Wearing My Smile | ✔

Monday, February 10th, 2003

I heard a saying once that we were supposed to meet people who were going to be our life-long friends when we were around thirteen. I forgot who had told me that, but I kind of believed it then.

I don't think it is true for you though, Sam, because I had never seen you with close friends other than me. Perhaps if you counted how in the last months you had been alive I saw you hang out with the kids from our school's backyard, with cigarette between your lips and a bottle of cheap whiskey around your fingers. You had that look on your face when you thought no one had been looking—with eyes closed, wincing as if you were drenched in pain.

I know you'd told me before, “It's no one's fault, Roo. Sometimes pain is there to stay.” But I wanted to be angry. I wanted to yell and scream about how unfair it was that you had to bear it all on your own, that I couldn't carry it for you. I wanted to shake your parents, telling them how unfair it was that you had to go when a lot of times it felt to me that you were all I had, Sam.

Tell me, Sam. Tell me because I didn't know, and I still don't. Tell me, who am I supposed to be without you?

They didn't get it, they never understood. All I had ever wanted was to hear you laugh, to see your eyes light up when you are talking about buried dreams. Your left arm would shake as it always did in the last few years, but we'd find a way. I know we would. We were a team of two, of a sun and a little seal. We always found a way.

That morning, days after your funeral, I tried to walk through the school halls, but they echoed with your presence and I looked for you everywhere, but those faces, they were ghosts. They wore your smile, your laughter, your sense of humor, your sarcasm. They wore the shade of your skin, your hair, your scent, the casual way you touched. So I stood there staring at them, wondering if I had become a ghost, too, because I was an urn overflowing with memories which didn't know where to go.

Penny was there at your funeral. She wasn't there for long, and I knew you couldn't care less if she came by or not. You never did believe me when I said that she really cared about your well-being in a roundabout way. But maybe if you'd been there attending your own funeral you would have seen what I'd meant. The only person who delivered an eulogy for you that day was her.

I could never deliver mine. I felt like it wouldn't do you any justice. How could two pieces of paper describe what you meant to me? No one there knew you as well as I did. Not even your father, who had looked stricken for the first time I'd known him. Not even your mother, who had cried over you a few years too late. What was the point?

“The first time I knew Sam,” she began, her voice was unusually steady like it did when she tried to hide her real feelings, “I thought he was someone else and punched him in the face.”

I'm sure you remember, we were both twelve when we met Penny, at the start of our first junior high school year. Her straight bright red hair fell messily down to her shoulders. She was walking into our class with two of her friends, her face blank, her eyes fierce. This is how I would always picture her, even now, a couple of months before we start attending the same university. Her fierceness called out to me the way your uncertainty did.

You were sitting right in front of me, facing back at me on your chair. You hadn't seen her yet, but she was a hawk finding its prey in you. She strolled quickly straight to you, but you were still talking about the weird dog you saw at the northern wood last night as I tried to tap your arm for your attention. I wasn't fast enough.

She shouted, “Hey, you!”. Penny grabbed the hood of your sweater and pulled you back off your chair onto the floor. I saw as your eyes widened in surprise, but you couldn't open your mouth, you couldn't say your word, because she was swinging her fist right to your nose.

Blood dripped from your nose as you curled yourself into a ball, moaning, looking up to her with an angry and wounded expression.
I stood up from my chair.

“That,” she yelled, “is for lying to my friend, you stupid poop!”

“Penny!” her friend hissed, pulling her back urgently.

She whirled around, glaring. “What? Do you need me to punch him more? Because I freaking would!”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you.” Her friend sighed exasperatedly. “That's not him.”

“What?”

“Wrong person,” her friend assured.

Silence.

And I just couldn't help myself, Sam. I fell over cackling.

“She called you poop!”

I heard you grumble. “Fucking ouch.”

“That's—" I wheezed, “—the best one yet!”

“I'm glad it's funny, Roo.” But I couldn't see your glare which I was sure would be there, I couldn't reply, I was too busy trying to contain my laughter as I doubled over my chair. “Sure, laugh more, Roo. It's not like I'm bleeding.” I just laughed harder.

Penny looked flustered. In panic she asked her friend for a tissue or something, anything to which her friend replied with an unimpressed why would I bring tissue paper with me when you don't. Penny replied with a squeak, a dozen apologies, and flailing hands around you. You brushed her off, not unkindly, it was just that you'd never liked anyone touching you other than me and my family, but she looked awfully guilty.

Still snickering, I crouched down and wiped your nose with my sleeve. The blood had stopped, but I didn't want to take any chances, so I pulled you up, gave your back a sympathetic pat which you replied with a grunt and turned around to face Penny who still looked concerned. With a smile I told her, “It's alright. I'll bring this stupid poop to the infirmary to get checked.” I pressed my lips to hold back another peal of laughter.

“That's real nice, Roo,” you muttered as you wiped your nose with your own sleeve, “I appreciate it.” I smiled then because if I could recall correctly this was the year when you'd started to get sarcastic about everything. I thought at the time it was funny. I was so sure at the time that your sarcasm would stay as that and not turn harsh cynicism, so I chuckled to myself. Unaware with the future, unaware that you would shoot yourself dead at seventeen, unaware of so many things.

Penny though, Penny had stopped fidgeting. She was staring at me with an intensity which was still unknown to me at the time.

I raised my eyebrows. “Umm, Penny, right?”

She finally blinked. “Yeah.”

Pointing at myself, I told her, “Rumon. Call me Roo.” I pointed to you next. “Sam.”

She was still staring at me.

“Is your hand okay?”

“Huh?”

“Your hand, Penny.” I smiled at her again because the way she zoned out was also kind of funny. I remember telling you about this later that day and you only gave me a distasteful scowl.

“Oh. Oh yeah. It's ok-okay.” She averted her eyes, unwilling to look back at me again. Her words were tumbling across each other, hurried if not a little bit breathless. I watched blush spread around her cheeks, highlighting her sparse freckles around her nose. It was rather remarkable, really, how sweet she was. “Y-your eyes.”

I blinked. I felt your hand gripping on my elbow, trying to take me away, but I found myself asking her, “My eyes?”

After a small exhale, she said to me softly, “They're the prettiest thing I have ever seen.” Before I could reply though, she called out to her friend, mumbling something about kicking some other idiotic poop's ass then ran outside the class as if her heels were on fire.

“Huh.” I glanced at you, puzzled. “Weird.”

“Is it?” You looked unhappy. The red around your nose seemed bright and angry.

“She's cute, though.”

You growled at me, then walked fast ahead, forcing me to jog after you. I could laugh if I think about that time again. We were so young, so innocent. Still, but trotting after you, wrapping my arm around your shoulders, I regret that didn't get to tell you my home would always ever be where you were.