chapter nine

window by tigers jaw

Jacob Black is writing me essays.

One after another, they are hitting my inbox. They each have three paragraphs, at least, with a distant theme, clear tone, and honestly, a pretty sound structure. And if I were reading them objectively, and not crying, I'd honestly rank it in the high eighties, low ninities range.

But I am crying.

The basic run down here is, I'm a bad friend, Embry's a bad friend, and our whole family, in essence, sucks. I made Bella cry. She's going through a hard time. I should be more understanding. I'm mean. I'm selfish. Embry and me are assholes of the same breed, and he and Bella aren't gonna waste any more time on either of us. Because, again, we suck.

And I'm not crying because Jacob Black hurt my feelings. I'm crying because I'm pissed the hell off. Because there is no conceivable way I could be the bad friend in this situation. Because Bella ditched me and ignored me and I had just reached my breaking point. It's not my fault she screwed me over one too many times. And I didn't have any words of defense for Embry because god knows what's going on with him but I wasn't gonna let some big headed loser talk shit about my brother because I hurt his fake girlfriend's feelings by being rightfully upset by her actions. I almost wanna tell him, dude, she's not gonna let you pipe! Leave me alone! But I don't, I lock my jaw and I read the texts out loud to Embry, because I'm so mad at Jacob it made my brother my best friend again.

"'-and have you ever thought about how your actions affect other people? Bella's clearly fragile and you act like you don't care about her or what she's going through at all.' Like that's such bullshit! So Bella can treat me like shit all she wants because she's 'going through it' and I'm not allowed to be upset."

Embry's laying on the couch, sprawled out and letting his head dangle over the arm. He scoffs. "He doesn't even know what the hell he's talking about, Tate. Honestly. He's just got his head up his ass."

"'I don't know how you can treat Bella like that, knowing everything she's been through.' And actually, what the hell did I even do to Bella? Honestly. Not take her ride home? Not return her call like, what, twice? Suck it up, honestly."

Embry sits up. "Don't even listen to him. He doesn't even know you. He gets a one sided story and decides to go off on you like that?" my little brother shook his head. "Nah, he's only doing that cause he's pissed at me and can't say anything about it. 'S fucked up. Fucked up. I'll talk to him."

This makes me put my phone down, stern eyes on Embry. "Don't talk to him."

But Embry is Embry so of course he has to open his mouth and argue with me. "I'm gonna talk to him."

The idea of it makes me embarrassed. And I don't like confrontation and neither does Embry and I can't imagine any iteration of that situation going down well. Because apparently Jacob Black is the goddamn king of confrontation, at least over text. "No, because then I'm the pussy who has their younger brother deal with their problems for them," I insist, leaning forward and making harsh eye contact and I'm desperate for this point to sink in but I can tell that's just not. "You don't say anything and I won't say anything. I'm ignoring them both until they wanna apologize."

"Well, I'm not gonna let him make you cry."

I don't know where this whole protective brother thing is coming from but I don't like it because I'm the older sibling and I should be taking care of him. "I don't need you to deal with my problems for me, Em."

"Fine," Embry concedes, crossing his arms and giving me a slight frown. "I'm not saying anything. Paul will say something."

This ignites me all over again. Because I have been doing a really bad job of not thinking about Paul and I didn't ever want to have any of those thoughts brought to life and I thought if I could just keep going, keep ignoring him and everything to do with him then eventually the thoughts and the entire, annoying memory of him would disappear. "Why the fuck would Paul say something?"

He just gives me an easy shrug. "Paul's intimidating."

"Who gives a shit? Why does he have to get involved?"

"Because he's your friend," Embry counters easily, so sure in his logic and completely indifferent to my protesting.

"He's not my friend."

"Well, then he's my friend."

"Why would your friend get involved in my business?"

He sighs, annoyed at me like this is obvious. "Because Jacob made you cry and you're all freaked out and it's fucked up."

"Can you just stop bringing up Paul, alright? Fuck. I'm not saying anything, you're not saying anything, Paul's not saying anything. No one's saying anything unless it's Jacob and Bella apologizing," I tell him, firm, pointing a finger and intense. I don't want to think about Paul anymore.

There is a long bit of silence. I stare down my brother with wide eyes and he gives me a blasé look. "I'm gonna talk to him," he decides, finally, and flops back down against the couch.

"Jesus."

"Hey, what are you doing tonight?" he asks suddenly, not looking to me but instead focusing his attention on the show in front of him.

"Filming then brand practice then filming and then sleeping."

He looks back at me and down at his phone. "When are you leaving?"

"Soon. Wes's on his way to pick me up and I'm staying over his place with Moon. Why?"

Embry shrugs. "Just asking."

This makes me narrow my eyes. Because Embry is never just asking. He is annoying and plotting and scheming and I can't think of a good reason why he would want to know. "Why were you asking?"

"What, I can't ask what you're doing?" he shoots because, tone sharper. "Maybe I just want the house to myself."

"Is that why you were asking?"

"No, but what if it was?"

"Then you would just tell me. Why are you asking?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because you're being weird."

"You're being weird."

"You're such a freak," I snap at him, and whatever ingenuous reply he has cooked up is cut off by the sound of my phone buzzing. "Wes is here. Do I look like I've been crying?" I ask as I stand, wiping off the bits of smudged makeup from under my eye.

"Yeah."

"Cool. Maybe it'll get me pity. See ya."

"Bye, Tatty."

I like filming on Saturday night. Because long after all the cameras are packed up and all the extras drove home and I'm done bossing everyone around, the main people, the only people that actually matter, end up in Wes's basement, passing around the most disgusting, lukewarm bottle of UV Blue you've ever had in your life.

My face feels hot and my legs are crossed on the carpet and I think I'm rolling around but I'm not really moving that much. Moon is laughing at Wes and Wes isn't doing anything of importance and that's making her laugh more. Her laughter is loud snorts and breathless screeches and it makes Wes howl and clutch his gut and that makes me laugh this soundless kind of laugh that makes me think I'm gonna pee my pants. We haven't said anything in like, twenty minutes.

The Saturday night sleepovers are a long running tradition and we've only recently introduced the singular bottle of alcohol. Sometimes, when we're feeling a little bold, Wes will sneak upstairs and sneak some of his mom's beers. Moon sometimes can construct a bong out of a water bottle but whenever she does the plastic starts burning and I become convinced we're going to get lung cancer, immediately.

I take a sip from the bottle. It burns my throat and I cough. It's so fucking gross. "You wanna hear something fucked up?" I ask, dangling the almost empty bottle around between my fingers. "The drama club is having like, the biggest party of the year right now."

Wes places a delicate hand over his chest. "And we weren't invited?"

"They think we're pretentious," I tell him, letting the rim of the bottle ghost over my lips until I finally get the courage to just tip it over and let it flow down my throat. I wince again.

"We are pretentious," Wes laughs.

"No, we're just better than them."

"Why the fuck would we wanna go to a drama club party?" Moon interjects, brow furrowed. She grabs the bottle from my hand and takes a quick chug, almost emptying the bottle. "Last time Naomi Winger got herpes from Andrew Henderson and they did Hamilton karaoke all night."

This makes me erupt, laughter bubbling deep in my gut and escaping through my throat before the words can even make it out, making them thick and strained. "Y'know I heard they did it in their Crucible costumes?"

Wes looks at me with wide eyes. "Shut the fuck up, Tate," he says, low chuckles starting up. "Don't say things like that."

But I continue, now clutching my sides. "Imagine getting herpes in a Crucible costume."

Moon sighs, pressing her hands deep into her cheeks and she looks like she might start crying. "You guys, I just know I'm gonna get so many STDs in college."

"You want that?" Wes questions, and I can't even begin to process that statement. I'm already rolling around the ground, consumed by laughter and unable to breathe through it.

"No! I just like, feel that, like that what's gonna happen."

"Just like, just don't fuck. What the hell? What the fuck?"

I take deep, heavy breaths, and manage to find the words. "Hey, what's life if you don't get at least one STD?"

"You guys are going to hell." Wes says, and I want to pay attention but I feel my back pocket vibrate and I reach for it while he speaks. "You know that right? Hell. Hell for all eternity."

In this drunken blur, it takes me a few seconds to read the caller ID, and then another few seconds to realize what those letters mean but by the time I do my stomach is churning. "Oh shit, oh shit," I mumble, catching the attention of the room. "Fuck, y'all. My dad is calling me."

"Don't answer," Wes suggests with a shrug. "It's like one in the morning. You're asleep."

"Right. I'm asleep. I'm sleeping. Why wouldn't I be sleeping?"

"You told him you'd be here tonight, right?" Moon asks, equally not as concerned and I don't know why they're not as concerned that my father is calling me at one in the morning.

"Of course I did. He knows I'm here. I'm not doing anything wrong."

"Except the UV Blue," Moon corrects.

Wes nods in agreement and points at the bottle. "Except the UV Blue."

"Why the hell would he be calling me?" I question, staring down at the phone as it buzzes and I think that phones normally shouldn't ring for this long. "I'm freaking out. I'm freaking the fuck out!"

"See if he leaves a voicemail."

"What if like, I answer it and I pretend that I like, just woke up," I say, the idea of not knowing what he was calling about eating me alive. I don't like not knowing. I can't fucking stand it. "Like his call woke up me."

"Oh, yeah, do that!" Moon agrees, perking up and nodding. "Okay, alright. Wes, we're asleep. Go to sleep."

"We don't actually have to go to sleep."

"Oh my god just shut up, both of you," I snap, and take a deep breath. "Hello?" I answer, trying to make my voice thick, heavy with sleep and exhaustion. And I realize that's not really something that's hard to do when you've had almost an entire bottle of the worst alcohol in production.

My dad's voice on the other line is rushed, quick and relieved. "Oh thank god. Tatum, are you okay?"

"'M fine. Why?"

He ignores me, rushing past my own questions with one of his own. "Where are you right now?"

"At Wes's, like I said," I remind him of this part to affirm that I am, indeed, not doing anything wrong, "why?"

"You're not filming anymore?"

Wes and Mooney are looking at me with big wide eyes like they are waiting for some sort of indication or signal from me. I throw my hands up in the air, just as confused as them. "No?"

And then his tone switches, he is no longer concerned and dotting but firm and strict when he says, "No more filming in the woods at night."

And that's just simply not gonna work for me. I can't think of the reasons why now because my mind is all clouded but if I could look at my filming schedule I could point out to my dad and tell him, no, I'm gonna keep doing that. My stomach churns. I prepare my arguments. "What? Why?"

"A group of kids were killed in the woods tonight. They think it was a bear."

All words die on my tongue because out of all the things I was expecting or prepared for my father to say, that was not one of them. "Holy shit."

"You need to stay out of there, and I don't want you outside late at night anymore. Understand?"

I can't argue with anything he says. I just nod, like he can see me. "Okay, Dad."

"And I'm buying you bear mace. You have to carry it everywhere."

"I will."

"And text me at least once an hour."

"Okay, Dad."

"Alright. I love you."

"Love you." I hang up, drop the phone in my lap and all the sudden the laughter and the drinking and the Crucible herpes feel so far away. Wes and Moon are looking at me, silent, with big, expecting eyes. "Dude. A bunch of kids got killed in the woods tonight."

Wes is the first to react with a, "What? Who?" and I realize that, holy shit, I don't know who. And my dad certainly didn't know because for a second there it really sounded like he thought I wasn't going to answer.

I try not to let myself come up with possibilities. "I don't know. How am I supposed to know?"

"Check Twitter," Moon insists.

"You check Twitter. I don't have Twitter."

She frowns at me. "Why don't you have Twitter?"

"What do I need Twitter for?"

"To see who died."

"That's what I have you for," I tell her, and Moon just gives me nothing but an eye roll of defeat as she fishes around for her phone.

"How did they die?" Wes asks,

"Dad said maybe a bear?"

"Oh my god," Moon says, and we snap our heads at her so fast I think it kinda makes me sick. "It was Jason and Declan Warner and Fallon Shields."

The Warner twins and Fallon Shields. I repeat that in my head a few times. The Warner twins and Fallon Shields. They grew up here, three best friends all their lives and they didn't really have anyone else. Graduated last year, went to some local college or trade school or something and I try to come up with some emotion but all I can think was that I was glad it wasn't someone else, someone I knew. And maybe that makes me a bad person. "Damn."

"Way to kill the vibe," Moon grumbles.

"Yeah, thanks Tate."

"Hey, I didn't kill them."

Moon keeps scrolling through her phone, eyes scanning for quick snippets of detail. "They literally came home from school just to see each other this weekend."

"Not to be like, I dunno, morbid or Mr. Detective or anything," Wes interjects, and now he's the one who takes the bottle and he kills the rest of it off and I'm glad he did so I didn't have to, "but how does a bear kill three dudes without at least one of them running away?"

That thought wasn't something that had occurred to me but now that I realize it, it's all I can think about. Moon doesn't look up from her phone when she says, "That's weird."

And I'm staring at the ground, mind running fast and ears buzzing and I feel so disconnected from my body and my face is all hot. "You remember that guy like, Wayne or something that got killed last year?" I ask, picking at the skin on my lips, peeling it off and rolling it up between my fingers. I don't know why I'm nervous ."And that security guard? Everyone thought it was some animal but then they found like human footprints nearby?"

Wes is all of the sudden very active. He stands and starts pacing and rubbing his eyes and he's moving around too much for me. "I need to get the fuck out of here. I've seen enough horror movies to know that when they start killing off white people like that, there's no good ending for me."

"I don't really know where I stand with that one," I tell him, rubbing my hands together. "No one puts native Jews in horror movies."

"Don't be dumb, Tate. Only white girls make it out alive."

Mooney looks between the three of us, leaning forward with his arms crossed and eyes wide. "You guys, people died."

"I know," Wes says, throwing his hands up in the air, "and I'm not trying to be next."

They bicker back and forth. My skin still feels hot. There's something about this that has put me on edge.

Forest stands by my side, hands on his hips and frown settled. We are stating down three amps, four speaker combos, and not moving. "Why did we get saddled with the amps?" Forest asks, not looking at me, not taking his eyes away from the beast of the things we are, for some reason, responsible for.

"Because Griffin's an asshole."

"Yeah."

Our band, presently still unnamed, is moving. We are moving from Forest's garage to my basement. Because I guess Forest's dad got pretty sick of the way our music travels through walls and into his ears and I guess he also doesn't really like the way we're always yelling at each other so we were presented with an ultimatum: move the equipment, or it's getting sold.

And while Wes and Griffin are dicking around, moving drum sets and guitar pedals and mic stands, we are moving the amps. And I don't know why because I can't lift my own weight and Forest is built like a lima bean.

I know we'll have to eventually do something instead of just staring, so I stretch, reaching over my head before I say, "Alright well, let's do it, I guess."

And I guess we can't do it.

I'm holding the amp by the side handle with both arms and I think my arms might fall off. "Tate, you need to lift," Forest tells me, and it's embarrassing to see that his side is so much higher off the ground than mine.

"I am lifting, Forest."

"Put your legs into it," he instructs me, and I try, even though I have no idea how to just put my legs into it.

"Just go," I tell him, because we're just goddamn standing there, holding this thing off the ground for no goddamn reason. "I'm lifting."

He shakes his head at me. "I don't wanna go, you don't have a good grip."

"I have the grip! Just go before I drop it."

"If you're gonna drop it you don't have a good grip!" he yells back, voice frantic.

"I'm gonna drop it because you're just standing there!"

"Alright, wait, let's just put it down," he says, and I'm more than happy to oblige. My side his the ground before his does and I try to ignore that because I cannot stand the thought of any damage being my fault.

Now my hips are on my hands and I'm thinking and frowning and I tell Forest, "I have an idea," but I don't like it.

He looks down at me with crossed arms. "Okay."

"I don't like it. So you have to promise me this is something we absolutely have to do to."

He nodded. "My dad's totally gonna trash it all if we don't."

I sigh, a long, defeated sigh, and I pull out my phone. It rings three times before I get an answer. "Hey, Em, can you and your friends do me a favor?"

It takes fifteen minutes for them to pull up. The familiar blue truck makes my gut erupt in something I don't have the ability to unpack. It comes to a quick halt in front of Forest's lawn. I see Embry in the front seat, he as a smug grin and I envision slapping it off but Paul fucking whats-his-name is jumping out of the driver's seat and rushing towards me with Embry slow behind him. "Hey Tatum!" he calls, smile wide and bright and it's pretty but I don't want to think that so I just bite down on my lip.

"Forest, this is my brother Embry," I introduce, gesturing between the two of them, "and the other one I don't like."

Paul throws his arms up in the air and his sweatshirt rides up a little. "Oh, c'mon."

Embry gives me an extremely unimpressed look. "If you're gonna ask for our help, you can at least afford to be nice for twenty-six seconds."

I cross my arms and do not make eye contact when I say, "That's Paul."

Forest, dumb and friendly, shakes both of their hands in that lose, clappy way guys introduce themselves. "Thanks for helping us move this shit. These things weigh like, a hundred pounds and they're impossible to move on your own and-"

"And Tatum can't help because they're weak, I got it," Embry cuts him off, and then turns to me. "Why are you guys moving this stuff to our place anyways?"

Forest answers for me and for the first time today I'm glad I got stuck with him instead of the other two and I'm trying to ignore the way Paul keeps fucking starting at me, unwavering. "My dad got sick of the noise and Tatum said we could practice in their basement."

Embry raises an eyebrow at me. "Dad's okay with that?"

"Dad encouraged it. He thinks if I'm home more I'll be less likely to get eaten by a bear."

He groans, tossing his head back and letting his arms go limp. "So you're doing this out the house now?"

"Three days a week, bitch," I tell him with a bright, satisfied grin, "and we got one in thirty minutes so you better hurry up."

"Yeah, we got a couple new songs we're working on. You guys can come check us out, if you want!"

I say, "No!" and at the same time Paul says, "Hell yeah!" and I take it all back and I think that maybe we should get a new lead singer.

My bass hangs lamely from my shoulders and I'm trying to tune it but I can't ignore the fucking stares. They make my skin hot. They make me sweat. I wish he wasn't sure because I don't think I can focus. Paul is sitting in the corner of my basement, elbows on his knees as he stares, my disinterested brother beside him.

"Check, check, check," Forest says, lips brushed up against the mic. "Check, check. Tate you good?"

I lean into my own mic. "I'm good here," I said, unable to ignore the way my voice travels. I sing backing vocals. I sing loud, consistent backing vocals and that makes me nervous because I don't really sing in the same way I don't really play guitar "Griffin, you good?"

Griffin is playing a riff from a song that is not ours when he leans into his mic and says, "All good here."

We have three or four songs written. Most of them are short, aggressives bursts of angry, punk energy. But one got this one that's like, four minutes, twice the length of any of our other songs, and me and Forest can never get on the same page about the lyrics. Because I think I'm right and he thinks he's right and we argue and typically it ends up that neither of us are right. And I'm anxious about playing it but I don't want to attribute those nerves to Paul being here and Paul seeing me play but I can't think of any other reason.

"We ready?" Wes asks, rubbing his drum sticks together and there isn't another answer besides, yeah, we're ready, and we're off.

The bass line isn't something that complex. The other songs I really jam them up with fast notes and I really need to let myself be consumed by it. But this one is slower, tame and tangier. I don't have to think about the notes I play so when my fingers are moving and my lips are moving against the mic I'm just trying not to make any eye contact with Paul.

I hadn't seen him since that night my cheek got cut up and that was really unfortunate because ever since then all I could think about was how fucking sweet he was and how concerend and it was easy to forget all the times he annoyed and irritated me and I kept trying to remind myself but it was not working. And now he's sitting here and I'm afraid that if I look up at him while I sing those thoughts about how sweet he is might get worse.

I'm singing into the mic, fingers plucking and I look over at Forest and he grins at me while he sings because we haven't fucked up yet, which is amazing to me because I'm less focused on playing and more focused on how flushed am I from the stares.

Wes bangs on his drums and it's loud and it makes me feel good. I think this song would sound good slowed down and maybe with some piano. Griffin plays the guitar too aggressively and I want to tell him to calm down. And for a second, despite myself, I look up and forward.

And Paul is looking at me with the biggest eyes in the world, those big brown eyes I first saw when I hit him on my board and my mouth gets cotton like and I think I'm going to mess up but I push through and it's like I'm falling again so I look away and I hit the ground. And I hate him. I tell myself that three times over. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. My fingers tremble as the play and I feel like I have done something wrong.

me jamming as many fucking ocs into this story as i fucking can: its good soup

i wish i could send you guys tik toks. i'm working on putting together some incorrect quotes also this chapter sucks i know i say that every chapter and then i go back and i'm like huh that was ok but this one really does suck