His Words

By Rebby Berard

“What are you doing?”
“Watching turtles.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“Nah, they’re cool.”
“I guess so…”
“Look, those two are friends!”
“Like us.”
“Just like us.”
“They’re probably all friends.”
“Or family.”

“Either way, I’m more lonely than these turtles.”
“Ah yes, this is a conversation between you, Allen Jameson, and me, chopped liver.”

“Dev, you know what I mean.”
“How you think you have no friends.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well, you’ve got me.”
“Till graduation…”

“Til forever!”
“Dev, college, you know this.”
“Don’t be such a downer.”
“Am I wrong?”
***
I hate walking home alone. The issue is that you never know if there’s actually somebody around. They could be unlocking their door or sitting on their porch, riding their bike or driving past with the windows open. You’re never alone, not really, and the anxiety of somebody seeing me before I see them is so great it makes me quake.
***
“You should get a new backpack. The tear is getting bigger.”
“I like my backpack! It has personality.”
“You’re gonna lose your books.”
“You’re gonna lose a friend if you keep pointing that out everyday.”
“So dramatic!”
“I’m dramatic?”
“Only slightly.”
“Liar.”
“Meanie!”
“Child.”
“Loner!”
“…Dev.”
“…Sorry.”
“It’s ok…”
“Don’t lie to me, Allen.”
“Ok.”
***
Mom wanted to be an astronaut. She wore long dresses and hippie headbands and she wanted to go to space. She was born in Michigan, but moved all over the country. She could speak in nearly every American accent, but couldn’t pick a favorite. I wasn’t the first baby. She had given one away for adoption as a teenager. We had met him. He was ok. Sally was born when I was six. She was small and pink with little wisps of blond hair and I loved her more than I loved chocolate bars or recess. I would spend hours making her laugh. Now I have to work hard for a smile.
***
“Sally thinks Pluto is still a planet.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not for a few years.”
“Eh, Pluto’s basically a planet.”
“It’s too small.”
“You’re too small.”
“C’mon!”
“Why does she think that?”
“She’s been reading old textbooks.”
“Your mom’s?”
“From college, yeah.”
“She seems cool.”
“She was.”
“Does Sally think so?”
“Sal loves her.”
“Don’t you?”
“I… miss her.”
“I know. But can’t you love her too?”
“My dad can’t.”
“You’re not your dad.”
“Yeah, Dev, I love her.”
“…I love you.”
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what was it, I couldn’t hear.”
“It was nothing, Allen, just that I’m… proud of you.”
“Cool.”
***
I had a teacher who thought I was cursed my first year of high school. She made us write in journals and when she read my entries she became convinced six was my “magical number.” She was a young teacher, still excited and attentive to her class. That made me nervous. I think she thought I was interesting, like a puzzle, she wanted to know more about me and I wanted to stay a secret. I had my counselor switch my class second semester. She still smiles at me in the halls and it makes my stomach change density.
***
“We should cloudwatch.”
“What?”
“Cloudwatch. Y’know like in the movies, lie on the grass and look at the clouds.”
“Why?”
“For fun!”
“How is that fun?”
“Get on the grass, Allen.”
“But how is it supposed to–”
“Get on the graaaaass.”
“I’m getting!”
“Good.”
“Why are you so demanding?”
“Why don’t you just listen to me?”
“Why would anyone listen to you?”
“Nobody seems to.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
“So what do you see in the clouds?”
“Something beautiful.”
***
Dev showed up at the end of last year. He was new, a sophomore in private school. His hair was long, like old pictures of my uncle Johnny from the 60s, and he was taller than me, but skinny as a toothpick. He walked dogs over the summer. I could see him from the park basketball courts where he passed by most days. I played a lot of basketball that summer. A week before school started his hair was chopped short. He shared my path home from school. We were chatting by Labor Day.
***
“What’s with the long sleeves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who wears long sleeves in October? It’s like 70 degrees.”
“The school building’s cold.”
“Not that cold! What’s under there, Al, a tattoo? Or a…a… bruise…”
“Dev… j-”
“How did that happen?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Did he do that?”
“It doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“Allen, did he hit you?”
“It was really nothing– ok– he-he-had a bad day.”
“A bad day? You’re blaming this on his bad day?”
“Dev, I didn’t say that he did anything.”
“Did your father hit you, Allen?”
“…yes.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
“Dev, stop.”
“He shouldn’t do that!”
“Yeah, well, you can’t do anything to stop him.”
“Allen, what the fuck? He hurt you.”
“Please. Don’t hurt me too.”
“I… Allen, you have to do something.”
“What can I do?”
“More than I can.”
“Dev, no I can’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s not that big of-”
“Don’t. Lie to me.”
***
Sally found the viola at four. She’d managed her way into the attic and pulled it out from among the boxes. It had been our grandfather’s. He’d played it in a ballet school’s orchestra until the war. Our grandma was a dance student there. Sal started lessons by five. She sucked. Really, it was painful to listen to, but after a few long years, and an insane amount of money spent on noise-canceling headphones, she’s almost a master. Sure, most kids learn to play instruments pretty quick, but she is basically a prodigy! At least in my eyes. Sal loves her viola. I hope one day she can play it for the world. I hope one day I can help her get there.
***
“I want a nap.”
“Can’t you take one?”
“I haven’t had one in years.”
“Oh.”
“It’s cool, I like staying busy. So much work to do.”
“Homework?”
“Sure.”
“Me too.”
“How do you get it all done on time?”
“Well, I used to get home earlier.”
“Are you saying I slow you down?”
“It’s worth it.”
“As if you had a choice to walk with me.”
“You know I’d still be here.”
“I know.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
***
I imagine him in my bed some nights when my bones feel chilled and I can’t sleep. His deep brown curls on my pillow. His face inches from mine… our legs in a mess of tangles… His presence keeps me safe. On the nights when dad’s voice fills the house like smoke Dev holds me so tightly as I cry I can almost smell him… some nights… until Sally knocks on my door just like mom used to and Dev fades away so she has room in my arms. We cry. Then she drifts her way to sleep. And I promise again to protect her forever.
***
“What do you want for Christmas?”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
“C’mooon, I want to!”
“Well… I have been getting close to the end of my journal…”
“You write in a journal?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“What do you write?”
“Anything. Stuff I think, stuff I feel, stuff I want to remember.”
“Secrets?”
“I don’t have anything good enough to hide from people.”
“Do I count as people?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t shrug at me! I am shocked and offended that you consider me to be people!”
“What are you then if not a person?”
“I’m… a wizard.”
“I think wizards count as people.”
“Damn. But do wizards get to read your journal?”
“Maybe one day.”
***
Dad used to make waffles in the morning. He and Sal were chocolate chip addicts, I always had raspberry ones, and Mom loved whipped cream on hers. He had a temper back then too. He would yell at other drivers, he’d yell about politics, and his job, and sometimes he yelled at us when we did something wrong or make a mess. Mom was always the one who calmed him down. She had that effect, you know? She would sit somebody down to talk and by the end they were completely fine. You just, you can’t be angry when somebody that understanding is around.
***
“I need to pick some flowers.”
“Look, Al, I’m all for embracing your femininity, but why exactly do you need to pick flowers?”
“They’re for Sal.”
“You apologizing for something?”
“She wants to press them, y’know, in a book, make them flat.”
“Well alright! If that’s the story you’re going with I’ll help you pick flowers.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Says you!”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
“I would never!”
“Well, I don’t trust you then either.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t push me!”
“I know you trust me. You wouldn’t let anyone else see your journal.”
“You still haven’t actually seen any of the pages.”
“I know, but I will.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Will you tell me if you’ve written about me in it?”
“I have.”
“What did you say?”
“Stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Stuff like… you cheer me up.”
“Aw.”
“That you’re… comfortable…”
“That’s cute.”
“And that you’re cute.”
“You think I’m cute?”
“I… maybe…”
“You’re blushing.”
“You’re really close.”
“I think you’re cute too.”
“…”
“…”
“Y-you just kissed me!”
“Yes.”
“Well, this seems to be enough flowers…. Bye!”
***
I didn’t like that word. I heard it first in Christmas carols where it meant happy. The rest of the kids would chuckle at it and I wanted to know why. My older cousin laughed when I asked him about it. He told me it meant sissy. Weak. I didn’t understand. I went to my mother and she defined it, but at that point I couldn’t remember why I’d cared. I still don’t like the word, but I’m trying to get more comfortable with it. I still don’t like it much, but I’m trying to get more comfortable with being gay.
***
“It’s so dark out tonight.”
“It’s late, Dev, the sun generally goes down when it’s late.”
“I just said that it’s dark, Al, you don’t gotta explain to me why.”
“Hey, Dev?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“Do you think we could slow down a bit? Maybe… not go home right away?”
“Is there a reason you don’t want to be at home?”
“Nah, no, I just want, y’know to spend some time out here…”
“Are you lying to me?”
“I… don’t… want to go home… j-just yet.”
“Ok. Then we can stay here.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“Hey, Dev?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“It’s getting worse.”
***
My mom once tried to bake me a cake for my 9th birthday. She had never baked before, but she insisted she could do it. My birthday was on a Sunday so she kicked me and dad out of the house– we played in the park– and set up Sal in her high chair in the kitchen. We came back an hour later to find two burnt cakes on the counter and my mother desperately trying to cover a third with icing. My dad had laughed, wiped a glob of icing off of her nose, and pulled out three spoons and a pint of ice cream.
***
“Hey, can we sit down?”
“Sure…”
“I’ve been trying to write this whole conversation out in my head, but I can’t think of a way to say this other than… I got into college.”
“ALLEN!”
“Oh my god, Dev, can’t breathe, can’t breathe!”
“Ahhhh! I’m so proud!”
“Ha, I know, thank you, I just… it’s, just, like, really far away…”
“Ok.”
“Isn’t that a bad thing?”
“Why would it be?”
“Because I won’t be able to see you.”
“Who knows, the future is out of our control.”
“So… you’re not upset?”
“No. I’m basically ecstatic.”
“Good. This went well.”
“It really did.”
***
Mom died when I was twelve. I lost my hero. My dad lost his mind. At first it felt like a punch in the gut. She had been sick. A heart thing. It came on out of nowhere and then she was just… gone. I knew it was coming. We all did, once she had been diagnosed. I had screamed and cried when he told me, my brain thrumming with a constant stream of thoughts, most of them disbelief. I was in denial. That didn’t last. I guess I’m still going through the stages. It’s not really clear when you get to the next one, but I know I’ve been making my way. My dad has been stuck in this fog of anger for years. I don’t think he’s even angry that she’s gone anymore. He must have gotten so comfortable being angry with the world that he never thought to stop. Wait. I just heard something. I think he just got home…
***
“Dev, get out of the street!”
“Make me.”
“You’re gonna get hit!”
“Eh, who would hit something this smokin’?”
“Dev! It’s dark, drivers won’t see you!”
“They’ve got headlights!”
“You’ve got a death-wish!”
“That’s literally impossible!”
“Dev, come on!”
“There’s nothing to be scared of!”
“Just get out of the street!”
“Don’t work yourself up! It’s bad for your heart.”
“Your death would also be pretty bad for my heart.”
“I can’t die, Allen.”
“Get out of the street, Dev.”
“I… It’s not like the cars can hurt me or anything.”
“GET OUT OF THE STREET, DEV!”
“…no…”
“…”
“…”
“Fine. Get hit. See if I care.”
***
I hear my mom’s voice in my head sometimes. It started after she died. She says things like ‘I believe in you’ and ‘you can do it’ and ‘I am so sorry’ and ‘I love you.’ After I met Dev I stopped hearing her as much. When I do hear her her words make me want to curl up in a ball and cry. I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently. I miss her so much.
***
“Are you still pissed at me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because you shouldn’t joke about throwing your life away.”
“…”
“Life is something everyone thinks they can’t lose. It’s so easy because everyone has it. They forget that you can lose your life in a second.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You think you’re safe, you think nothing can hurt you. It’s them that can die, them, not me, I’ll never die, because I’m special– it’s all bull.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what? What could you possibly mean? You’re a kid, you know nothing, you’re not even a senior yet, you’re just this happy-go-lucky ass who knows nothing.”
“… I’m the ass?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, no, I get it, you think I don’t understand. You think I can’t see what you’re doing, but you and I both know you’re lashing out at me because you’re wasting your life away. You say everyone else doesn’t treasure their life enough, well what about you? Huh? You let your dad push you around– hurt you– and put your sister in danger–”
“He would never hit Sally.”
“Once upon a time, you thought he would never hit you. You think I’m reckless for standing in the street while you are in so much more danger just by living in that house.”
“STOP IT!”
“What? You don’t like it that I’m angry? You don’t like that I can see through this whole thing, this whole ‘nobody else gets me’ shit? Don’t kid yourself it’s not like it’s that hard when I am IN your head.”
“You have no idea what is going on in my head.”
“HOW CAN YOU BE SO THICK? I’M NOT REAL. I AM FAKE. You made me up and now I’m ending this.”
“Stop it! You and I both know you’re just angry cuz I don’t do exactly what you want me to do.”
“You and I can’t not know the same thing, Allen, I’m just some bullshit voice in your head telling you to do SOMETHING about your dad.”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Gladly.”
***
When Allen entered his home the bulbs were dim, but on, and he could see a trail of light coming from beneath his door. Treading carefully to his room his mind raced of who it could be. Sally wasn’t home yet. He opened the door to see his father, sat on the foot of the unmade bed, reading an old journal. Allen stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at his father’s face, into the eyes glued to the contents of a journal he gripped with white knuckles. Al tried to take a step back, but stumbled and his head made contact with a shelf. The pain was sharp, but nothing was strong enough to keep Allen’s attention from the words that snuck out from his father’s lips. “What is this?”
“It’s… it’s a notebook, it’s really nothing, I swear, it’s not even true I–” His words halted when his father’s eyes rose. They were hard as stone, no love within that look, nothing left of the father who had made chocolate chip waffles years before.
“You are not my son.”
His words were bitter, but they filled the room like smog until Allen couldn’t see his father through the words. He tried to ask ‘What.’ ‘Why.’ He managed the sound, a ‘W’ stuck on his lips with nowhere to go, but his father went on, “I did not raise a faggot.”
Allen couldn’t move. He felt himself swallow, breathing in that word like poisonous gas. It entered his bloodstream and stained his insides. He felt naked. Cut open like a patient on an operating table.
“You are a disgrace,” he spat as he stood, towering over his son as he growled. “You are unnatural. And I will set this right.”
He took a step, but Allen felt his bones creak backwards, trying to get away from the threat as his head rebooted.
Then, a voice piped up from the hall. “Stop!” Sally stood defiantly, but Allen could see she was terrified as she yelled, “Stop hitting him! Why do you even do it, he hasn’t done anything!”
Their father moved past Allen as if the boy had vanished. “You want to protect that piece of shit?” he asked. Sally’s lip quivered. “Go ahead.”
And then, as if he had been given a moment to ponder what was going on, time stopped, and Allen knew in his throbbing head that what happened next would change everything.
His father’s hand met his sister’s face. An awful sound rang out in the house, and the air went stagnant. Allen thought she would stay quiet. No, his dad had never hit Sally before, but she was not a kid who sobbed, especially around her dad. Al learned he was wrong when the loudest cry he had ever heard burst from his sister’s throat.
“I’m going to bed.”
Their father trudged out of the room, leaving his children in shock.
***
“Hey, Dev…

I know you disappeared, but… are you sure… you aren’t real? Because I… need you… god, you felt so so real, like I could touch you and hold you and… kiss you… I guess I still haven’t had my first kiss. It’s my birthday, y’know. Of course you do, you’re all in my head, but I’m… eighteen now… I could do anything. What should I do first, Dev? Is there an election coming up? Cuz I could vote in it. Can I get a second chance because it’s my birthday? It would be a great present! …God, what am I doing, I’m talking to no one. I’ve been talking to no one for months. I’m insane. I’m insane, Dev, I’m crazy. I’ve fallen in love with a… a nothing… now what do I do? What do I do, Dev, please, tell me.”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Leave here.”
“No, no, you’re not real you’re not here, you’re all in my head.”
“So? That never meant anything for you before.”
“But you were real then!”
“I’ve never been real, Al, you know that. You’ve known that. So leave.”
“I love you.”
“You love Sal, not me.”
“I can’t leave y- How am I supposed to just leave?”
“You’re eighteen. Leave. Take Sally. Go somewhere far, far away.”
“…Ok.”
***
I think about collecting our tears sometimes. Witches did that in old stories, they were magical, good in potions. I don’t want to make a potion. I want proof. I want proof for the pain we’re in. I want to see every drop we’ve drained since her death. Every single one is dedicated to our mother. Even when Sal broke her leg falling off the monkey bars and sobbed till her voice went hoarse she was crying for mom. That was when dad was still himself.
***
Allen held a pink backpack in his left hand and a gray one in his right. The sweat dripped off of his hair and his breathing was hard as he stared at his sister playing her viola. His feet throbbed from the way he had run, sprinting as fast as he could till he reached home. “Get your things,” he panted.
Sally’s eyes tore from her sheet music and to her brother. He was a mess. “Are we leaving?” she asked, though she knew the answer already.
Allen’s eyes were red and wet, pale knuckles gripped the bags. “Take what you need. We’re leaving tonight.” He dropped the pink backpack and turned, stiffly, into his room.
Nearly a half hour passed when Allen heard a sound at his door and it slowly swung open.
“I’m ready.” Sally stood, her bags in hand, watching her brother stuff journals into a pocket of his bag. One of those journals held his secret, the one that had started this whole thing. Or, really, had ended it all. Allen rose, crossed the distance to his sister, and hugged her. He did so much for her, but this… this was to comfort him. They gathered the rest of their things, put on their most comfortable shoes, and headed out the door.

And then

They

Left.