I wake up the next morning, the night with Andy slowly coming back to me while I’m still half asleep. I feel the smile on my face as I recall every detail, every place we went. The image of his shoulder branded with my name.
I open my eyes. Did he really do that? What if he wakes up today and totally regrets it? What if he never makes eye contact with me again.
I imagine Andy in his room, in his bed. Maybe recalling last night the same way I am.
My phone buzzes and interrupts my thoughts. I ignore it, only to have it buzz again immediately after it stops. I grab it and see that it’s Joel. He probably showed up last night after I’d already left with Andy and he’s only calling now to give me shit. I debate whether I should answer it or not. It stops buzzing. And then it immediately starts again. What the hell? I decide to just answer it.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you,” Joel says.
“Yeah. And?”
“French—”
“I was waiting for you last night,” I say, cutting him off.
“French—”
“But when you didn’t show—”
“French, stop. Listen.”
“What?”
There’s a moment of silence. Then I hear him let out a deep breath.
“What? Speak,” I say.
“You know Andy Cooper, right?”
“Yeah, he was . . .”
“French, Andy Cooper is dead.”
I’m sure I didn’t hear him right. I know he said Andy’s name because my stomach fluttered when he did. His face flashed through my mind, the way he looked last night. “But it’s not just that,” Joel says. “Andy . . . he committed suicide.”
“What?” I don’t understand what Joel is saying. “What?” I repeat.
“Gene Fitzer, he called Robyn. He lives two houses down from Andy. He said there was an ambulance and cops on their street this morning. He found out Andy overdosed on some pills.”
“Andy’s mom was screaming in the street when they took him away. Andy’s dad had to . . . man, this is just so messed up.” Joel stops and takes a breath. “He’s dead, French. It’s fucking crazy.”
“French? You there?” Joel says when I don’t respond.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I’m at Harold’s. Robyn and Gene are here. You should get over here. . . . Shit, French. I’ve gone to school with the kid since kindergarten,” Joel says.
Silence.
Then, “I’ll see you in a bit.” There’s a click.
“What?” I whisper into the receiver. And I know Joel hung up because there’s no answer, but I can still hear his words. He’s dead, French. He’s dead.
At some point the phone isn’t next to my ear anymore. I change into some jeans. Slowly, the words take on meaning. The back part of my brain that has been processing them pushes the information to the front part. I sit back down on my bed and shut my eyes, while those words churn around in my head.
Joel’s wrong. It can’t be real. I look at my phone. This is some kind of sick joke. They’re confused. It was somebody else they wheeled out of Andy’s house. He was down the street. Hours ago. He’s somewhere . . . anywhere. But he’s not dead; he’s not on some gurney.
I frantically pull on some socks and then my shoes. I don’t change my shirt. It’s the one I was wearing last night.
Next thing I know, I’m outside. The sun is blinding. I stare at the sidewalk as I head to Harold’s. I watch my black Converse sneakers pounding the sidewalk. Joel will be there. He’ll tell me it was a mistake. Gene Fitzer will tell us he’s an idiot asshole and got Andy’s house confused with someone else’s.
I quicken my pace, but it takes forever to get to Harold’s. I feel like I’m walking in place. I feel unreal, like I’m in a movie.
Finally I see them ahead; Joel and Lily, Robyn and Gene, who we don’t hang out with much but Robyn does sometimes. They’re sitting outside of Harold’s, up against the side brick wall. Joel watches me as I approach and stop in front of them. I wait for them to say something, to tell me it’s not true. But Joel just takes out a cigarette, lights it up, and holds it out for me. I take it.
Robyn is leaning her head on Gene’s shoulder. She looks up at me with red eyes, but doesn’t get up. “Can you believe this?” she says.
None of them say anything else, and I’m afraid to ask what I have to ask. I take a deep drag.
“Are you guys sure,” I finally get out. I look up at the sky because I can’t look at them.
Gene says, “I saw it all go down this morning.”
My knees feel weak, and I slide down onto the concrete, next to Joel. Gene recounts how the sirens woke him up, how everyone on the street came outside, how they watched Andy’s mom fall apart, how Andy’s dad had to hold her and drag her back inside. How Gene’s mom was over there the rest of the morning and saw Andy’s suicide note on the table. A lousy suicide note that consisted of four words.
Four words. No explanation. No apologies. No signature. Just four words:
“I love you. Bye.”
All of this should be enough proof, but I can’t help but think, Did you see him? Did you check the body bag? Did you see if it was actually him?
Gene keeps talking. His mouth is moving, but I don’t know what he’s saying anymore. I’m suddenly on a strange street watching it all happen. Watching them push the gurney out, stopping the paramedics, unzipping the bag.
And there’s Andy Cooper. He opens his eyes and smiles. “You’re a badass, Frenchie,” he says.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I’m back at Harold’s. I hear Gene’s voice and Joel’s and Lily’s and Robyn’s. I listen as the same things are repeated until they’ve all been said a number of different ways. And then we sit there in the silence that comes after everyone has nothing more to say. We sit under a burning sun and we sweat and we smoke. I take drag after drag, until we have no cigarettes left, until I feel dizzy and nauseated. And then I pull out from Joel’s arm around my shoulder and I go home.
I go straight to my bathroom and throw up. I strip off all my clothes. I hold the T-shirt I was wearing last night in my hand, and hold it up to my face because maybe it will smell like Andy. But it just smells like cigarettes and makes me cry. So I turn the water on as hot as it will go. I sit in the shower, letting the water burn my back. I try to melt the words that are rushing through my head, the words that are exploding and falling like debris in my brain. The ones that I can’t stop.