But then, something changed.
I don’t know what.
Was it him? Was it me?
He joined a different band.
Stopped coming around.
I just lost track.
We lost track.
I try to remember
the last time I saw Gabe
and I can’t.
He didn’t just fade
into the background.
He pretty much
disappeared.
#278
Dear Lucca,
Can you believe this? I can’t.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Remember that one time the three of us went to
see Kings of Leon? Gabe sang every song. He knew
every single song.
I seriously feel sick. Gonna go lie down.
Love always,
Brooklyn
Mon., Jan. 2nd—Nico
Gabe and my brother
had been friends
since fourth grade.
They’d grown apart in high school
when Gabe chose music
and Lucca chose art.
Still, they had that connection,
the kind that stays strong
despite the differences.
No matter how long it’d been
since they’d seen each other,
they’d pick up right where they left off.
Gabe made Lucca laugh like no other.
Gabe with his wild hair that stuck every which way,
his pierced lip
and the black leather jacket
he wore everywhere.
He was a character.
A character who should still be here.
Damn it all to hell.
He should still be here.
Tues., Jan. 3rd—Brooklyn
The principal holds an assembly.
He tells everyone he understands
how hard this is for us,
but we’re strong and we’ll get through this.
He tells us calls and e-mails
are pouring in from across the nation.
He tells us this time, counseling is mandatory.
Every student at Mountain View High
will speak to a counselor.
Three boys.
Three deaths.
One school.
We’ve made the national news.
Is our school cursed?
Are we a reckless bunch of fools?
The media asks questions
no one can answer.
Kids can’t stop crying.
It’s a downpour of tears
through the halls
for Jackson,
for Lucca,
for Gabe,
for all of us
who have to go on without them.
The helplessness in the air
is heavy,
and we walk around
with our heads and shoulders down,
feeling the weight of it all.
Teachers are going easy on us.
Most classes, we just sit
and talk
and cry.
In a few days,
we’ll go to Gabe’s funeral,
hoping to put this behind us
and move on.
Daddy said he’d go with me.
Mom went to Lucca’s funeral with me.
But now that she’s moved to Vegas
with my twin brothers,
he’s the only one here.
When I told him about Gabe,
he didn’t know what to say.
He looked at me, started to speak, then stopped.
Words vanished like the three boys.
So he wrapped his arms around me
and held me tight.
Don’t go there.
Don’t feel so bad,
you go there and
don’t know how to get back.
I do feel bad.
My boyfriend left me.
My mother left me.
My brothers left me.
Hold on tight, Daddy.
You’re all I’ve got left.
Please.
Hold on tight.
Thurs., Jan. 5th—Nico
My parents
are friends with Gabe’s parents.
They liked Gabe.
Now, the two of them huddle together,
whispering things,
Pop holding Ma up one minute,
Ma holding Pop up the next.
Gabe told them one time how sorry he was.
They hugged him.
Said they forgave him.
Guess he didn’t believe them.
Thurs., Jan. 5th—Brooklyn
After Lucca died, everything shut down.
I couldn’t eat.
I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t talk.
Somehow they got me on the plane
and back home.
Friends from school called and stopped by.
Even kids I didn’t know stopped by.
All of them, wanting to help somehow.
I hated it.
I didn’t want to see anyone.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
But Mom made me.
She said it’d be good for me.
Of all the people who visited,
Ava stands out in my mind.
She brought me cookies and a CD she made
called Joy, Not Sorrow.
“The songs move through the stages of grief,” she said.
“Someday you’ll get to the place of joy.
Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month.
But someday you will.”
We didn’t know each other.
I knew who she was because everyone knows.
She’s the girl whose boyfriend, Jackson, died.
Now I’m that “other girl whose boyfriend died.”
How special.
I don’t remember much of what she said.
“Call me if you want to talk.”
I never did.
“Lean on your friends and family.”
Don’t have much to lean on, really.
I remember when she hugged me,
I didn’t want to let her go.
She was my budding crocus
on a dreary winter day.
I played the first half of the CD over and over.
Evanescence spoke to my soul with All That I’m Living For.
Jason Mraz spoke to my heart with Dreaming to Sleep.
The Williams Brothers spoke to my pain with Can’t Cry Hard Enough.
I never called her.
I probably should have.
But I never did.
Fri., Jan. 6th—Nico
I hear the word
in the hall
over and over again.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Did he or didn’t he?
Everyone’s got a guess.
Still no one knows for sure,
except Gabe,
but he’s not talking.
Why does it even matter?
He’s gone.
His, ours, theirs—
blame needs a place.
His, ours, theirs—
pain all over the place.
His, ours, theirs—
forgiveness missing from this place.
Fri., Jan. 6th—Brooklyn
I want to go home.
I left my notebook filled with
letters to Lucca at home.
The blue spiral notebook
that used to be his,
with cartoon drawings
It was in my locker
before he died.
He threw it in there after a class
and forgot about it.
So I kept it.
And now, I n
ever leave it at home.
Wherever I go, it goes.
We belong together.
Without it, I can’t function.
It’s like missing a brain,
a heart,
or lungs.
My head hurts.
My chest hurts.
I can hardly breathe.
It’s the middle of first period
when I notice it’s gone.
I’m the first one out the door
when the bell rings.
Then I run all the way home
to get it.
#279
Dear Lucca,
The funeral is tomorrow. I don’t want to go. I
mean, I REALLY don’t want to go. Daddy said I
have to. He’s making me. Says I need to go and say
good-bye.
What if I don’t want to say good-bye?
Love always,
Brooklyn
Sat., Jan. 7th—Nico
A big woman,
Gabe’s aunt or something,
is singing this sad song,
and people are searching for tissues
in the most desperate way,
like it’s blood falling instead of tears.
Whatever.
I just keep looking at that coffin and thinking
about this song Pop belts out
when his beloved Notre Dame football team
stomps on an opponent.
Another One Bites the Dust.
Yeah.
Still pissed.
Sat., Jan. 7th—Brooklyn
In a funeral home
there’s no cross to give you hope.
There’s no bible to give you peace.
There’s no minister to assure you all is well.
In a funeral home …
There are still flowers which I love.
There are still people who I know.
There is still death which I hate.
In a funeral home …
There is a family without a son.
There is a band without a guitarist.
There is a school without a classmate.
In a funeral home …
There is a coffin with a boy.
#280
Dear Lucca,
Heading to Another Galaxy in a minute, imagining I’m meeting you there. What will we buy today, I wonder?
The funeral yesterday was sad. Like it’d be anything else. Anyway, I’m glad it’s over. Still,
I can’t stop thinking about Gabe. How come no one saw it coming? I’d heard he was partying hard, but I just thought … I don’t know what I thought. That he was dealing the best he could. Like we all were.
I hate this. Will the darkness ever fade? Will I ever see light again?
Is it light where you are?
Love always,
Brooklyn
Mon., Jan. 9th—Nico
My turn to talk to the counselor.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Not good.”
“What do you mean, not good?”
“Not good.
As in bad.
Angry.”
“At Gabe?”
“Yeah, at Gabe.
And at you, for thinking you can help.
And at my brother, for dying, which made Gabe want to die.
And at everyone, pretty much.”
“Do you envy Gabe at all?”
“Envy him?
Because he’s not here anymore?
Because he doesn’t have to deal with all of this?
Because he doesn’t have to watch my parents, barely able to hold it together?
Because he doesn’t have to be around all these stupid crying people?
Yeah, I guess I do.
I mean, he’s got it so easy.”
“Nico, do you know what that sounds like?”
“Like I wish I was dead?”
“Do you?”
I shake my head hard.
I bite my lip.
I think of everyone who has lost.
Like me.
And then, for just a minute,
I’m one of those stupid crying people.
Mon., Jan. 9th—Brooklyn
When your mom tells you one day
that she’s up and moving to Vegas
and taking her eight-year-old twins,
but not you,
it pretty much feels like you shouldn’t have been born.
I wanted to know why.
I asked a hundred times.
She said she didn’t have an answer that’d satisfy me.
“I don’t love him anymore, honey.
Things have changed.
I’ve changed.”
And that was that.
So when she calls once a week to talk
and to tell me she loves me,
but my dad needs me most,
I don’t say much.
I just say yes or no,
answering her questions,
hoping she’ll get the point
and stop calling.
She never does, of course.
She’s my mom.
She’s supposed to call.
Today, she asks me about Gabe.
Daddy must have told her.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Was the funeral sad?”
“Yes.”
“Is it hard going to school?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to come for a visit?”
“No.
Bye, Mom.”
Tues., Jan. 10th—Nico
To say it’s difficult
being the son left behind,
especially when the one who died was the favorite,
is like saying running makes me happy.
Running doesn’t just make me happy. Running keeps me alive.
When I’m running,
the blood pumping through my veins,
the tunes playing in my ears,
the muscles tightening on the inclines,
the problems of the world disappear.
It’s just me, the sidewalk, and God.
When I leave the sidewalk
and walk into my house,
it all changes.
Difficult?
Almost impossible.
Tues., Jan. 10th—Brooklyn
Daddy was raised
in a house full of women.
Women who did everything for him.
Now I’m left
to do those things
others have done for him
his whole life.
Cook him dinner.
Wash his boxers.
Change his sheets.
He needs me?
I don’t think so.
What he needs
is a maid.
Tonight he says,
“Brooklyn, let’s get a dog.”
I give him a look that says,
Are you crazy?
“What?” he says.
“It’d be great.
You just don’t know it
because you’ve never had one.”
That was Mom’s fault.
Neat freaks and dogs
don’t mix.
And really,
I don’t see how
busy girls with enough to take care of
thank-you-very-much
would mix with a dog either.
A maid,
a cook,
and a dog trainer?
I don’t think so.
Tues., Jan. 10th—Nico
Ma makes a big dish
of ravioli for Gabe’s family