The gallery opening is at nine and all of the finalists have to be registered and checked in for interviews by ten. The drive is just over an hour, so we’re good. Clay’s interview is at eleven, which gives me time to wander through the exhibits and check out his competition, though I can’t even imagine how Clay Whitaker could ever have any.
“Here.” Clay hooks an mp3 player up to the car stereo and hands it to me. “I figured we’d need music since we’ve exhausted all the good conversation topics. You can DJ.”
I don’t really want to DJ. I just want to lean my head against the window and close my eyes and pretend I’m on my way to an Italian restaurant in Brighton. I turn it on and flip to the first playlist and click on it. As long as it’s not classical music or depressing love songs, we should be good.
I didn’t go back to Josh’s again after Wednesday night. When I let go of his hand and left his truck, I promised myself that the next time I stepped foot in his garage I would answer any question he wanted to ask, and I want to keep that promise.
I spend most of the drive trying to line the right words up in my head, rearranging them a hundred times, then finding new ones and starting all over again. When we pull into the gallery an hour later, my cheeks are wet and I don’t even remember when I started crying.
We get Clay checked in and then find the room where they’re showing his work. It’s one of the bigger rooms and there are three artists sharing it. Clay’s pictures are hung on the largest wall. I recognize most of them. Some are from his college portfolio. Some are the ones he’s done of me. But it’s hard to concentrate on any of them, because on the center of the wall I’m staring at, is something else entirely.
And it’s overwhelming.
The centerpiece of the display is a sixteen picture mosaic. On each separate drawing is a part of my face and he’s pieced them together like a puzzle. It’s obvious that this is the reason I’m here. He hadn’t shown it to me. I didn’t even know he’d done it. It makes me want to run from the room.
A couple of people come in and comment on the drawings and ask questions to Clay and the two girls, named Sophie and Miranda, whose work is also on display here. I mostly try to face the wall and pretend I’m studying one of Sophie’s paintings until Clay gets called for his interview.
Once he’s gone, I venture out into the rest of the displays. I figure I can start at the rear of the gallery because most people haven’t made their way there yet and it’s quieter. I wander toward the back corner of the building into one of the smaller rooms.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. And for the third time in my life the world shifts under my feet and I just try to stay standing.
Because he’s here.
It’s his face. And it’s not a nightmare. It’s not a memory. He’s here and real and looking at me. And I’m looking back. I’m standing in the middle of a moment that I’ve dreaded and hoped for since the day I remembered what he did to me.
The name on the wall next to the paintings is Aidan Richter, the school is the one in the next town over from Brighton and the face in front of me belongs to the boy who killed me.
Everything in me turns on and shuts down at the same time. I am weak and strong. I am terrified and brave. I am lost and found. I am here and gone.
I’m afraid I’m going to stop breathing again.
He’s older, like I am, but there is no mistaking it. I know his face like I know every one of the scars he gave me.
I want to run. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to faint. I want to hurt him, break him, kill him. I want to ask him why as if there could ever possibly be a reason.
“Why?” It’s a whisper and a scream.
I ask it, and not just in my head. That’s the word I choose out of all of the thousands I could say to him. I ask the unanswerable question. Except that maybe it’s not unanswerable. Maybe he’s the only person in the world who can tell me.
I don’t even know which why I’m asking. Why did you do it? Why was it me? Why are you here? Why am I here? Why?
He’s looking at me like he’s scared and it’s the only thing that could possibly make me happy at this moment. Good. Lots of people are scared of me. Girls at school. My parents. Even, sometimes, Josh Bennett. But this boy is the only one whose fear I want.
“You weren’t supposed to remember.” There isn’t one thing about his voice that is the same. It’s him, but not him. There isn’t any rage or darkness gripping him. It’s the same boy but not the same voice, not the same eyes, not the same madness.
“You weren’t supposed to kill me.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to?” My brain is wringing out the words, trying to find the meaning of them. But there isn’t any. “How do you not mean to do what you did? You hit me in the face over and over again. You dragged me around by my hair and ripped it out of my head. You kicked me so hard and so many times that there wasn’t a way to fix everything you broke. You murdered my hand. The bones were sticking out. All over the place. Do you remember it?” The last question is nothing more than a pathetic, strangled whisper.
“No.” The word is almost an apology.
“No?” I don’t remember what my hand looked like, either. I’ve only seen the pictures nobody wanted to show me. But he’s the one who did it. He should have to remember.
“Not all of it. Pieces.”
“Pieces? You did this to me and you don’t even have the decency to remember?” I don’t know where the word even comes from. I can’t believe I’m talking to the boy who beat me to death about decency. I can’t believe I’m talking to him at all. I’m supposed to be killing him.
“My brother killed himself.”
“I’m sorry.” I’m sorry? I said I’m sorry to this boy. I’m walking to school and smiling and saying hi all over again. No. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. I forgive myself because it was automatic. I didn’t mean it. I gave him the words but I won’t give him sympathy. He’s looking at me like he can’t believe I said it either. I think I’m insane. I don’t know if this twisted conversation is real, but it must be because I don’t think I could imagine this.
“I got home that day and I found him. Found his body.” He’s talking like he’s rehearsed these words a thousand times in his head and he’s just been waiting for the moment to say them.