AN: The next chapter will probably be the last one.
Miracles can happen.
I figured it out when I walked into Art class today and saw that Peter was absolutely beaming. He might try his best to hide it, but he isn't fooling anybody.
Susan and Rabadash broke up.
I feel so light all of a sudden. Dark in my core, still, but so light everywhere else. As close to giddy as I ever get these days. I don't smile outwardly. Inside, a small grin is turning upwards.
From listening to the conversations of passersby in the hallways, I manage to piece together a vague story. It isn't very clear, and many of the 'facts' contradict themselves repeatedly. Nonetheless, I am glad enough of it. Even if it's turning into the school's very own urban myth.
It appears as though Lasaraleen told Jenny who told Brook who told Stacie who told Corin that Rabadash beat the living daylights out of that boy who always calls Susan 'Phyllis'. The boy wouldn't fight him because Susan had asked him not to, assuming that Rabadash would catch on and the fight would be avoided altogether. As I could have told her if I still spoke: no way was that going to happen.
He gave the poor chap a licking right in front of her, not caring that his opponent wasn't fighting back. That boy is in the hospital now. I must remember to send a card.
Anyway, Rabadash was suspended and dumped on the same day. Thank God.
I hope that will be the end of my knowledge of him from now on. And, of course, I hope that Susan's doing all right, too. I assume she's okay. Peter wouldn't be quite so happy if she wasn't, I don't think.
My new drawing is coming along very slowly. With each line I sketch out, the me in the picture looks more ghastly, more broken.
'Wounded in battle', I come up with when Peter asks what it's supposed to be.
He winces slightly and says he thinks I can do better than that. I know he's right, I just feel stuck. I wish he could give me another book that would help-like he did with my faun picture. But somehow I don't think that will work with this one. This one is different. Mr. Pevensie helped me onto the path leading me to this drawing. Now I have to find my own way through it.
I am in my basement room when something resembling a flow comes to me. I draw and draw without thinking about it. Line after line. My pencil breaks, I sharpen it. It wears to nothing, I toss it aside and pick up another one. No colour, only black and white lines.
Finally (I don't know how much later) I stop and see what I have drawn. There is a girl sitting beside my war-torn figure laid out on the ground. Her face is not unlike Lucy Valiant's. One of her hands is cupped like she is supposed to be holding something. Clearly the drawing isn't done yet. But I am still surprised. I hadn't intended to add her in.
I wonder what she is supposed to be holding. I think of the fire-flower pressed into that book I still have yet to read.
At first I start to draw the bud of what is supposed to be a similarly-shaped flower above her hand, thinking that I will add the stem in afterwards. But it doesn't take on the right shape and it becomes a little flask instead. The little flower-bud re-worked into its stopper.
The flask is partly open-and tilted. My mouth, well, originally, it was drawn closed. I was even tempted at one point, when my thoughts temporarily cleared, to add a gag over my mouth. But it would be out of place. Instead, I carefully run the tip of an eraser over my poorly-sketched lips and draw them again. This time they are parted, open. Gasping for air. For words. Me, gasping to speak.
My hand cramps up. I place my pencil down and let the sketching-pad fall from my lap to the floor. My eyes close and I sleep for a little while. Dreamless. Then she is there. She is sitting beside me holding the fire-flower.
As she leans closer, it becomes the flask from my drawing. It sparkles as though it is made of diamond. The liquid sloshing inside, though it was colourless in my picture, is a dark, blood-red. Fiery, like the flower.
She lets a drop fall into my mouth. I gasp and choke.
Waking up, I find that a drop of water from a small leak in the pipes above me has fallen into my mouth. I sit up to avoid choking for real. Although I am awake, she is still with me. I can still see her when I close my eyes.
It happened. Lucy Valiant died last year in a railway accident. There's nothing I can do to change that. But I as much as I have fought against moving forward, I realize now that I didn't die with her. She's dead. I'm still alive. I don't have to like it, but there comes a point when I have to accept it.
After school, tears in my eyes, I take the subway to the graveyard. This time I have brought a white rose with me.
Kneeling at her tombstone, I place the rose down.
My voice comes, but it sounds so strange, hearing my own voice. Low, yet not entirely mumbling.
"This doesn't mean I'm going to forget about you," I say softly. "And it doesn't mean I'm never going to have my moments when I don't wish I had done things differently, when I don't wonder if something I could have done could have saved you and stopped what happened. But I think I understand now what I couldn't face before. I love you, Lu, but I know you're gone. I know you can't hear me now. This isn't about you anymore. This is about me living the way the things I learned from you taught me. I don't want to forget and I don't want to fall apart. Some day, I'm still going to buy a house with an orchard like I promised-even though I know you won't be there to see it. And I'm going to start talking again. It's going to be hard, I'll probably have an awful time of it at first. But, Lucy, do you know what I'm going to do when I think I can't stand it anymore? I'm going to think that you would be proud of me-and that's going to get me through it. Maybe I just have to string the small things, and the few memories I have of us, together. Perhaps that's all I can really ask for. I guess what I mean to say is, I'm going to be all right and that no matter what part of you will always be with me."
I swallow hard and glance both ways. Somehow I hadn't realized that I was trembling and my eyes were half-way shut.
As I stand up, I glance both ways. I hope no one heard me. Not because I didn't mean every word, and not because I feel embarrassed talking to my dead girlfriend even though she can't hear me-so it's more like talking to myself. Rather, it's because there are simply some things that are meant to be private. Some feelings and changes and hopes and fears that only happen deep down inside of a person. When they surface, it ought to be common courtesy for others not to incline their ears. That's how, I think, it's supposed to be.
At home, I ask my mother what we're having for supper. I assume it will be take-out or pizza, as she hasn't cooked much since my father left, but I ask anyway.
It takes a moment to register before she realizes this is the first time in a while I've spoken up out of my own free will.
A little stunned, she says, "I was actually thinking of trying to make pork."
I remember one time when I was about eleven and she attempted to make a special dish involving pork and mayonnaise. Someone told her it would taste good. It was horrible. Simply ghastly mix. We ended up burying it in the back-yard and found out that the neighbor's beagle had been mistaking my father's missing tools for bones.
"Or I could just make rice and beans," she amends. I think she remembers the mayonnaise disaster, too.
"Yeah, sounds good."
"Hey," she says as I am heading for the stairs, "are you all right?"
"I will be," I tell her. Smiling semi-sadly to myself, I sigh, "I will be."
Glancing over my shoulder, I can see her with this puzzled expression on her face like she's wondering, 'Was that my son?'
I guess I can't really blame her. Given, she's been pretty wrapped up in her own problems lately, but she is a mother. I bet she's missed me. Maybe a little bit.
The next day, I have Art for my last class. The bell rings and I am finishing my drawing.
The likeness to Lucy is more apparent now (at least, I think so) and the background of rolling hills and strange craggy mountains fills the missing fantasy void. Just in case, I also added an empty helmet a ways off from where the me in the drawing is lying.
The only bit of colour in the black-and-white still is the drop of red liquid coming close to my mouth. I've erased it at least four times since starting. Each time the drop has been re-added closer to me. Now it will stay where it is, that's why I am finally able to add the colour.
A few tears escape and I quickly brush them away, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. I don't think Peter would appreciate me crying all over his sparse art supplies.
Mr. Pevensie strolls over and looks down at my work. I realize that everyone else has cleared out of the classroom already. How long ago, I couldn't say.
"Very nice," he tells me, "you worked really hard on this. It shows."
I want to speak. My throat is dry. It closes. I can't do it. I think of Lucy. I think of everything I've been through this year. Yes, I can do it. And I will, too.
My jaw turns from stone to flesh. The ice slowly melts. Spring is coming. "Can we talk?"
Peter looks a little surprised, but he agrees. "Sure."
We don't talk at the school or in the classroom. Instead, we take the subway to a small café (Peter's idea-he wanted a cup of coffee).
The waitress looks annoyed when she sees me even though she doesn't know me. I guess the sullen expression I've been wearing on my face all year is still there to some extent. That is hardly surprising. A person doesn't heal all at once.
Then she notices Peter. He's young, on a crutch, decent-looking, and not that far off from her own age. The only other single guys in this place today are old, fat, or else me. Needless to say, he stands out. She practically melts into a puddle of goo. Our orders end up being on the house. The only catch? Her phone number magically appears on the back of his napkin.
When the waitress stops gazing at Peter and finally gets back to work, I begin to talk. It's so odd, speaking and having someone listen like this.
I tell him everything. About the party in Bristol, about the morgue, about my parents.
He doesn't say everything's going to be all right. And he doesn't defend my parents even though he's a grown-up and it's their code or something. He just listens and sips his coffee pensively. I like him. I sort of wish I had spoken up sooner. I couldn't though, and I know it.
"You've been through a lot," he comments when I have finished.
"I'm going to try and move passed it," I tell him. "I think that's what Lucy would have wanted."
He says, "Just remember that moving on doesn't mean forgetting."
"I think I finally figured that out."
"I miss her, too," Peter says rather sadly. "Even though I didn't see her very often."
"Thanks…for everything…" I wish I could better express how grateful I am to him, but I think he understands anyway.
"You're welcome." He glances up at the ceiling fan whirling above our heads.
"Why did you do it?" I ask. I have to know. "Ever since the beginning of this year, you and your sister have been trying to be my friends. And I've just pulled myself further away. Why did you keep trying?"
"Because, Edmund, I know you're not really like that," says Peter, kindly. "We've both known that we were just dealing with someone who was going through a hard time and needed real friends. All we could do was try to be those friends, if you let us."
"I see."
"Speaking of my sister, she asked me for your phone number yesterday."
I almost spit out the tea I am drinking.
"If you wanted to call her, I, um-" he clears his throat, coughing into the palm of his hand, "-wouldn't object."
"I'll keep that in mind," I tell him, cleaning up the little mess I have made on the table in front of me. By Jove, I think, she sure got over that creep Rabadash fast.
I am not sure if I am going to call her. I might. At least, I want to be her friend again if nothing else. I think, after all that's been going on, we owe each other that much. It could be something more…with time…but I'm not sure.
We're very different. Even if we tried, there's a good chance it wouldn't work out. What's more is that I would have to consider whether or not it would be fair to her. Lucy Valiant will always be my first. No matter who else comes into my life. But we'll see. Some things happen over-night, other things don't. Life is funny that way. And I've decided not to be afraid of it anymore. Or, at least, I'm not going to let my fear stop me from living it.
Some days will be easier than others. There will still be tears. Moments when I will feel as though I can't go on. But I will break through my own silence even then.
The year slides by slowly and quickly at turns. Then it is going to be summer again. I cannot believe I've made it through a whole year.
I walk into the Art room to see Peter packing up some of his things. Lasaraleen is crying. When I ask what on earth the matter is, she says it's because her 'love' isn't coming back next year.
"You're not going to be teaching here anymore?" I ask him (Lasaraleen gets distracted by a bright shinny object in the hallway and leaves), genuinely surprised.
He turns a little red in the face. "It was fun while it lasted."
"What will you do now?"
A little sadly, "I might try to get into medical school."
Go back to medical school, Pevensie. I feel horrible. I want to smack myself for saying that so many times in my head.
"But don't you like teaching Art?"
Peter picks up his crutch with more ease now. His leg is slowly healing. It is still prone to giving out on him from time to time, so he keeps the crutch near at hand, but he doesn't need it as badly these days. "Come on, it's not like anyone's learned anything from me-we both know that."
No, I didn't even know you thought that, I say in my head. And it isn't true. I am going to prove that to him.
"Can I show you something?"
"Sure." He follows me down into the basement. I know he is wondering what this is all about.
Since I've started talking again, I've used the room a lot less than I used to. All the same, I still go in there from time to time just to think and to hang my drawings on the wall. I will have to take it all down before I leave today, I suppose, but I don't mind. It was worth it. I am glad I've been putting it off. Because now I have something to show Peter. To show Mr. Pevensie all he taught me this year.
"Go on in," I hold the door to my little room open for him.
He steps in and I see his lips curl up. Looking around, he sees all my drawings and my laurel-crown model.
His eyes grow a little misty. I pretend not to notice this.
"I think you've figured out your word very well, Mr. Justaciturn." I notice he is struggling to hold back a proud smile and keep the whole thing professional.
I stand there for a while with a smile of my own. Sometimes doing the right thing and speaking up feels pretty darn good. Like right now, for instance.
AN: Reviews are more than welcome!