Every spring, a few weeks before graduation, the senior class heads to the American Adventure amusement park. I’m not exactly a fan of vertigo-inducing roller coasters, but at least it’s a break from the stone-cold, silent tomb of my house. Not to mention a distraction from the incessant prom talk, the bitter icing on the rotten cake of senior year.
It’s also the perfect day to film. I’m making Violet a movie of senior year as a grad gift, so documenting our last senior outing together is absolutely necessary.
I take my camera in hand.
Roll sound.
Roll camera.
And action.
Technically, I have no assistant director and no boom operator. And in fact, no boom. But in my head, I like to sound authentic.
“Let’s go,” Violet urges as she slams her locker shut. When she sees me filming, she immediately flashes a brilliant smile. Violet is always camera-ready. “I don’t want to get stuck in the front of the bus with the chaperones.”
I play my part from behind the lens. “You are way too peppy for this early in the morning.”
“We’re out of school. The weather’s gorgeous, and we get to hang outside going on rides all day.”
She’s saying what the entire class thinks. Everyone except for me because, number one, I don’t want to puke. Number two, I want to avoid Phil.
Violet practically breaks into a run once we’re outside. I scurry to keep up, but worry these shots will look like I filmed during an earthquake. “Look, there’s three buses, and Phil’s probably going to ride with the jocks, so it should be easy to avoid him, and once we get there, we’ll steer clear.” She knows exactly what’s on my mind.
She turns to face my lens, eyes sparkling. “The entire glorious purpose of today is to gorge ourselves on fried foods and experience vomit-worthy g-forces. There’s Monica and the boys.” She waves and walks in their direction, forcing me to follow.
I stand a little apart so I can capture a medium shot. I’m on the perimeter, the observer as always. Sometimes it feels a little lonely, but at least it’s on my terms. Violet hugs Monica, who lets go of Justin’s hand to return the embrace like it’s been months since they’ve seen each other and not just yesterday.
Violet turns to fist-bump Justin while Monica adjusts her skirt—there are probably only a handful of girls in our class who would dare to wear something so short. And yes, Violet is another one of them. Mike steps forward, arms slightly extended to try and hug Violet, but she is clearly going for the fist-bump and ends up punching him in the shoulder. Awkward. But oh-so perfect on film.
Mike blushes. Poor Mike. He’s my male blushing counterpart. He shakes his head when Violet and Monica turn to head for the bus. I can tell Justin is trying to stifle his laughter. He pats Mike on the back and leads him away.
I pan the camera from left to right, capturing the entire class as they mill around and start to pile into the buses. There’s this iconic quality to this scene, like it could’ve been the same thirty years ago. Kids in the school parking lot, American flag fluttering atop a metal pole, cornfields in the distance, blue skies. Everything is such a mess, and I can’t wait to graduate, but I still feel this twinge of nostalgia for my time at Batavia High School as it draws to a close.
Brian appears in my frame. He’s staring at me from across the parking lot.
I stop short and drop my camera to my side. I guess his suspension is over. For a second, I don’t recognize him. He’s shaved his head. He’s wearing fatigues and an army green T-shirt. There’re dog tags around his neck. Josh and Brandon, his constant companions from the football team, are standing next to him, oblivious. Laughing and talking, like everything is totally normal. It’s not cold out, but I rub my upper arms. He doesn’t drop his eyes from mine. Finally I look away and head toward Violet and Monica, who are happily chatting by the third bus.
Violet and Monica smile as I approach, but when they see my face, they know something is wrong. Violet shrugs her shoulders up in a question. I whisper, “Brian,” and then subtly point in his direction, making sure he can’t see me.
Violet sneers. “Ignore him. He’ll be on the bus with the other football players, anyway.” Monica nods in agreement.
They’re right. I take a breath and start filming again.
“I don’t get it. Boys are always wondering why girls go to the bathroom in groups, and yet the entire football team travels in a pack—even off-season,” Monica observes.
And Phil’s the alpha.
I don’t see Phil anywhere. When I was panning the crowd, I searched for his face. I don’t say it, but I’m disappointed not to see him. Even after last night’s drive-by fiasco, my crush still burns bright.
We pile into the third bus—Justin and Mike snagged seats early and are waving at us from the back. Violet grabs a window seat, and Monica scoots in next to her, across from Mike and Justin. I slip into the seat in front of Monica and Violet, then get up on my knees and pivot around to film my establishing shots.
Students pair off and take their seats. Sun pours in the windows on the right side of the bus and casts splotches of light on people’s hair and faces. Through my lens, for a moment, this worn-down old bus is beautiful. I zoom in on a couple whispering to each other. The boy tucks the girl’s hair behind her ear and—
Phil steps into the shot. And he takes up my whole frame. “Mind if I take that seat?”
“You’re not on the jock bus?” Monica pipes up from behind me. She asks what we’re all thinking.
Phil shakes his head, just slightly, not taking his eyes from my lens.
I lower the camera and nod. While Phil eases into the spot next to me, I throw a quick, wide-eyed glance at Violet and Monica, clear my throat, and brush the hair out of my face. I’m not sure if I’m breathing, so I remind myself to do so. I can barely look him in the eye. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Phil says as he taps his thumb on his jeans to an imaginary rhythm.
I close my eyes. My brain is a tempest. I can’t decipher a single coherent thought. It feels like forever since Phil and I have been so close. I’ve tried to forget how good he smells and how the curves of his biceps extend beyond the short sleeves of his shirt. I’ve tried to erase his simple, factual hotness. It’s all been a failure. He places his left hand on the edge of the seat, an inch away from my knee. Heat radiates off him.
“Hey,” I say for the second time and bring my hand to rest on my knee. The space between us grows painfully small, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.
“Hey,” Phil repeats and then laughs. “I guess we’ve covered the hellos.”
“We’re experts at establishing each other’s presence.” I bite my lower lip. Either Violet or Monica knees the back of my seat. My money’s on Violet.
“Haven’t talked in a while.”
“No. Well, it’s kinda been chaos on my end, what with the death threats and frantic mother.”
“I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened to you and your folks. It’s unreal.”
“My mom’s still totally freaked.”
“She’s probably worried. It’s parental.”
“She has the overprotective, suffocating-mother skill down to a science.”
Phil chuckles. I cast a sidelong glance at his face and the incredibly delicious dimple that every smile of his reveals. “You’ll be out from under her grasp pretty soon.”
“Not as far as I’d like.”
“New York is pretty far.”
“I won’t be in New York.”
Phil half-turns his torso toward me. “I thought they were cool with you going.”
“Were. Emphasis on the past tense. When I said my mom lost it after the death threat? She totally tightened the screws on me. My parents won’t let me go to NYU anymore because they’re too scared something will happen to me out there.”
“Maya, that sucks. I’m sorry. Is there anything—?”
“No. Trust me. Do you mind if we change the subject?” I’m sick of everyone apologizing and even more tired of trying to convince everyone that it’s going to be okay. It’s not going to be okay. But there’s nothing anyone can do to make it—my life—better.
Phil has no immediate response. I stare out the window, twirling strands of hair around my finger. I’m sure he can hear my heart pounding in my chest.
“Um …” He drops his head and lowers his voice so I have to lean in to hear. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Please don’t,” is what I want to say. I’m content to simply sit next to him in silence, the air between us still crackling with possibility, but Phil is going to ask, and I know I have to answer.
“I was out at the pond Saturday night. When I was walking by the garden, I saw a car pull up on the gravel. Was that you?” Phil turns to look at me. His eyes are so soft it kills me.
Our faces are close, near enough that the soft exhalations of his breath caress my skin. I can end this conversation if I can muster the courage to arc my body into his, bring my lips to his mouth, let our bodies align while the rest of the world falls away.
But if that girl exists inside me, I fail to coax her out from hiding. “It was. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Phil whispers in my ear. “Why’d you tear out of there? You saw my car, right?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you. I know it’s your spot. I should never … I’m sorry. I was presumptuous.” I long for grace under pressure, but I simply can’t conjure it.
“It’s fine,” Phil says in a voice so gentle and kind I might cry. The tips of his fingers graze my jeans, searing imaginary marks in my skin. “I took you there because I wanted to show it to you. Besides, I don’t own it or anything.”
“You’re kind of squatting, though.”
Phil grins. “I’m so edgy. But didn’t you want to … at least say hi?”
“I thought you might be there with someone else.” My cheeks redden.
“Who?”
I keep my voice low. Phil’s making me spell it out one painful, humiliating syllable at a time. “Lisa. I thought maybe you were there with her, and I didn’t want to be in the way.”
“I told you I’ve never taken her there. I’ve never taken anyone there but you.”
The earth stops spinning. I raise my eyes to his. I shouldn’t speak. If I don’t speak, this moment will exist, preserved in the amber of my memory forever, exactly perfect.
I do speak, though, because when have I ever been silent? “Then why have you been avoiding me?”
“I’ve been avoiding you?” Phil looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues.
I nod.
“I tried talking to you. I wanted to. I thought maybe you didn’t want to have anything to do with me after that crap with Lisa’s friends. And last week when I was talking to you, the dean came in with that cop. I texted you and didn’t hear back.”
I take a long, slow breath. “I guess— I couldn’t deal with the drama. And Lisa seemed happy, like you two were back together.”
Phil looks into my eyes. I don’t turn away. “I was trying to be a friend, and she took it the wrong way. Apparently subtlety is not my thing.”
“So you’re not … back … with—”
“No.” Phil grazes my shoulder with his. I let my hand rest on his forearm.
The bus stops.
Phil slides out of his seat. “I’ll talk to you later?”
I smile. It’s my first truly spontaneous smile since the bombing. It feels good to know I can still smile like that.
True Crime TV Profile: American Terrorist
The authorities are still piecing together the scraps of what appears to be the tragic and broken life of America’s homegrown suicide bomber, Ethan Branson. Here’s what we do know about this deeply disturbed young man: The FBI raid on the motel room that Branson stayed in the night before the bombing yielded only a handful of items—a copy of Timothy McVeigh’s letter to Fox News written in 2001 shortly before his execution and a novel that is said to have inspired McVeigh’s actions, The Turner Diaries. The Diaries describe a violent Aryan revolution in the United States that overthrows the government and seeks to take over the world.
The FBI also found an envelope placed squarely on the otherwise empty motel room desk. The standard inspections for trace elements of toxic substances came back negative, and the only fingerprints appear to be those of Branson. It was Branson’s last letter to the world. Two brief sentences in his scratchy handwriting:
Tell my mother I died for my country. I did what I thought was best.—John Wilkes Booth