Fontaine Five

SEVEN

          WEEKENDS ARE A fucking godsend. No alarms. No Mom shaking me awake and throwing the curtains open. Little moments of peace in the week, before the five-day slog begins again. At least that's what they were, until after Ellis. I find it funny that we hope for the dead to rest in peace, because it's as if they take all the peace they can get, leaving the living with none. No morning, no day, will ever be peaceful from now on.

I find myself treading down the stairs for something to eat, spurred on by the pang of hunger in my stomach. Stare into a near-empty refrigerator. Shut it. A blue piece of paper catches my eye on our spotless kitchen counter.

Daniel Grey called.
Wants you to stop by his house and pick up things you left.
x

My mother's handwriting is rushed, but never unneat. I let the words sink into my head. Daniel Grey wants my things gone. I'm surprised he doesn't just get rid of them; he seems to care about my shit more than I do. I don't even remember what I left there, but I'm assuming they were found in Ellis' room. The matter of the fact is that Daniel Grey gets what Daniel Grey wants, so I have no choice but to do his bidding. 

I'm there sooner than I would've wanted, having ditched the notion of breakfast after a loss of appetite. The car door clicks shut. I want to laugh at the fact that I'm finding myself here again, for the second time this week. Two times too many. I dip my head into the collar of my coat to shy from the nip in the air, and step across the driveway to the front door. Dead brown leaves crunch and disintegrate under my boots; I welcome the sound and step on a few more.

Wendy answers. I thought she would; Daniel's car wasn't parked in the driveway, and she's here every Saturday morning, as always. Wendy represents the things that haven't changed despite Ellis being gone, like the way the sun floods the east side of the school in fifth period when it feels like showing up, and the leaky bathroom faucet that I sometimes hear dripping at night. You'd think things would be bleaker and stop mattering by default, but no: the rays that hit through the classroom windows are still beautiful, and the faucet is still annoying as fuck.

This time, she's sporting yellow rubber gloves, a wiping cloth in hand. "Hello." The moment she recognizes me, she steps back to let me through and gestures towards the foot of the staircase. I follow the direction of her outstretched arm, and see a small box. A beanie I forgot I owned pokes out of the open top.

"Thanks," I say. No doubt she was the one who gathered my belongings. She nods wordlessly, returning to cleaning the bathroom across the hall. I walk towards the box. Strangely, I'm disappointed at its contents. There's a sweatshirt. A phone charger I thought I'd lost, and a few other inconsequential things. Nothing special. If I'd have known what they were, I wouldn't have bothered coming. I don't want to step foot in this house ever again.

I leave the box where it sits, and head over to the bathroom Wendy's in. The door's wide open. "Can I use the bathroom upstairs?"

She waves me away, her back to me as she's scouring the shower floor. "Yes, yes. Go." I turn to leave, but she makes a noise, as if to say more. "Miss Rory." Waits for me to turn back around. "I am very sorry. About Mr Ellis." And I don't know if it's just because I'm in a different headspace, but Wendy's condolences actually sound sincere, more so than anyone's at the funeral. No dramatic words or stories needed. Her eyes are soft, glassy pools. She comes here every Saturday. She knew Ellis too.

All I can do in the moment is nod, and then I tread upstairs. The bathroom is at the far end of the hall from where I stand, after the bedrooms, and all the doors are closed. Except one. It's almost beckoning me to go in, and for some reason I'm letting it. I'm giving in. The look on Wendy's face had thrown me off my carefully-controlled balance. Entering Ellis' room, I hold my breath.

And let go. It's the same, albeit a little tidier. Weak sunlight barely makes it through the window. His room smells the same. Bedsheets still slightly ruffled as always, even though the bed is made. It's as if he could walk in on me any second now. Rory - when did you get here?

A twinge of something, longing and nostalgia, maybe, pulls me towards the window seat, to the view of the driveway. As I move, my shoe hits something hard but light, mostly hidden from view under the bed. Curiosity, barely a wisp, pulls me into a crouch to pick the thing up.

It's a notebook, or journal. Leather bound, thick, alabaster-colored pages. Lined. I'm flicking through it, trying to remember seeing Ellis write in it. For a few seconds, I don't see much; a doodle here, a to-do list there. It's filled haphazardly, which seems like him. This journal's purpose is for moments of boredom, or procrastination.

Still thumbing though the pages, I skip past a full page of writing that inevitably catches my attention. My fingers turn back to it. The passage - entry, whatever - begins on the second line, but the first is empty. No date, no title. It's actually a double-page spread, and it takes the first six sentences for me to realize it's an enraged rant about us. About Blair. Lan. Jude. And me.

I keep on reading, uncomprehending, hoping to reach to a part that makes the rest of it make sense. The angry words are leaping off the paper, and if it isn't for the fact that it's all in Ellis' handwriting, I never would have believed he could think like this, let alone write. The following sentences stick out to me.

Blair is a sick, social-climbing bitch and everyone knows it. I don't know what the others see in her. Why we put up with her. And Rory - she fucking loves her.

Fuck Orlando Venturi and the ego he hides behind. Sometimes I look at him and see the epitome of a sad, damaged, rich kid, spoiled into thinking he's somebody special.

It's when she looks away that I feel it. She'll never feel as much as I do. I get it. It's high school, we're just having fun, and I'm her plaything. But she doesn't have to treat me like shit.

But I know what Jude did. What they did. I want to leave these people and this too-small town.

Dread manifests on my skin in goosebumps, and pools in my stomach. I can't bring myself to process any of it. And I have questions. When was this written? What brought him to write it? Was it a spur-of-the-moment outlet of anger, or had he always felt this way?

I'm her plaything. Me? Is he implying I used him; didn't care about him?

I know what Jude did. What they did. What did we do?

I only realize I'm welling up when I feel a hot tear stream down the side of my nose. Oh, Ellis. Why?

V

Come over before dark

The text from Blair lights up my phone, half concealed under a pillow. She's talking about the four of us meeting at Lan's before heading to a party happening tonight, hosted by a jock from school whose name I can't remember. One of Lan and Jude's football buddies.

I can't face them right now, not after what I'd read in Ellis' journal. Because as soon as I see them I'll have to tell them about it, otherwise it turns into this ugly secret I kept from them. And once I do - then what? Our memory of him would just become tainted, all because of some words he'd written, god knows when or why. Telling them about it wouldn't bring him back.

Would they even believe me? Panicked, I'd thrown the notebook back under the bed when I'd heard Wendy's footsteps on the staircase, though she hadn't seemed bothered or suspicious when she saw me sat in Ellis' room. Just smiled at me.

I text a quick reply. I'll see them tonight, but I'll turn up late. Hopefully they'll be too busy to ask any questions, or intoxicated enough not to.

Busy right now, i'll see you at the party

*

hello
it's me
i was wondering if after all these yrs you'd like to forgive me for having u wait this long for a new chapter
(technically i'm still on spring break so i kept to my word !! ur welcome. ily)