Greenline

21

The Day It Happened

Looking back, I don't think anything during that day felt right. Getting out of bed I felt like something was missing. I kept having moments where it seemed like I wasn't really doing much more than existing.

But at the same time, it had been like every other day that I spent after getting home, grounded. I'd been forced to do chores that I had left to sit for the whole week. Then I'd helped my mom cook dinner and tried to ignore all of her prying questions. When we had the food in the oven, I sat on the couch with a bag of chips to watch the rest of the baseball game with my dad, very aware that their view of this being a punishment was rather warped.

After a few minutes, the phone's shrill, electronic ring echoed through the house. My parents bantered for a moment about who would answer it, Mom was closest but held up fixing our broken microwave. Eventually, Dad got up and grabbed the phone right before it went to voicemail.

I didn't pay attention to the call, too busy watching the next pitch and trying to ignore my every desire to escape that house and run to the other side of town. After hanging up the phone, Dad and Mom spoke in sharp whispers from the kitchen that I tried my best to ignore. I turned up the volume to try and drown them out.

I wasn't sure why Mom walked over when Dad came back to watch the game, or why she sat down next to me and looked like she wanted to lie. Honestly, with how I lost my best friend just months before, I should have known better.

"What?" I asked cluelessly.

Mom sighed. "That was the Kingsley's, Dear." I didn't like how soft her voice was. I didn't like how Dad laid his hand on my shoulder, either. He didn't touch me often.

"Ethan, he's gone," Dad murmured from beside me.

My heart had stopped, I was almost sure of it. I fell back onto the couch and stared at the television, but I didn't register anything that was on it. My dad sat down beside me and quickly pulled me into an embrace that I wasn't sure I was ready for. I wanted to leave. I wanted to throw up and scream.

Isaac Kingsley was dead.

All of the jokes he had ever made about his death suddenly felt like a personal attack, and those thoughts brought on tears. I couldn't have composed myself if I tried. I kept thinking that I was supposed to see him on Saturday, that we were both going to sneak out and meet near our pond. He can't be gone, I had told myself, He can't die, you can't make plans with people who are going to die. My reasoning was an illogical fallacy, a fragile false concept with which I used to cling to the belief that my parents were – for some reason – lying to me.

That idea was gone soon, too. They were concerned I'd lose another close friend, and we were so much more than that. We weren't Romeo and Juliet, Capulets and Montagues. My parents would have never been so harsh, and even in my sorry state, I could rationally see that.

It felt so surreal when it happened. All of the dramatic movies made it seem like I would have been able to sit next to him and tell him I loved him. Like I would have been able to say goodbye.

That night was spent in gross sobs and dark thoughts that I struggled to keep to myself. I didn't touch dinner. The cup of tea my mom brewed grew cold. I let my gaze wander to the locked liquor cabinet quite a few times, knowing the location of my parents' "hidden" key. But I couldn't even find the strength to bother. I already felt numb, I didn't need help feeling more numb.

I never found out who won that game. I didn't pay attention to baseball the rest of that season either.

I didn't pay attention to a lot of things for a very long time.