You know, if we’re not going to do any actual science, you’d think she could at least make a new fucking seating chart every now and then. Shuffle the fucking deck chairs on this sinking piece of shit.
Rebecca Gaskins has made it to about the third slide of notes every day this week before disappearing to the bathroom for twenty-plus minutes, leaving both seats empty at the lab table in front of Evan and me. And when Mrs. Shepler hands back the wrong number of packets again today, Rebecca again sticks me with the extra and raises her hand to go see the guidance counselor, and I again have the impulse to save it so I can give it to Tabby later, and decide fuck all of this and pull out a book.
I decided to reread Part-Time Indian, and Mrs. Shepler’s PowerPoint marathons have been the perfect opportunity. I don’t feel like staring at an empty seat and imagining what used to occupy that space, and, really, RNA replication can suck my ass.
Evan clears his throat once and thumbs through his empty notebook, glancing nervously at me. Guess what, buddy boy? My notebook’s also empty. So you can suck my ass, too.
English isn’t much better. We’ve done 180,000 fucking activities “mining for meaningful moments,” and we’re finally ready to “zoom in on one” and start writing these stupid things. None of which I’ve done, nor plan to do. Some of us have barely hit puberty—how many significant moments could we have? And why would we want to pinpoint the moments that have made us these half-formed pieces of shit?
I’m reading Part-Time Indian when Mr. Ellis comes back to my desk and stands over me.
“Matt, you haven’t started any of your three leads yet. What’s up?”
“I wanted to see how Alexie sets up his basketball scenes,” I lie.
“So you’re zooming in on a basketball memory?”
I nod. I don’t even have my writing folder out of my book bag.
“Nice.”
Even if I did, he’d only find Carny Mo, two more persona poems, and an ode to Internet pornography.
He stares at me a second, like he’s about to say more, and nods again, a pained smile on his face. When he walks away, I go back to reading.
Devin Heiner is loving life on the sidelines. It’s been a week since he turned his ankle—a “severe sprain” according to Devin’s doctor—and he’s still using crutches to get around.
Coach was apparently so pleased with our scrimmage last week that he’s called for the same matchups every practice since then. It earned Tyler a few minutes of action during the last varsity game, so he’s a little less indignant about being relegated to the JV squad during practice runs.
As soon as Leppo brings the ball up the court to start the scrimmage and I meet Branson out on the wing, the intensity picks up right where we left off before, reigniting, like Coach is turning the dial on a gas stove.
We don’t say a word to each other—to anyone, really—but I make sure to say fuck you with every box-out, every hand in his face, every shot I hit, every foul I commit when he gets by me. In turn, he gets faster, quicker every time down the court, hits more and more shots despite my defense, and never looks at me afterward. In fact, despite playing with more intensity every day, he never shows any emotion at all.
At the end of practice, he’s out the door before half the team has gotten their shoes off in the locker room. He doesn’t change. Doesn’t shower. Just grabs his bag, checks for Tabby’s hat, and storms out.
It’s everything I imagined at the beginning of the season, isn’t it? Like it was fate. Branson takes his game to another level because I work his ass off in practice. Right where I hoped I’d be.
Fate can suck my ass, too.
At home after practice, Mom heats up dinner for me, giving me a long look when she hands me my plate. Dad starts to say something, too, but stops when I hit the stairs up to my room.
Murray’s been spending a lot more time in his room lately, too, playing with his stuffed animals, so I haven’t had to deal with any Candy Land, thank God.
He’s in there now as I pass his open door, sitting on his knees on the floor with Bernard, a few random teddy bears, and Chaz, the bald eagle Webkinz Tabby got him for Christmas.
When my door is closed behind me, I set my dinner plate and glass of milk on my desk.
Before I can stop myself, Tabby’s page is up in front of me. I don’t need to do this, but there she is. I know what’s on here. I check it every night. Her last post, early in the morning on New Year’s Day, with a grinning, thumbs-up selfie: Happy New Year! Don’t forget to eat your pork and sauerkraut today! It’s good luck—no matter what your digestive tract says! ;)
Below that, a handful of generic replies throughout the day, then nothing until the first RIP post on Tuesday, from some girl I don’t know, probably from the bathroom right after the announcement, getting off on being the first to broadcast her sorrow. Like there’s special consideration for those closest to the dead.
Shortly after her post, the stream of RIPs and farewells begins, literally more than a thousand of them. I’ve read them all. None from me, but I’ve read them all.
The comments have slowed down now, the newest one from late last night—a kid from Eastern Adams who clearly knows Branson more than he knew Tabby.
Is this really it? It’s been eleven days since the accident. Can this really be it? Happy New Year, a thousand online farewells, and then nothing?
I start typing my first comment, something that feels more like me and Tabby.
My New Year’s resolution: be less of a douche—JK!
Wow, you’re a douche. I hold backspace to clear it, then try again.
Nerds becoming dangerously overpopulated without their natural predator. Please come back!
Seriously? You’re a douche and a fucking moron.
I miss you.
My finger’s on the button to post, and I feel the burning in my nose again. I take in a jagged breath, hold down backspace again, and scroll all the way up to the top, go back to Tabby’s last post for the millionth time.
Happy New Year…
I just stare at it, like it’s important. But fuck, it’s just Instagram. A meaningless couple of thumb strokes on her phone, probably while waiting for her dad to find his keys so they can go.
And then what? I try to imagine everything that happened after. From Tabby’s thumbs punching the screen of her phone to that girl in the bathroom thumbing R-I-P and scrolling for the appropriate emoji. What were the moments that existed in between?
Tabby saw me for the last time, waving goodbye with a box of Nerds.
She rode two hours in the car with her dad.
She ate nursing-home pork and sauerkraut with an angry old woman who probably called her a slut.
She got back in the car and was driven home.
But she didn’t make it home.
Somewhere between those two posts, while the rest of us were playing Xbox or deciding which new outfit we’d wear for the first day back, Tabby didn’t make it home. Her story stopped on a dark, icy road, without any meaning or closure or resolution of any kind. Like the pages of the book were ripped out mid-chapter, page 62, and just thrown away.
But what was on that last page?
I spent that day shooting baskets and working out my plans for the future—how my varsity basketball career would unfold and how I’d fit into Tabby’s life. Did she do the same? While she was staring out the window at the passing trees, or listening to the sounds of old people chewing, was she figuring out her plans for the future? Was she picturing where she’d be this time next year?
Was I in those plans?
The shame and the hatred wash over me as soon as I think it, but I can’t keep my brain from going where it’s going. Fucking asshole.
In the car, in those last moments, was she thinking about me?
You fucking asshole loser. And then what? Would that make her last page a little nicer? Would you feel a little better if you knew she died thinking of you?
I swear to God, if you answer yes, I’ll fucking kill you.
I exit out when I hear Mom coming up the steps. She probably thinks I’m looking at porn when she opens the door and sees the blank screen and my burning face.
That’s probably better.
“Matty? You doing okay?” she says, touching my shoulder before clearing away my plate and empty glass.
“Yeah. Just tired from practice,” I say without looking up at her. I can feel her eyes on me. I reach for my book bag and stand, facing away from her. “I’m going to read and go to bed.”
I pretend to root through my bag and finally pull out Part-Time Indian. She’s still looking at me, like she wants to say more. Like this would be a good time for another therapy session.
Instead, she says, “Make sure you brush your teeth.”
Right.
So when I wake up and face this shit again tomorrow, at least I won’t suffer from gingivitis.