This is how I found out:
I was watching a my favorite Musical
when my cellphone vibrated angrily
against my dresser.
I looked at the phone and was surprised
to see Rachel's name.
I answered my phone
and cautiously said,
"Hey . . . what's up?"
"I have to tell you something.
It's about Adam," Rachel answered.
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 Adam 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.
Rachel said, "No one knows
exactly what happened yet.
But he died, Kurt.
I'm so sorry
I hate that I'm 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 Adam Crawford,
and that he had suddenly died.
My dad came home and asked me
if I knew who Adam 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.
Adam 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.
"Kurt, 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?
Adam and me didn't have
the same friends.
I could call Mercedes or Jeff,
to tell them what happened,
but they didn't know Adam
other than from my stories.
I could call my dad, but I never
told him Adam and I
were together.
I could call Adam's house
to see if his parents knew more,
but I bet the last thing they'd want
is to talk to a boy
they'd probably never heard of.
"Kurt?"
"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 cloths,
and all of it seemed absurd.
It was absurd
that I had dirty laundry
and that Adam
was dead.