THE FOLLOWING JUNE
Winter came like a lion at the end of 2010. For the first time on record, Wildwood High School missed ten straight days for snow. Students celebrated as the blizzard fell and cursed later when graduation was pushed back to June 11th.
Nick and I sit together on the bleachers. Warren and Dana are on one side. They’re not “a couple.” He claims he’s too old for her, but Dana will wear him down, and let’s be clear. He wants her to; he definitely wants her to.
Sitting between my sandals and Nick’s loafers are Gladys and Tank. They’re not a couple exactly, but they’re friends. Good friends. Kissing friends. Being undefined is best for them at the moment. She’s getting an undergraduate degree in child psychology from William Kenton and she’ll never leave Wildwood. This stole spunkiness from her and gave spunkiness to him, and I think . . . Well, I think it is what it is. He needs to wander and never feel enclosed; she needs the anchor of home to fight her fears.
After Rufus’s and Zared’s bodies were found, Tank took the year to interview the other June Boys. We’re writing a project together—with Aulus’s letters, my journals, his interviews—to get our heads around this terrible thing that happened to the boys, my father, our community.
I even visited the first bunker and took pictures for Tank. (Tank won’t do basements of any kind.) Dana drove Nick and me there after we convinced her we needed to see where Aulus and the others had been held. It took months to unravel the trail of Ruby’s former clients at Every Child Now. She discovered Tanner and Lisa Wilson. The foster couple died in a house fire. Ruby must have been one of the few people aware they built a Y2K bunker in their field.
Warren quit his job, bought half of the castle from Dad, and is now running a new version of the WCC out there—Castle Care—complete with playground. He says the new WCC will hire Gladys when she graduates, same as Dad continues to hire Leo to truck in supplies.
I don’t know what I’m doing with the rest of my life.
Everyone else has clear-cut paths and desires; mine come in temporary swirls and mismatched mosaics. Nick’s heading to law school in the fall—Southern Illinois University—and I have half a mind to go along and half a mind to hike the Appalachian Trail or . . . go somewhere and help people. Maybe I’ll try the academy and let Dana train me. Maybe I’ll go film that mockumentary after all. Dad says it’s okay that I don’t know what I want. In the meantime, I’m volunteering at the castle.
The balloon under Nick’s knees squeaks against the bleachers. I hedge mine with my dress pants. Principal Markum loved Tank’s idea to release balloons when Aulus’s name was called. So did Wildwood. Green balloons are everywhere. In the hands of the same people who put Arrest the Gemini Thief signs in their yards. On the laps of those who attended the memorial service for Tank and Aulus. They’re tied to the wrists of those who showed up to help with castle construction. They’re squeaky and noisy and in the way of cameras, but no one cares.
Our eyes find a young man in a black gown and a yellow sash. He nears the steps, spots the balloons poised to be released, and smiles. Not a happy smile exactly. Yesterday he told me, “Happy is a weird emotion. I don’t feel it by itself anymore.” And I said, “You will again someday,” but the more I considered my response, the more I doubted its truth. Not because he’ll never be happy again. He will. I believe that. But I think . . . The older I get, the more I hold multiple emotions at the same time.
Like . . . Take Ruby’s death. I love her and I hate her and I’m sad she’s dead and I’m relieved she’s gone—some days because it means she’s not suffering anymore and some days because she doesn’t deserve to be on earth after what she did. Some days I remember she took Tank to keep Aulus alive, and some days I remember she never went back to feed them, and I always know she set up my father to take her fall.
And I find that’s more normal than having a singular emotion.
I explained my feelings to Aul on the phone because I felt guilty for not hating her properly. But he said, “Sometimes I miss Welder. I mean, Ruby. And then, next breath, I want to dance on her grave. Literally dance on her grave.”
And then he added, “But you know what I think about when I get stuck asking why I was taken, why Ruby did what she did, why a flood on top of a kidnapping? I remember your dad started a castle ten years before I needed it. And I remember you holding me when I first came out of the ground, saying, ‘I rang the bell. I rang the bell,’ and hearing afterward that everyone else had given up. I want to figure out how to give that to someone else. I want to be a bell ringer instead of a June Boy.”
I told him he was a bell ringer for Chris, Zared, and Rufus, but he couldn’t hear me yet.
We hung up after that. I think I’ll replay that conversation the rest of my life. Those final words: I want to be a bell ringer instead of a June Boy. Me too, Aul, me too.
There’s a collective pause across the stadium as my cousin rests his foot on the bottom step of the stage.
“Aulus Edward McClaghen,” Principal Markum says.
If a town could weep, its collective cheeks are wet.
Aulus pauses at the stage’s edge and searches the bleachers for us. He points at a blood-red cardinal streaking the sky. Yes, I know. I love the birds too. Arms outstretched, he spins in a circle all the way to where Principal Markum stands. There’s a chorus of laughter, sheer delight, and then the horizon blooms green with balloons.
I hold on to mine.
I’m not the only one.
Aulus’s father stands near the long jump pit gripping the chain-link fence like he’s not quite allowed to be here. When he releases his balloon, he watches it trail after the others, never quite catching up. He’s been around this year. Warren says he’ll stay that way, and I hope he does. Aulus needs him, but Aulus needs him to be trustworthy and consistent, and I’m not sure Scottie knows how to do that yet.
I text my father: Ring the bell.
I asked him to miss the ceremony to fulfill my request. Castle Delacroix is out of earshot, but even if I can’t hear it, I want to know the bell is being rung.
As the balloons green the azure sky and a thunderous clapping storms the bleachers, I touch the zipper scar along my breastbone and marvel at my heartbeat. And then I hear them, same as I heard them a year ago.
“You hear that?” I ask.
Nick noses my ear and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. “You feel that?” he asks.
My heart pounds. I am made of hope and doubt, anger and fear, sadness and joy. “I feel everything,” I say, and release my balloon.