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The Last Three Rows
You know that expression, “It hit me like a ton of bricks”? It’s true. The minute she turned the car around and ended up on my doorstep in her purple
pajamas, that’s how I felt about Lena.
I knew it was coming. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.
Since then, there were two places I wanted to be: with Lena, or alone, so I could try to hammer it all out in my mind. I didn’t have the words for
what we were. She wasn’t my girlfriend; we weren’t even dating. Up until last week, she wouldn’t even admit we were friends. I had no idea how she
felt about me, and it wasn’t like I could send Savannah over to find out. I didn’t want to risk whatever we had, whatever it was. So why did I think
about her every second? Why was I so much happier the minute I saw her? I felt like maybe I knew the answer, but how could I be sure? I didn’t
know, and I didn’t have any way to find out.
Guys don’t talk about stuff like that. We just lie under the pile of bricks.
“So what are you writing?”
She closed the spiral notebook she seemed to carry around everywhere. The basketball team had no practice on Wednesdays, so Lena and I
were sitting in the garden at Greenbrier, which I’d sort of come to think of as our special place, though that’s not something I would ever admit, not
even to her. It was where we found the locket. It was a place we could hang out without everyone staring and whispering. We were supposed to be
studying, but Lena was writing in her notebook, and I’d read the same paragraph about the internal structure of atoms nine times now. Our
shoulders were touching, but we were facing different directions. I was sprawled in the fading sun; she sat under the growing shadow of a mosscovered
oak. “Nothing special. I’m just writing.”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” I tried not to sound disappointed.
“It’s just… it’s stupid.”
“So tell me anyway.”
For a minute she didn’t say anything, scribbling on the rubber rim of her shoe with her black pen. “I just write poems sometimes. I’ve been doing
it since I was a kid. I know it’s weird.”
“I don’t think it’s weird. My mom was a writer. My dad’s a writer.” I could feel her smiling, even though I wasn’t looking at her. “Okay, that’s a bad
example, because my dad is really weird, but you can’t blame that on the writing.”
I waited to see if she was going to just hand me the notebook and ask me to read one. No such luck. “Maybe I can read one sometime.”
“Doubtful.” I heard the notebook open again and her pen moving across the page. I stared at my chemistry book, rehearsing the phrase I’d gone
over a hundred times in my head. We were alone. The sun was slipping away; she was writing poetry. If I was going to do it, now was the time.
“So, do you want to, you know, hang out?” I tried to sound casual.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
I chewed on the end of an old plastic spoon I had found in my backpack, probably from a pudding cup. “Yeah. No. I mean, do you want to, I don’t
know, go somewhere?”
“Now?” She took a bite out of an open granola bar, and swung her legs around so she was next to me, holding it out toward me. I shook my
head.
“Not now. Friday, or something. We could see a movie.” I stuck the spoon in my chemistry book, closing it.
“That’s gross.” She made a face, and turned the page.
“What do you mean?” I could feel my face turning red.
I was only talking about a movie.
You idiot.
She pointed at my dirty spoon bookmark. “I meant that.”
I smiled, relieved. “Yeah. Bad habit I picked up from my mom.”
“She had a thing for cutlery?”
“No, books. She would have maybe twenty going at a time, lying all over our house—on the kitchen table, by her bed, the bathroom, our car, her
bags, a little stack at the edge of each stair. And she’d use anything she could find for a bookmark. My missing sock, an apple core, her reading
glasses, another book, a fork.”
“A dirty old spoon?”
“Exactly.”
“Bet that drove Amma crazy.”
“It drove her nuts. No, wait for it—she was—” I dug deep. “P. E. R. T. U. R. B. E. D.”
“Nine down?” She laughed.
“Probably.”
“This was my mom’s.” She held out one of the charms suspended from the long silver chain she never seemed to take off. It was a tiny gold bird.
“It’s a raven.”
“For Ravenwood?”
“No. Ravens are the most powerful birds in the Caster world. Legend has it that they can draw energy into themselves and release it in other
forms. Sometimes they’re even feared because of their power.” I watched as she let go of the raven and it fell back into place between a disc with
strange writing etched into it and a black glass bead.
“You’ve got a lot of charms.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked down at the necklace. “They aren’t really charms, just things that mean something to me.”
She held out the tab of the soda can. “This is from the first can of orange soda I ever drank, sitting on the porch of our house in Savannah. My
gramma bought it for me when I came home from school crying because no one put anything in my valentine shoebox at school.”
“That’s cute.”
“If by cute you mean tragic.”
“I mean, that you kept it.”
“I keep everything.”
“What’s this one?” I pointed to the black bead.
“My Aunt Twyla gave it to me. They’re made from these rocks in a really remote area of Barbados. She said it would bring me luck.”
“It’s a cool necklace.” I could see how much it meant to her, the way she held each thing on it so carefully.
“I know it just looks like a bunch of junk. But I’ve never lived anywhere very long. I’ve never had the same house, or the same room for more than
a few years, and sometimes I feel like the little pieces of me on this chain are all I have.”
I sighed and pulled a blade of grass. “Wish I’d lived in one of those places.”
“But you have roots here. A best friend you’ve had your whole life, a house with a bedroom that’s always been yours. You probably even have
one of those doorjambs with your height written on it.” I did.
You do, don’t you?
I nudged her with my shoulder. “I can measure you on my doorjamb if you want. You can be immortalized for all time at Wate’s Landing.” She
smiled into her notebook and pushed her shoulder against mine. From the corner of my eye, I could see the afternoon sunlight hitting one side of
her face, a single page of her notebook, the curling edge of her black hair, the tip of one black Converse.
About the movies. Friday works.
Then she slid her granola bar into the middle of her notebook, and closed it.
The toes of our ratty black sneakers touched.
The more I thought about Friday night, the more nervous I got. It wasn’t a date, not officially—I knew that. But that was part of the problem. I wanted it
to be. What do you do when you realize you might have feelings for a girl who will barely admit to being your friend? A girl whose uncle kicked you
out of their house, and who isn’t all that welcome in yours, either? A girl who almost everyone you know hates? A girl who shares your dreams, but
maybe not your feelings?
I had no idea, which is why I didn’t do anything. But it didn’t stop me from thinking about Lena, and almost driving by her house on Thursday night
—if her house wasn’t outside of town, if I had my own car. If her uncle wasn’t Macon Ravenwood. Those were the “ifs” that kept me from making a
fool of myself.
Every day was like a day out of someone else’s life. Nothing had ever happened to me, and now everything was happening to me—and by
everything, I really meant Lena. An hour was both faster and slower. I felt like I had sucked the air out of a giant balloon, like my brain wasn’t getting
enough oxygen. Clouds were more interesting, the lunchroom less disgusting, music sounded better, the same old jokes were funnier, and Jackson
went from being a clump of grayish-green industrial buildings to a map of times and places where I might run into her. I found myself smiling for no
reason, keeping my earphones in and replaying our conversations in my head, just so I could listen to them again. I had seen this kind of thing
before.
I had just never felt it.
By Friday night, I had been in a great mood all day, which meant I’d done worse than everyone in class, and better than everyone at practice. I had
to put all that energy somewhere. Even Coach noticed, and kept me late to talk. “Keep it up, Wate, an’ you just might get yourself scouted next
year.”
Link gave me a ride to Summerville after practice. The guys were planning on catching a movie, too, which I probably should have considered
since the Cineplex only had one screen. But it was too late for that, and I was past the point of caring.
When we pulled up in the Beater, Lena was standing outside in the darkness, in front of the brightly lit theater. She was wearing a purple T-shirt,
with a skinny black dress over it that made you remember how much of a girl she was, and trashed black boots that made you forget.
Inside the door, aside from the usual crowd of Summerville Community College students, the cheer squad was assembled in formation, hanging
out in the lobby arcade with guys from the team. My mood started to evaporate.
“Hi.”
“You’re late. I got the tickets.” Lena’s eyes were unreadable in the darkness. I followed her inside. We were off to a great start.
“Wate! Get over here!” Emory’s voice boomed over the arcade and the crowd and the eighties music playing in the lobby.
“Wate, you got a date?” Now Billy was riding me. Earl didn’t say anything, but only because Earl hardly ever said anything.
Lena ignored them. She rubbed her head, walking ahead of me like she didn’t want to look at me.
“It’s called a life.” I shouted back over the crowd. I would hear about this on Monday. I caught up to Lena. “Hey, sorry about that.”
She whirled around to look at me. “This isn’t going to work if you’re the kind of person who doesn’t want to watch the previews.”
I waited for you.
I grinned. “Previews and credits, and the dancing popcorn guy.”
She looked past me, back to my friends, or at least, the people who had historically functioned that way.
Ignore them.
“Butter or no butter?” She was annoyed. I had been late, and she had faced the Jackson High social stockade alone. Now it was my turn.
“Butter,” I confessed, knowing this would be the wrong answer. Lena made a face.
“But I’ll trade you butter for extra salt,” I said. Her eyes looked past me, then back. I could hear Emily’s laughter getting closer. I didn’t care.
Say the word and we’ll go, Lena.
“No butter, salt, tossed with Milk Duds. You’ll like it,” she said, her shoulders relaxing just a little.
I already like it.
The squad and the guys walked past us. Emily made a point of not looking at me, while Savannah stepped around Lena like she was infected
with some kind of airborne virus. I could just imagine what they would tell their mothers when they got home.
I grabbed Lena’s hand. A current ran through my body, but this time, it wasn’t the shock I had felt that night in the rain. It was more like a
confusion of the senses. Like being hit by a wave at the beach and climbing under an electric blanket on a rainy night, all at the same time. I let it
wash over me. Savannah noticed and elbowed Emily.
You don’t have to do this.
I squeezed her hand.
Do what?
“Hey, kids. Did you see the guys?” Link tapped me on the shoulder, carrying a monster-size buttered popcorn and a giant blue slush.
The Cineplex was showing some kind of murder mystery, which Amma would have liked, given her penchant for mysteries and dead bodies. Link
had gone to sit up front with the guys, scoping the aisles for college girls on his way. Not because he didn’t want to sit with Lena, but because he
assumed we wanted to be alone. We did—at least, I did.
“Where do you want to sit? Up close, in the middle?” I waited for her to decide.
“Back here.” I followed her down the aisle of the last row.
Hooking up was the main reason kids from Gatlin went to the Cineplex, considering any movie showing there was already on DVD. But it was
the only reason you sat in the last three rows. The Cineplex, the water tower, and in the summer, the lake. Aside from that, there were a few
bathrooms and basements, but not many other options. I knew we wouldn’t be doing any hooking up, but even if it was like that between us I
wouldn’t have brought her here to do it. Lena wasn’t just some girl you took to the last three rows of the Cineplex. She was more than that.
Still, it was her choice, and I knew why she chose it. You couldn’t get farther away from Emily Asher than the last row.
Maybe I should have warned her. Before the opening credits, people were already starting to go at it. We both stared at the popcorn, since
there was nowhere else safe to look.
Why didn’t you say anything?
I didn’t know.
Liar.
I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Honest.
I pushed it all to the back of my mind, thinking about anything, the weather, basketball, and reached into the popcorn tub. Lena reached in at the
same time, and our hands touched for a second, sending a chill up my arm, hot and cold all mixed up together. Pick ’n’ Roll. Picket Fences. Down
the Lane. There were only so many plays in the Jackson basketball playbook. This was going to be harder than I thought.
The movie was terrible. Ten minutes in, I already knew the ending.
“He did it,” I whispered.
“What?”
“That guy. He’s the murderer. I don’t know who he kills, but he did it.” That was the other reason Link didn’t want to sit by me: I always knew the
ending at the beginning and I couldn’t keep it to myself. It was my version of doing the crossword. It was the reason I was so good at video games,
carnival games, checkers with my dad. I could figure things out, right from the first move.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
How does this end?
I knew what she meant. But for the first time, I just didn’t know the answer.
Happy. Very, very happy.
Liar. Now hand over the Milk Duds.
She pushed her hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, looking for them. Only it was the wrong side, and instead she found the last thing she was
expecting. There it was, the little pouch, the hard lump that we both knew was the locket. Lena sat up with a start, pulling it out and holding it up like it
was some kind of dead mouse. “Why are you still carrying that around in your pocket?”
“Shh.” We were annoying the people around us, which was funny considering they weren’t even watching the movie.
“I can’t leave it in the house. Amma thinks I buried it.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“It doesn’t matter, the thing has a mind of its own. It almost never works. You’ve seen it every time it has.”
“Can you shut up?” The couple in front of us came up for air. Lena jumped, dropping the locket. We both grabbed for it. I saw the handkerchief
falling off, as if it were in slow motion. I could barely see the white square in the dark. The big screen twisted into an inconsequential spark of light,
and we could already smell the smoke—
Burning a house with women in it.
It couldn’t be true. Mamma. Evangeline. Genevieve’s mind was racing. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She broke into a run, ignoring the
ragged claws of the bushes urging her to go back and Ethan and Ivy’s voices calling after her. The bushes opened up, and there were two
Federals in front of what was left of the house Genevieve’s grandfather had built. Two Federals pouring a tray full of silver into a
government-issue rucksack. Genevieve was a rush of black billowing fabric catching the gusts kicked up by the fire.
“What the—”
“Grab her, Emmett,” the first teenage boy called to the other.
Genevieve was taking the stairs two at a time, choking on the gales of smoke pouring from the opening where the front door had been.
She was out of her mind. Mamma. Evangeline. Her lungs were raw. She felt herself falling. Was it the smoke? Was she going to faint?
No, it was something else. A hand on her wrist, pulling her down.
“Where do you think you’re going, girl?”
“Let me go!” she screamed, her voice raw from the smoke. Her back hit the stairs one by one as he dragged her, a blur of navy and
gold. Her head hit next. Heat, then something wet dripping down the collar of her dress. Dizziness and confusion mixed with desperation.
A gunshot. The sound was so loud it brought her back, cutting through the darkness. The hand gripping her wrist relaxed. She tried to
will her eyes to focus.
Two more shots rang out.
Lord, please spare Mamma and Evangeline. But in the end, it was too much to ask, or maybe it had been the wrong question. Because
when she heard the sound of the third body drop, her eyes refocused long enough to see Ethan’s gray wool jacket sprayed with blood.
Shot by the very soldiers he had refused to fight against anymore.
And the smell of blood mixed with gunpowder and burning lemons.
The credits were rolling, and the lights were coming up. Lena’s eyes were still closed, and she was lying back in her seat. Her hair was messed up,
and neither one of us could catch our breath.
“Lena? You okay?”
She opened her eyes, and pushed up the armrest between us. Without a word, she rested her head on my shoulder. I could feel her shaking so
hard she couldn’t even speak.
I know. I was there, too.
We were still sitting like that when Link and the rest of them walked by. Link winked at me and held out his fist as he passed, like he was going
to tap it against mine the way he did after I made a tough shot on the court.
But he had it wrong, they all did. We may have been in the last row, but we hadn’t been hooking up. I could smell the blood and the gunshots
were still ringing in my ears.
We had just watched a man die.
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