On the bus to school, I write a new letter for Dr. Sherman:
Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why. Because it isn’t supposed to rain like yesterday and that’s good because I didn’t have to pack my umbrella and my backpack feels a little lighter.
Sincerely,
Me
It’s short and underwhelming, but factual. If Dr. Sherman asks me about it at our session today, at least I’ll be able to stand behind it as the honest truth.
I’m done being ambitious. Jared was wrong—my balls aren’t grapefruits. If ball size equates to confidence, then I’ve got the smallest ones you can have and still qualify as a man. My balls are poppy seeds.
It’s been four days since I tried to kiss Zoe Murphy. I mean, I did kiss her. It was just really brief and she didn’t reciprocate, but it did, in fact, happen. I wish it hadn’t, but it did.
It was only my third kiss ever, and my first two barely counted as kisses. Pretty depressing when you consider I’m old enough to drive a car and donate blood and get my own passport. My first kiss was with Robin, who lived in the one-story home across the street. It happened in her pool. It was a lightning-speed peck, more funny than anything, just because we both wanted to find out what it felt like. And my second kiss was from Amy Brodsky when I was ten. She just leaned over at recess one day and I instantly fell in love with her, until I saw her do the exact same thing to two other boys over the course of the next week.
I haven’t been the same since kissing Zoe. I can’t eat or sleep or think. I try to read, but the lines in books start to vibrate and turn blurry. I put on movies, but I can’t pay attention to what’s happening on-screen. When my mom gets home from work at night, I pretend I’m already asleep, but really I’m just lying there in the dark. I can’t even stand being on the computer. I’m too worried I’ll find a new email from the Murphys, asking me to come over for another dinner or send them more emails or both. They haven’t contacted me since I saw them the other night. Maybe they finally have what they need. Maybe they’re done with me.
That’s what I wanted, right? I’ve been telling myself that. Then why am I sitting here now, feeling something that seems awfully similar to disappointment? The plan, if there ever was a plan, was to offer the Murphys solace in whatever way I could and then for me to go back to living my normal life. But now, after everything, that just doesn’t feel right.
The bus bumps along. I picture, for a moment, the driver steering us off a cliff. Unfortunately, there are no cliffs in town. Maybe she could drive us off Xavier Bridge instead. Or take us under an overpass that’s too low. Trouble over.
The small comfort I get from this brief death fantasy is outsized by my guilt. I shouldn’t be daring mortality. Connor Murphy is actually dead, and I’m sitting here pretending like I want to be. I don’t want to be dead. I’m finally sure of that. I just wish that life, for once, for a day or even a few hours, would go smoothly. I can never just sit back and sail. People like Rox can put their feet up and let the water carry them along. Not me. I’m constantly on the verge of sinking.
The bus jerks to a stop and we all file out. Thankfully, I haven’t seen Zoe at school. I’ve tried to avoid her, and I think she’s done the same with me. Still, I keep fearing I’ll turn the corner and she’ll be there. You want to know what’s really fun? When your nerves are so fried that the sweat from your hand drips down your pen and onto your paper, making the surface so moist that the next time you try to write a word, you accidentally shred the paper with the tip of your pen. It’s the best.
I’m too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice the commotion up ahead. Students step aside to make way for the freight train that is Ms. Bortel. She’s coming at a clip, a cardboard box in her chiseled arms. Chasing behind is Principal Howard. “You’re making this worse, Bonnie. That’s school property.”
“This is my stuff.”
“Bonnie, please.”
Ms. Bortel turns to face Principal Howard. “John, get ready, because I’m suing your ass.”
Our collective jaws drop as Ms. Bortel strides into the parking lot and into her black sports car.
Principal Howard, donning a professional smile, encourages us to keep moving. But we can’t unsee what we just saw. What did we just see?
• • •
Already, yesterday, I noticed there weren’t as many people staring at me during lunch compared with when the news first broke about Connor and me. Now it’s down to a few passing glances. Those few glances may not even be aimed my way. It’s hard to tell.
As I’m inspecting the room, as surreptitiously as I can, I spot Sam. My fellow lonely loner. Except he’s seated at a table across the cafeteria. The last few days he sat at my table. We even chatted a little bit. Meaning, we said “Hey” to each other a few times. I figured we were the same kind of person. We both pack lunches from home. We both prefer to keep to ourselves. We both have nowhere better to sit in the cafeteria. Turns out I was wrong about that last one. Apparently even Sam has options.
I return to my sandwich. Again, that disappointed feeling. This is the existence I’m used to, being overlooked. I didn’t want people staring at me while I eat my lunch. I should feel relieved right now, shouldn’t I? I guess, as uncomfortable as I felt being watched, it was also kind of nice, for a change, to actually be seen.
I wonder how Connor Murphy got through lunch each day. Where did he sit? With whom? What did he eat? I never paid attention. Just like no one’s paying attention to me.
I take out my phone, just to have something to do. I scroll past everything. Most of the news is about a celebrity sex scandal or an upcoming election. There’s a big movie coming out this weekend that I’m interested in, but it’s the third installment in a trilogy and I still haven’t seen the first two.
I’m surrounded by voices, hundreds of them, and these voices combine to form a wall. I can’t break through the wall. This, what I hold in my hand, is the only way inside, the only way I can learn what’s going on in my own world.
According to my phone, the major news at school, unsurprisingly, centers on one single name. It’s just not the name I’ve grown accustomed to seeing.
• • •
I shut my locker and Alana Beck is waiting there. My rib cage does its best to hold back my skittish heart. “Jesus. You scared me,” I say.
“I need to show you something.”
Every time Alana opens her mouth I feel like I’m being scolded. She dresses like she’s the dean of a small liberal arts college, and she probably could be. Not only does she relish following the rules, but she’s also the only one who even knows what they are.
Her backpack sucker punches me as she does an about-face. I follow her down the hall. We stop in front of a trash can and Alana points inside. Resting on top of a pile of debris is one of the Connor Murphy pins that Jared was selling.
“It’s the third one I’ve found,” Alana says. “The first one was on the ground in the parking lot. Someone apparently ran it over with their car. And there was another one in the toilet in the girls’ bathroom.”
That can’t be good for the plumbing.
“Why are you showing me this?” I say.
“I was already noticing that people were mentioning Connor less, and now this. People don’t care anymore. All anyone wants to talk about is Ms. Bortel. Some people are saying she slept with a student, but I also heard she might have had an affair with Principal Howard.”
“No way.”
She shakes her head at the shame of it. “People have totally forgotten about Connor Murphy. You can’t let this happen, Evan. You were Connor’s best friend.”
It doesn’t sound so crazy to hear Alana say that. I mean, it’s not true, I know, but also, when you think about it, it might be kind of true. There’s a good possibility that I was the last person Connor spoke to the day he died. We had an authentic exchange. For guys like Connor and me, that type of interaction is rare, and it definitely forged a bond between us. I’m probably the only one who had any clue how he was truly feeling that day. Who else, besides me (and maybe Alana), even thought about him for a second in the last week? No one. Seriously, as absurd as it sounds, is there anyone in this entire school who was closer to Connor than I was?
“Maybe you can ask Zoe to do something,” Alana says.
Okay, obviously I wasn’t counting Zoe.
“Zoe is the perfect person to help get people interested again,” Alana says. “She was literally his sister.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t—I just don’t think that’s the best way for us to get people to remember him.”
Alana gives me a look that reduces me to half my size. “Well, I guarantee that if you don’t do something, no one will remember Connor. Is that what you want?”
She hurries off without waiting for a response. I look down at Connor’s face in the trash. I don’t want it to be this way, either, but what am I supposed to do?
• • •
I bite my nails as Dr. Sherman reads over my letter. The few strands of hair on top of his head resemble cracks in a wall. One of the reasons my mom chose Dr. Sherman, other than the fact that he was covered by our health insurance, was because he’s young. He looks old to me, but my mom says he’s “only” thirty.
Dr. Sherman hands back my laptop. I snap it shut and wait for him to say something. Typically, that can take a while. Dr. Sherman prefers that I do the talking. I do not share his preference. Sometimes I feel like we’re playing a game of chicken, each waiting for the other to utter the first word. In normal social situations, I can’t stand silence, but here I get a slight thrill from seeing how long I can stretch it out. I think my ideal session would include only “hello” and “goodbye.” I’m not trying to waste Dr. Sherman’s time. It’s nothing against him. I just have this feeling sometimes that even the best therapist in the world couldn’t fix me.
A few minutes later, Dr. Sherman gives in. “How’s your day been so far?”
Let’s see. Not amazing? Not good? Not not terrible? In some ways it was exactly like so many other days of my life and in other ways, vastly different. So much has happened and so fast. I just wish I could slow everything down somehow. Because it’s unfair, how the world keeps on going no matter what happens, and people like Connor just get left behind. Literally one day he’s pinned over someone’s heart and the next he’s tossed in the garbage. How can that be?
I think myself into such a twister that it’s no wonder some of my thoughts start flying right out of my mouth. “It’s just not right.”
I look up, shocked by my own voice. I feel this sudden sense of relief, having said only that much.
I want to release more. I can’t share all of it, but there’s plenty I can say. I give in to the temptation. I tell Dr. Sherman about Connor Murphy, how he died and how everyone was talking about him for a while, how they seemed to care one minute, and now they don’t care anymore because they’re on to something new.
“And this bothers you?” Dr. Sherman asks.
“Well, yeah,” I say. “It does. I don’t think it’s right to just brush someone aside like that. One minute they care about him and the next they don’t. It’s like he’s just being… forgotten.”
Dr. Sherman shifts in his chair. I notice he does this when he feels we’ve finally hit on something that deserves more exploration. I glance up at the clock to see if our time is up yet.
“I was reminded, Evan, when you were speaking just now, about what happened with your father.”
Now I’m the one shifting in my chair.
“When you first found out that his wife was pregnant, that your father was going to have another son, it seemed to trouble you a great deal. You seemed to think it reflected on your father’s feelings toward you.”
Dr. Sherman consults his notes.
“That was about a month ago when we discussed that,” he says. “You haven’t mentioned it since. So, I’m just wondering, how have you been coping with that?”
• • •
I’m in bed watching a movie I’ve already seen. The bottom of my computer warms my thighs, definitely giving me cancer. My eyes are trained on the screen, but I’m barely watching. I’m too busy ruminating on what Dr. Sherman brought up at our session. It’s something I try not to think about or talk about, which is exactly the type of thing that Dr. Sherman loves to harp on.
Fine, Theresa’s pregnant. My dad is going to have a new son. What’s the point of even bringing it up? What does Dr. Sherman want me to say about it? He won’t be born for many more months, and when he gets here, he’ll be in Colorado. He won’t know me and I won’t know him. When I was young, I begged my parents for a sibling. I’d dream about having a brother or sister. But now? No thanks.
The mattress sags beneath me. My mom is suddenly by my side, propping a pillow behind her back. I didn’t hear her come home. She focuses on the computer screen as if it’s broadcasting the secret of life.
She was not happy when she found out about the baby. She tried to pretend like she didn’t care, but then I heard her on the phone with a friend saying, I could have a baby right now if I wanted to. Right now! And later, Isn’t he a little old to be having a new baby?
“What are you watching?” she asks now.
It’s the documentary about Vivian Maier, the nanny who no one realized was also a brilliant photographer until after she died.
“And who’s the kid talking?” she asks.
“That’s the guy who discovered all her photos after she died. He’s the one who made the film about her. He paid for it with Kickstarter.”
“This guy’s impressive.”
“Not he. She. Vivian Maier is a woman.”
“I know that. Jeez. Give me some credit. I’m talking about the guy who put the whole thing together.”
Oh. Right. The filmmaker. His name is John Maloof and the movie is also about him. I guess my mom’s right. He is impressive. Without him, no one would know about Vivian Maier.
I take a closer look at the guy on-screen. He’s not a star or anything. Far from it. He’s dorky, actually, with glasses and bad skin. He looks really young, too. He just cared enough to do something. He made it his mission to make sure that the world appreciated Vivian Maier. Vivian Maier was a nobody. But John changed that. He wouldn’t let her be ignored or forgotten. He made people pay attention. He saved her.
I lift my arm out from under the blanket and read once again the name written on my cast.