I’m not sure why I keep reporting back to Jared after every new disaster. I never feel better after our chats. Jared has a way of highlighting my errors so they seem even worse than I first realized.
But I’m so lost right now, sitting alone on the couch in my dark living room. Jared is the only person in the entire world who has even the slightest appreciation for where I am. I’m floating through space and he’s the voice in my earpiece from central command. I might not agree with his tactics, but without him, there’s a good chance I may never get back home.
I bring Jared up to speed with what happened at the Murphys. As usual, I somehow fail to anticipate where he’ll focus his critique.
His parents think you were lovers.
You realize that, right?
What? Why would they think that?
Umm. You were best friends,
but he wouldn’t let you talk to him at school?
And when you did, he kicked your ass?
That’s like the exact formula for secret gay high school lovers.
Oh my god.
I told you what to do.
What did I say?
Nod and confirm. That’s all.
I tried. You don’t understand.
It’s different when they’re looking you in the eye.
I got nervous. I just started talking, and once I started
You couldn’t stop.
They didn’t want me to stop!
It’s true. I don’t think I realized it until just now, but it’s like they were helping me along, filling in the gaps when I didn’t know where the story should go next. I’m not blaming them. Obviously. I know this is all on me, but I also know, from the looks on their faces, that they wanted me to keep going. They needed me to.
The thing is, I tried to tell them the truth. I mean, I did tell them the truth. I told Connor’s parents that he wasn’t the one who wrote the letter. I told them, point blank, but they wouldn’t listen.
So what else did you completely fuck up?
Well, I’m pretty sure Zoe hates me.
She thinks Connor and I were doing drugs together.
You’re the best.
I really mean that.
What else?
Nothing.
Nothing?
I mean, I told them we wrote emails.
Emails.
Yeah. I told them that Connor and I emailed.
And that he had a secret email account.
Oh, right, one of those “secret”
email accounts. Sure. For sending pictures
of your penises to each other.
It’s all just a big joke to him. I really don’t know why I keep turning to Jared for advice.
No, I just said he had this secret account
and we would send emails to each other.
I mean, honestly?
Could you be any worse at this?
Is that so bad?
They’re going to want to see your emails.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Oh shit.
Of course they’re going to want to see our emails. What’s wrong with me? Seriously. Why do I keep fooling myself into thinking that the worst that could happen has already happened? Things always get worse. It’s guaranteed. That’s how life works. You’re born and you keep getting older and grayer and sicker, and no matter what efforts you make to reverse the process, you die, every single time. To repeat: worse, worse, worse, and then death. I have a long way to go before the worst. This is only the beginning.
I’m so screwed. What the hell am I going to do?
I can do emails.
What do you mean?
I can make the emails.
You can? How?
It’s easy. You make up an account
and backdate the emails. There’s a reason
I was the only CIT with key card access
to the computer cluster this summer: I have skills, son.
I’d be giving them what they want—what they need. I’d be helping them.
It’s tempting. It really is. But it’s also… sick? I can’t keep doing this, deceiving these poor people. I’m not cut out for it. At one point tonight it felt like I was sweating from my eyes—that’s how anxious I was. Had I perspired another drop, I might have mummified. I can’t go on like this. I’m all drained out.
I turn my phone over so it’s facedown. The light from the screen waves over my cast. The memory of the story I conjured up for the Murphys hits me anew. They were talking about the orchard, and I guess the way they were talking about it made me think of Ellison Park. And I can no longer think of Ellison Park without thinking of the tree and my fall. Connor wasn’t there that day, of course. But I guess… he could’ve been.
I leave the dark living room and head upstairs. Once in bed, I put on my headphones and stream a playlist called “Jazz for Newbies.” I can’t say I totally get jazz, but I’ve been trying. I wait for the music to take me somewhere, but it never does. I’m too invested in what I’m listening to for my mind to escape. Frankly, only one of the instruments even interests me. I keep waiting to hear what the guitar is going to do.
My mom appears at my doorway, forcing my head up off the pillow. I remove my headphones to hear her.
“Did you eat already?” she asks.
“Um. Yeah.” I already know what she’ll ask next, so I quickly cycle through potential answers: made a sandwich, warmed up frozen pizza, grabbed Chinese.
But instead, she says, “Darn,” and it almost sounds like maybe she was hoping I hadn’t eaten yet.
“That was fun the other day, right?” she says. “Going out for breakfast?”
So much has happened since our breakfast it already feels like ages ago. “Yeah. Definitely. It was.”
“I was thinking, how about I bag one of my shifts this week? When’s the last time we did a taco night?”
I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure those tortillas in the freezer have officially turned by now. “Oh. You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. Maybe we could even start brainstorming those essay questions together.”
The essays. Of course. Her face waits expectantly. “Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”
“Oh. That’s exciting,” she says, looking victorious. “I’m excited now. Something to look forward to.”
“Yeah.”
• • •
The next day, I see Zoe walking through the cafeteria, joining friends at a table. If I weren’t already seated, I would’ve had to sit down. It’s that much of a shock to my system. I haven’t seen her in school since the first day.
So much has happened in a week. I’ve interacted with Zoe more than ever—at the wake, at her house, in her car—but all those moments were under the worst of circumstances. This, seeing her right now, seated at a table in the school cafeteria, feels right and normal. This is how I’m used to seeing her. This makes sense.
Zoe must have felt my stare from across the room, because now she’s staring back at me. She’s staring so intensely that it’s almost as if she’s daring me to turn away. I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. I smile, hoping she’ll do the same. She does not. It’s like she couldn’t do it even if she tried.
She lifts her tray and leaves her friends at the table. Her food goes into the trash, and without even a peek in my direction, she walks out of the cafeteria.
I’m much better at interpreting books and stories than I am at understanding the decisions made by living, breathing people. But in this case, I can easily apply Mrs. Kiczek’s strategies for critical analysis to the real-life behavior I just witnessed. The action of our beautiful and righteous heroine Zoe Murphy throwing her food in the garbage is really a metaphor for how she feels about our narrator. In Zoe Murphy’s eyes, Evan Hansen is trash.
There I go again, overestimating my importance. How quickly I forget meh-self. Why should I assume this has anything to do with me? Her brother is dead. Maybe she just doesn’t have an appetite. I can relate to that. It’s just that it’s hard to see her look so troubled, especially after the way she began to lighten up at dinner. Her mood shifted when we were talking about Connor. When I was telling her and her parents things they didn’t already know. Filling in missing pieces. It’s like I was able to make them forget the weight of their misery. I brought them some relief.
I look across the cafeteria to where Jared’s sitting. Leaving my stomach with only my morning medication to feed on, I pack up my lunch and head over to his table.
“How do the emails work?” I ask.
“Well, email is short for ‘electronic mail,’” Jared says. “Ray Tomlinson is credited as inventing the technology in 1971, but we all know it was really the brainchild of Shiva Ayyadurai.”
“This is serious.” I keep my voice as low as possible.
Jared leans back conspiratorially. “It’s going to cost you.”
“How much?”
“Two grand,” Jared says.
“Two thousand dollars? Are you insane?”
“Five hundred.”
“I can give you twenty.”
“Fine. But you’re a dick,” Jared says. “Meet me at four after school. I’ll text you the location.”