The Payback or The Adventures and Pranks of Zachary O'Connor

Chapter Twenty: Blood and Bone

"Is he home?" John asked me.

"No..." I muttered. "He's with Reagan."

"Oh," John echoed me.

"I never wanted to visit that graveyard again, John."

He said nothing, so I disengaged the emergency brake, shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb. We rode in silence until we were driving through Walkerhall's tiny "downtown," still about ten minutes away from the graveyard.

"I think it's good that we're going," John said.

"Why?" I asked.

"You're scared of visiting her grave. You don't want to. But it's necessary."

"I don't think so. Why would I want to purposefully open up that expanse of memories?"

"Because she was more than how she died. She is more than how she died. She was our best friend and a damn smart girl. She was funny and beautiful and kind and so much more than any of us expected of her. When you say that 'expanse of memories,' you don't mean an expanse. You mean a brief series of memories lasting from the day she died up until now. Those are the memories you're focusing on. The vast majority of your memories about Reagan are all the things before that. Her laugh, her ideas, her smile, her face, and the way she would snap when she was bored."

I had forgotten about her snaps.

"We're supposed to be conducting this senior prank with her in mind. How can we if all those memories are dark?" John said to me.

"It's hard to see a series of bright moments when they've been painted over with the same cold, black ichor that snuffed out her life... and when the canvas that the bright moments are painted on is a dull gray of popularity, envy. Guilt."

"You're gonna have to get over that popularity shit, Zach. She thought it was a big deal, but believe me, she knew it wasn't by the end. She did all kinds of things that she probably wished she hadn't. It really sucks that she did because we know how good of a person she actually was, but it's the truth. And that's why your memories should be so bright. She was her real self with us. And the ichor, as you put it, of Death, doesn't make those moments go away. If anything, it puts those moments on a pedestal. Those moments were the best of Reagan Hamilton, and they can't be taken away."

I felt like I should be crying, but I had nothing. All I could do was cast a sad smile at John. It was the face of those past few months. He was familiar with it, and my face just naturally fell into it. Yet as the meaning of his words sunk in, the sadness in the smile faded. I was on the way to the grave of one of my best friends, and I was happy.

"She's still with us, Zach," John said.

I nodded. There was a lump in my throat, so I couldn't say much. The rest of the ride passed in silence, with a solid yellow line in my periphery, my gaze never straying from the gray road ahead.

We arrived at the section of the graveyard where Reagan was. A dark silhouette stood framed against the cool night air. He had a rose clutched in his right hand, and his left hand hung limply in his pocket. John and I got out of the car and approached the silhouette and stood of either side of him. We looked down at her gravestone, onto which Anti had already placed three roses. He held up the one in his right hand so that it lay across both of his palms. He gripped the stem tightly so that the thorns sank into his flesh. Alarmed, I gently placed my hands over his and released his grip on the stem. Blood ran down his hands as the rose fell to the ground. Anti looked at his hands then into my face. The hug he bestowed upon me nearly shattered my ribs. His sobs racked his body, and I shook within his grasp. Anti then turned and hugged John just as hard.

"I love you guys," he said.

"We love you, too, Anti," John answered.

"And I'm sorry," he choked, still holding onto John.

"We're all good, man," I said.

All three of our tuxedo jackets were still in the basement, but we were still wearing our ties and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. It would have looked strange to see three teenage boys wearing fancy clothes in a graveyard at one o'clock on a Saturday night embracing, but to us it was simply heartbreaking. I went to my car and popped the trunk. I pulled something out of the trunk and brought it to Anti. He looked at the pictures of him and Reagan.

"I forgot about it until tonight. Reagan's dad gave it to me to give to you. She kept it in her room."

"Thanks, Zach. This really means a lot."

"Sure thing, man."

Then Anti took it and smashed the frame over his knee, causing the pieces of the wooden frame to fall softly into the wet grass.

"She's dead, Zach. I'll always remember her, but I can't let this prevent me from living my life. I'm going to Boston for a reason. Keeping a picture frame full of pictures of me and my dead girlfriend isn't gonna help me. It's a lot more likely to do the opposite," Anti explained.

"Oh, okay."

I guess that worked too.

Then it started to rain again. Anti held his hands out, and the blood ran off them, away with the water. He smiled, water falling from his brow, and we all turned back to the car. Despite the rain, we proceeded slowly.

"I believe there are a couple girls who I need to apologize to?" Anti said.

I winced but shot John a look warning him not to tell Anti about warding the girls off. Anti didn't need to know that we had argued with the girls for them not to come. I mouthed, "Text them," to John and he nodded slightly.

"They're just gonna be happy to know that you're okay. We're taking you home," John said.

As he said it, I knew it was the right thing.

"Anti, you grab shotgun, I'm driving your car," John ordered.

Anti pulled his keys out of his pocket, handed them to John, and dutifully went to the passenger side. I nodded to them and told them I'd see them back at Anti's. The procession out of the graveyard felt painfully slow in our cold, wet clothes, but we were at Anti's within minutes. John and I walked him to the door, and I knocked. All three of us were soaked, and when Anti's mom opened the door, she ran to get towels while his father hugged him tightly, not caring that Anti's soaked clothes were making him wet also.

"Thank you, boys," he said to us.

We nodded, and Anti's mother appeared with towels. She insisted that we return to Gabby's and that take the towels with us, thanked us profusely for bringing Anti home and shut the door. We turned to leave, and the family began to weep behind the closed door.