stella stops with me. Tiger man waves to us and says, “I’m Mr. Jacobs, the principal. Welcome to Ridgeway High School, home of the tigers!” 

“Which subspecies?” I ask. 

“Pardon me?” Mr. Jacobs responds. 

“Which subspecies of tiger is the school mascot?” 

Mr. Jacobs scratches his head before saying, “Whichever one is the biggest and proudest.” 

“Siberian.” I say. And Georgie reaches over with her fist held out, a sign I recognize as the desire to bump fists. I do so, make a note that fist bumping is less germy than high-fiving, and another wave of gratitude for Georgie washes over me. Mr. Jacobs looks from me to Georgie and shakes his head slightly. Then he pats me on the shoulder with his right front paw, and says, “Keep asking questions in your classes. It’s the best way to learn!” I gape at him. 

“Come on, we don’t want to be late,” Georgie says as she tugs at my wrist. 

As we enter the school I say, “I’m surprised our mascot isn’t the Bengal tiger. It’s the most common subspecies. 

“Oh Lily, he has no idea what subspecies the school mascot is.” 

“But he said-” 

“Yeah, I know, but trust me. I can tell he has no idea.” 

I am about to ask her how she knows when a bell rings indicating we have ten minutes to find our lockers and get to our first class.

“Lily, I have to go, but I’ll find you at lunch?” 

“Okay,” I say. Georgie turns to walk up a staircase, but I have to know. Rule 4: never leave a conversation without ending it. 

 “Wait, Georgie?” I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. She hurries back. 

“Yeah?”

“Are we ummm… friends?” I ask. Feeling myself blush again.

“Totally,” she says. “Here.” And just like that, she pulls a blue and green bracelet off her wrist and slides it on to mine. I normally don’t like bracelets because they rub up and down my arm and irritate my skin, but I intend to keep this on all day. Oh my god, my mom is not going to believe it. I made a friend before first period. Mission 3, complete.