- Chapter 9 -
It must've been close to midnight when London wrapped her arms tightly around my abdomen. I'm sure Mom had something to do with her combing the city trying to find me. With her extensive resources, I doubt it was a challenging task. She led me to where her stretch limousine was waiting, all the while giving me sidelong steady glances. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't even really fully concentrated on the situation at hand. The thoughts scurrying through my head were too loud and abrasive for anything else to penetrate through. Why is it that the most difficult of questions to answer start off with why? Even that question, I could never even dream up a proper explanation. A correct explanation. How did it all turn out this way?
"Cody," a voice broke through the thick walls around me. "What's this all about?" I hesitated briefly, turning over the question in my head. What's this all about? What is this all about? The general phrasing struck me as something direct and forceful. It felt… relieving, somewhat. I laughed aloud, "It's about time someone put it so damn plainly, for once!" There was a brief, shocked pause. Even I was shocked. Considering that London and I were not friends, not even remotely friendly on a day-to-day basis, that thought alone was enough for me to swallow back my words. I didn't want her to diagnose me with some kind of bipolar disorder, though it probably wouldn't come as a big shock to anyone if I did happen to have it. For a minute, London appeared to have no reaction whatsoever. That is, before I felt the smallest hand of my life place itself on top of my own. She asked serenely, "What are you so afraid of?" I stared out the tinted window and seeing nothing, I mumbled under my breath, "It's not me you should be asking." Her grip neither tightened nor loosened; it wasn't even a grip to begin with. She sighed, and by the sound of shifting cloth, I knew she had averted her eyes to something else.
I wriggled my hand out from underneath hers and jammed it into my pocket. I'm not afraid of anything, when will people understand that? Kids strive their whole lives for a chance like mine, an opportunity to be accepted and attend a university as prestigious as Yale, while the majority of the population will never see past their blue-collar salaries and junior college credits. Statistically speaking, I mean. Still, the question scared me a little. I understand how. I don't just get why. I would've said so, but London wouldn't exactly be inclined to listen. She was here on instruction and not of free will. That alone shouldn't warrant any explanation. If I couldn't understand, how could I expect her to? Don't get me wrong here, though. I'm not making a cheap shot at her intelligence, or any lack thereof. She never played a significant role in my life, and I doubt Zack really had anything to do with her. As if she read my thoughts, London suddenly spoke up in a small voice, "Zack used to come by my dorm room, you know. He claimed it was for community service." By my sharp intake of breath, she must've realized that I was not even remotely aware of any type of community service. I mean, come on. Community service? Zack?
With a small laugh, she continued, "It wasn't really for that reason, obviously. Most of the time, Zack would straighten my room or just stand around. It made me nervous the first few times, but after a while it started to become routine." I found a hoarse voice and roughly cut in, "He used to come to your dorm?" I was facing her then, my eyes widened and deeply set. London twirled a strand of her long hair. She said rather evenly, "We used to talk about a lot of things. It wasn't much consolation for me, but I saw him delving deeper and deeper into this world that I couldn't pull him out of." I clasped my trembling hands together and heard myself ask in an equally trembling voice, "What kind of things?" She leaned in toward the window. For a minute, it seemed as though she didn't hear my question. Or she didn't want to. As I opened my mouth to repeat it, she answered distantly, "Oh, well, does it matter?" I slumped back into my seat, dejected. By the flippant carelessness of her tone, apparently not.
"Maddie," I scoffed in a scornful manner. London merely shrugged and offered no further answers. At least, it looked like she shrugged. It was difficult to tell in the darkness of a tinted limousine. I tried to divert my thoughts to something more pleasant, something more worthwhile. Yale's collegiate buildings emerged into my mind, and I desperately tried to drift away into textbooks and course loads. This was really my own method of escape, though clearly it wasn't an efficient one. Why was it that Zack talked to everyone, even London of all people, but me? How could he have confided in outsiders, essentially strangers when it came right down to it, but not to his own kin? "You two must've been very close," I suddenly said aloud. I was well aware that my tone sounded sarcastic and biting, but if London knew, she feigned ignorance. She shifted in her seat, however, and I knew my suspicions were confirmed. I shook my head and snarled, "Every girl in the whole damn world. Every last one of them. Where was I in all of this?" London didn't have an answer, but I didn't really expect her to, anyhow.
When we arrived at the Tipton, I stormed out of the limousine in a childish fashion. Like it mattered anymore, how I behaved, right? As I took the elevator up while ignoring Mr. Moseby's disapproving glances and the strange expression on Esteban's face, the thoughts continued to pour endlessly into my heavy head. London, Zack? Her, too? First Max, then Maddie, even Drew. Now this? I unlocked the door and found the suite empty. Better for me, I suppose. My bedroom didn't change much in my absence, though I didn't expect it to. I generally kept it clean and orderly, whereas Zack's idea of clean was to separate piles of dirty clothes from the relatively sanitary. I sank into my mattress and buried my head in hands. Sometimes, the innocent are slain to make way for grander schemes. I knew what it meant, even before Drew tried in vain attempt to explain it to me. Evidently, Zack died for a purpose, as determined by some higher power; there was a reason somewhere in the shadows that justified his death. Logically, this made no sense. It was the drugs that did him in, isn't that right? The alcohol, the parties, and his constantly wandering mind. He could barely differentiate between night and day, so really, I shouldn't have expected him to live forever. And I didn't. And he didn't live long enough to tell me he told me so.
What bothered me the most was the fact that if Zack did truly die for a reason, it wasn't for me. It was for someone who was completely unrelated to either of us. Who the hell was Tim, anyway? What made him so special, so endearing, that made Zack sacrifice his entire life? I understood that Tim saved Zack. But did that really compel Zack to turn around and do the same? I didn't believe in equivalent exchange, then or now. The world was everything but equivalent. It gives and takes away in accordance to its own rules; there's not one single thing fair about that. I've lived too long to expect any type of fairness in this lifetime or the next. My thoughts ran back to Drew. He was so nonchalant about his own brother, his tone cold and detached as if he were telling a story that had nothing to do with him. Whereas I, on the other hand, am struggling every day just to survive. I'm not even trying to get by or get through this life anymore. My only priority is to stay awake, and even that might not be enough incentive for me to hang on.
Someone once told me at Zack's funeral, "Fear death, but let it not live within you. Trust that your brother is in a better place, and you will find peace." For all I know, Zack may be in a better place.
But I'm not.