Chasing Brooklyn Read online

  But then, something changed.

  I don’t know what.

  Was it him? Was it me?

  He joined a different band.

  Stopped coming around.

  I just lost track.

  We lost track.

  I try to remember

  the last time I saw Gabe

  and I can’t.

  He didn’t just fade

  into the background.

  He pretty much

  disappeared.

  #278

  Dear Lucca,

  Can you believe this? I can’t.

  I can’t believe he’s gone.

  Remember that one time the three of us went to

  see Kings of Leon? Gabe sang every song. He knew

  every single song.

  I seriously feel sick. Gonna go lie down.

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Mon., Jan. 2nd—Nico

  Gabe and my brother

  had been friends

  since fourth grade.

  They’d grown apart in high school

  when Gabe chose music

  and Lucca chose art.

  Still, they had that connection,

  the kind that stays strong

  despite the differences.

  No matter how long it’d been

  since they’d seen each other,

  they’d pick up right where they left off.

  Gabe made Lucca laugh like no other.

  Gabe with his wild hair that stuck every which way,

  his pierced lip

  and the black leather jacket

  he wore everywhere.

  He was a character.

  A character who should still be here.

  Damn it all to hell.

  He should still be here.

  Tues., Jan. 3rd—Brooklyn

  The principal holds an assembly.

  He tells everyone he understands

  how hard this is for us,

  but we’re strong and we’ll get through this.

  He tells us calls and e-mails

  are pouring in from across the nation.

  He tells us this time, counseling is mandatory.

  Every student at Mountain View High

  will speak to a counselor.

  Three boys.

  Three deaths.

  One school.

  We’ve made the national news.

  Is our school cursed?

  Are we a reckless bunch of fools?

  The media asks questions

  no one can answer.

  Kids can’t stop crying.

  It’s a downpour of tears

  through the halls

  for Jackson,

  for Lucca,

  for Gabe,

  for all of us

  who have to go on without them.

  The helplessness in the air

  is heavy,

  and we walk around

  with our heads and shoulders down,

  feeling the weight of it all.

  Teachers are going easy on us.

  Most classes, we just sit

  and talk

  and cry.

  In a few days,

  we’ll go to Gabe’s funeral,

  hoping to put this behind us

  and move on.

  Daddy said he’d go with me.

  Mom went to Lucca’s funeral with me.

  But now that she’s moved to Vegas

  with my twin brothers,

  he’s the only one here.

  When I told him about Gabe,

  he didn’t know what to say.

  He looked at me, started to speak, then stopped.

  Words vanished like the three boys.

  So he wrapped his arms around me

  and held me tight.

  I know what he was thinking.

  Don’t go there.

  Don’t feel so bad,

  you go there and

  don’t know how to get back.

  I do feel bad.

  My boyfriend left me.

  My mother left me.

  My brothers left me.

  Hold on tight, Daddy.

  You’re all I’ve got left.

  Please.

  Hold on tight.

  Thurs., Jan. 5th—Nico

  My parents

  are friends with Gabe’s parents.

  They liked Gabe.

  Now, the two of them huddle together,

  whispering things,

  Pop holding Ma up one minute,

  Ma holding Pop up the next.

  Gabe told them one time how sorry he was.

  They hugged him.

  Said they forgave him.

  Guess he didn’t believe them.

  Thurs., Jan. 5th—Brooklyn

  After Lucca died, everything shut down.

  I couldn’t eat.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  I couldn’t talk.

  Somehow they got me on the plane

  and back home.

  Friends from school called and stopped by.

  Even kids I didn’t know stopped by.

  All of them, wanting to help somehow.

  I hated it.

  I didn’t want to see anyone.

  I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  But Mom made me.

  She said it’d be good for me.

  Of all the people who visited,

  Ava stands out in my mind.

  She brought me cookies and a CD she made

  called Joy, Not Sorrow.

  “The songs move through the stages of grief,” she said.

  “Someday you’ll get to the place of joy.

  Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month.

  But someday you will.”

  We didn’t know each other.

  I knew who she was because everyone knows.

  She’s the girl whose boyfriend, Jackson, died.

  Now I’m that “other girl whose boyfriend died.”

  How special.

  I don’t remember much of what she said.

  “Call me if you want to talk.”

  I never did.

  “Lean on your friends and family.”

  Don’t have much to lean on, really.

  I remember when she hugged me,

  I didn’t want to let her go.

  She was my budding crocus

  on a dreary winter day.

  I played the first half of the CD over and over.

  Evanescence spoke to my soul with All That I’m Living For.

  Jason Mraz spoke to my heart with Dreaming to Sleep.

  The Williams Brothers spoke to my pain with Can’t Cry Hard Enough.

  I never called her.

  I probably should have.

  But I never did.

  Fri., Jan. 6th—Nico

  I hear the word

  in the hall

  over and over again.

  Suicide.

  Suicide.

  Suicide.

  Did he or didn’t he?

  Everyone’s got a guess.

  Still no one knows for sure,

  except Gabe,

  but he’s not talking.

  Why does it even matter?

  He’s gone.

  His, ours, theirs—

  blame needs a place.

  His, ours, theirs—

  pain all over the place.

  His, ours, theirs—

  forgiveness missing from this place.

  Fri., Jan. 6th—Brooklyn

  I want to go home.

  I left my notebook filled with

  letters to Lucca at home.

  The blue spiral notebook

  that used to be his,

  with cartoon drawings

  all over it.

  It was in my locker

  before he died.

  He threw it in there after a class

  and forgot about it.

  So I kept it.

  And now, I n
ever leave it at home.

  Wherever I go, it goes.

  We belong together.

  Without it, I can’t function.

  It’s like missing a brain,

  a heart,

  or lungs.

  My head hurts.

  My chest hurts.

  I can hardly breathe.

  It’s the middle of first period

  when I notice it’s gone.

  I’m the first one out the door

  when the bell rings.

  Then I run all the way home

  to get it.

  #279

  Dear Lucca,

  The funeral is tomorrow. I don’t want to go. I

  mean, I REALLY don’t want to go. Daddy said I

  have to. He’s making me. Says I need to go and say

  good-bye.

  What if I don’t want to say good-bye?

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Sat., Jan. 7th—Nico

  A big woman,

  Gabe’s aunt or something,

  is singing this sad song,

  and people are searching for tissues

  in the most desperate way,

  like it’s blood falling instead of tears.

  Whatever.

  I just keep looking at that coffin and thinking

  about this song Pop belts out

  when his beloved Notre Dame football team

  stomps on an opponent.

  Another One Bites the Dust.

  Yeah.

  Still pissed.

  Sat., Jan. 7th—Brooklyn

  In a funeral home

  there’s no cross to give you hope.

  There’s no bible to give you peace.

  There’s no minister to assure you all is well.

  In a funeral home …

  There are still flowers which I love.

  There are still people who I know.

  There is still death which I hate.

  In a funeral home …

  There is a family without a son.

  There is a band without a guitarist.

  There is a school without a classmate.

  In a funeral home …

  There is a coffin with a boy.

  #280

  Dear Lucca,

  Heading to Another Galaxy in a minute, imagining I’m meeting you there. What will we buy today, I wonder?

  The funeral yesterday was sad. Like it’d be anything else. Anyway, I’m glad it’s over. Still,

  I can’t stop thinking about Gabe. How come no one saw it coming? I’d heard he was partying hard, but I just thought … I don’t know what I thought. That he was dealing the best he could. Like we all were.

  I hate this. Will the darkness ever fade? Will I ever see light again?

  Is it light where you are?

  Love always,

  Brooklyn

  Mon., Jan. 9th—Nico

  My turn to talk to the counselor.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Not good.”

  “What do you mean, not good?”

  “Not good.

  As in bad.

  Angry.”

  “At Gabe?”

  “Yeah, at Gabe.

  And at you, for thinking you can help.

  And at my brother, for dying, which made Gabe want to die.

  And at everyone, pretty much.”

  “Do you envy Gabe at all?”

  “Envy him?

  Because he’s not here anymore?

  Because he doesn’t have to deal with all of this?

  Because he doesn’t have to watch my parents, barely able to hold it together?

  Because he doesn’t have to be around all these stupid crying people?

  Yeah, I guess I do.

  I mean, he’s got it so easy.”

  “Nico, do you know what that sounds like?”

  “Like I wish I was dead?”

  “Do you?”

  I shake my head hard.

  I bite my lip.

  I think of everyone who has lost.

  Like me.

  And then, for just a minute,

  I’m one of those stupid crying people.

  Mon., Jan. 9th—Brooklyn

  When your mom tells you one day

  that she’s up and moving to Vegas

  and taking her eight-year-old twins,

  but not you,

  it pretty much feels like you shouldn’t have been born.

  I wanted to know why.

  I asked a hundred times.

  She said she didn’t have an answer that’d satisfy me.

  “I don’t love him anymore, honey.

  Things have changed.

  I’ve changed.”

  And that was that.

  So when she calls once a week to talk

  and to tell me she loves me,

  but my dad needs me most,

  I don’t say much.

  I just say yes or no,

  answering her questions,

  hoping she’ll get the point

  and stop calling.

  She never does, of course.

  She’s my mom.

  She’s supposed to call.

  Today, she asks me about Gabe.

  Daddy must have told her.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the funeral sad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it hard going to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to come for a visit?”

  “No.

  Bye, Mom.”

  Tues., Jan. 10th—Nico

  To say it’s difficult

  being the son left behind,

  especially when the one who died was the favorite,

  is like saying running makes me happy.

  Running doesn’t just make me happy. Running keeps me alive.

  When I’m running,

  the blood pumping through my veins,

  the tunes playing in my ears,

  the muscles tightening on the inclines,

  the problems of the world disappear.

  It’s just me, the sidewalk, and God.

  When I leave the sidewalk

  and walk into my house,

  it all changes.

  Difficult?

  Almost impossible.

  Tues., Jan. 10th—Brooklyn

  Daddy was raised

  in a house full of women.

  Women who did everything for him.

  Now I’m left

  to do those things

  others have done for him

  his whole life.

  Cook him dinner.

  Wash his boxers.

  Change his sheets.

  He needs me?

  I don’t think so.

  What he needs

  is a maid.

  Tonight he says,

  “Brooklyn, let’s get a dog.”

  I give him a look that says,

  Are you crazy?

  “What?” he says.

  “It’d be great.

  You just don’t know it

  because you’ve never had one.”

  That was Mom’s fault.

  Neat freaks and dogs

  don’t mix.

  And really,

  I don’t see how

  busy girls with enough to take care of

  thank-you-very-much

  would mix with a dog either.

  A maid,

  a cook,

  and a dog trainer?

  I don’t think so.

  Tues., Jan. 10th—Nico

  Ma makes a big dish

  of ravioli for Gabe’s family