Excerpt from You Are Not Here

I walk down my block

and then take a right turn.

Two more blocks

and I'll be with Brian.

For the first time

in a long time,

I know he'll be there

waiting for me.

I sit down on the grass next to him.

He has flowers,

but I know they're not for me.

I wonder who gave them to him,

but I don't ask.

I tell Brian about my day.

I say, "I saw your dad

at the supermarket.

I didn't talk to him—

it's not like he knows who I am,

and even if he did,

I wouldn't know what to say.

I watched him

take things off the shelves,

look them over,

and then put them back.

There was almost nothing

in his cart.

I wonder if he's always been like that,

or just lately."

I say, "I miss you."

I ask if he's missed me too,

then wait for his answer.

If that squirrel runs up that tree,

then his answer is yes.

If it stays on the grass,

his answer is no.

The squirrel doesn't move,

and my breath catches in my throat.

After a moment,

it zips up the tree.

I smile and lie down

next to Brian.

I wish he could hold me

like he used to,

but he doesn't.

The warm sun makes me drowsy

and I fall asleep on my side

next to Brian.

When I wake up, grass is imprinted

on my arm and leg.

I brush myself off,

but Brian doesn't move.

I say, "I'll see you tomorrow."

I reach out to touch him,

and my fingers make contact

with words:

Brian Dennis

died age seventeen

Beloved Son and Friend

PART I

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

I need this night

to last forever.

I need it to go on

because once I fall asleep,

it will be tomorrow.

It will be the day

of Brian's funeral.

And I can't do that.

I can't see that.

I can't feel that.

My eyes are burning.

They want to seal shut.

They want a break from crying.

My body is sore from tensing,

and it wants release.

It wants the softness of sleep,

but I cannot give it that.

I cannot

let that happen.

I cannot

go from today to tomorrow.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

I repeat these nine words

like a mantra.

I try to hold on to them

like worry beads,

like a rosary,

but instead of keeping me focused

they are lulling

me to sleep.

If I do not

sleep it will

not come if I

do not sleep

it will not

come if I do

not sleep it

will not come if

I do not

sleep

it

will

not

come.

Morning light streams in my window.

The air in here is stale.

I need to get out.

Marissa will be here in an hour,

but I can't wait that long.

On my way out of the house,

I pass my mother's bedroom.

Her door is open.

Her bed is perfectly made,

unslept in.

Outside, the late June air

is heavy and hot,

but it's better than in my room.

I'm not sure where I'm going,

but when my flip-flops hit the sidewalk,

I know.

I walk down the street

and take a right turn.

I go two more blocks

and find myself at the cemetery.

It doesn't take long before I hear it—

the sound of dirt and rock

sliding against metal shovels.

There are men digging Brian's grave.

They are digging a hole

in the cool earth,

on a hot day for the boy who has occupied

my thoughts and my heart

for the last three months,

for the boy I lost

my virginity to,

for the boy I think I loved.

I've heard these guys dig before.

I've heard these guys talking,

but today I want to scream

them into silence.

I want to tell them

to have some respect

and not talk

about everyday things,

like how hot it is

or how much more

they have to dig.

This

is not

every day.

This is how I found out:

I was watching a special about the pyramids

when my cell phone vibrated angrily

against my dresser.

I looked at the phone and was surprised

to see Marissa's name.

I cautiously said,

"Hey . . . what's up?"

"I have to tell you something.

It's about Brian."

There was something

about how she said it

that made me think

she was finally going to apologize

and say she had been wrong about him.

But instead she said,

"Something happened today

while Brian was playing basketball."

An injury, I figured;

he had a broken leg or something.

But what was with all the drama?

And why was she

calling to tell me?

We hadn't talked in weeks.

Marissa said, "No one knows

exactly what happened yet.

But he died, Annaleah.

I am so sorry.

I hate that I am the one

telling you this.

Especially after . . ."

I stopped listening.

My whole body was shuddering.

Uncontrollable.

"What?" I said.

It was the only thing

I could say.

"My dad was walking the dog

by the playground

and saw an ambulance.

He asked who was hurt

and they told him it was a teenager

named Brian Dennis,

and that he had suddenly died.

My dad came home and asked me

if I knew who Brian was."

"What?" I said again.

"He collapsed on the court.

The paramedics said

he died on the spot.

There was nothing

they could do."

Not possible, I thought.

Brian was healthy.

Seventeen.

Just finished his junior year.

How could he be playing

basketball one minute

and then be dead the next?

How could there be no in-between?

No treatment.

No drugs.

No surgery.

No hope.

No nothing.

Not possible.

"Annaleah, are you still there?"

"Uh-huh."

I couldn't even make real words.

I thought, I need to call someone.

I need more information.

But who could I call?

Brian and I didn't have

the same friends.

I could call Joy or Parker,

to tell them what happened,

but they didn't know Brian

other than from my stories.

I could call my mom, but I never

told her Brian and I

were together.

I could call Brian's house

to see if his parents knew more,

but I bet the last thing they'd want

is to talk to a girl

they'd probably never heard of.

"Annaleah?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna go."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No. I'll talk to you later."

I hung up the phone

and looked around my room.

There were pages from magazines

and posters on the wall,

photos of friends,

piles of dirty clothes,

and all of it seemed absurd.

It was absurd

that I had dirty laundry

and that Brian

was dead.