Two months. Two months since Christmas. Two months and now we're finally ready for this horrible trial. Thanks to some intensive work from Detective Porter, they finally found a couple of kids who can back up Mitchie's story and even one of them who heard Rodney admitting to the crime, but not in exact words. There's no physical evidence left, though Porter thinks we can win this case because of who the two people involved are: Mitchie, who went silent for a year, had to be transferred from Cascadia, and finally escaped; and Rodney, who is one of the head-honchos at these places and just looks super sketchy. The jury is more likely to sympathize with Mitchie, according to Tom. He's confident that we can win that battle. Nailing my parents and Damien should be easy because of my scars and because they managed to find the gun, which is covered with his fingerprints. They think they might be able to get Rosslyn on accomplice charges of assault, which is what they're charging Rodney for when he whipped me. Most of the parents are claiming ignorance to what the Enforcers did to there children, and since most of those kids only got one or two lashings ten years ago, it's hard to prove that they were aware. What's really going to be difficult is getting Mitchie's parents. There is no doubt that their actions following Mitchie's rape fall under the category of child neglect, though it's not clear how much psychological and physical damage have been done to her because of it, and this is apparently what you have to prove to get them in jail or fined or whatever.
We've in South Carolina, living with Margaret. She can't legally adopt us yet because my parents are still waiting to have charges filed against them. Well, technically Mitchie's not legally hers yet, either, because we've spent two months tied up in the "shithole that is the American legal system." That's what Tom calls it, anyway. Margaret says that he only feels that because he has to deal with it and every day and it's really not that bad as he makes it out to be. Although I'm kind of inclined to agree with Tom; it took them two months to arrest some idiots I could've beaten into coma in about an hour. I know they have all these rules and they're all important and stuff, but sometimes it's hard to follow them. Really hard.
Today, we're driving up from South Carolina back to Illinois. To be honest, it was nice to live in a real house again. The hotel room got old and cramped fairly quickly, and Margaret had a fairly spacious house for someone who lived on her own. She told us that her parents used to live their with her until she finally gave in and sent them to a nursing home, and she proceeded to tell us what a nursing home is. It's kind of weird, to think about other people taking care of someone like that. More weird to think that those people would even want to be alive anymore, not being able to do anything for themselves. But whatever. That's not the point.
We've actually been driving there for the past two days, pausing frequently to stop at American landmarks. Margaret wants us to be immersed in our new culture as much as possible, which is why she forced us every night to watch TV with her from 8-10 as well as the news in the mornings. I now can name the President of the United States, several theories on the death of Michael Jackson, the function and current controversy about the Supreme Court Justices, and all members of the Simpsons family. This is supposedly turning me into a normal American teenager. Though that's some grade-A bullshit right there. Mitchie and I will never be normal American teenagers, no matter how many pop culture jokes we can throw out there.
Crossing over the border to the state of Illinois is so strange. On one hand, I feel a certain sense of familiarity, which is comforting enough. But then I remember everything that has happened here, every bit of good and bad and all the memories I've ever had save for the past two months have been in this state. It's freakish to say the least, to be coming back. I don't really know how all of this will play out, and I'm almost scared to learn the answer. Mostly because of Mitchie's parents. As much as it kills me to admit it, I would break into a stream of tears all over that courtroom if they told me that Mitchie would have to go and live with her parents. And that, needless to say, would be horrible.
"You girls ready?" Margaret asks quietly as we drive along the empty Illinois countryside. There is only a quiet "oldie's" radio station playing, Mitchie and myself too full of emotion to do much but think. She's up in the passenger seat next to Margaret, me back here by myself and a bunch of our stuff.
Mitchie shrugs lightly, just so that I can barely see the movement. "That's hard to answer. Some things you'll never be ready for, but you have no choice but to do them. I think I feel like that right now."
"Me, too," I mumble from the back seat. "Except for Justin. I'm ready to see my brother squirm. I'm ready to see him get what he deserves."
Margaret sighs. I can tell from her general attitude that she's chewing on her lip, which is what she does whenever she's trying to think of how exactly to put her words. "I just can't see him doing that on purpose... if he's too much of a wuss to stand up to the Enforcers like y'all did, how's he gonna lead them to you on purpose when they've got a gun to kill his brother?"
"Because he'd be too afraid after he panicked to stop them. Plus, he probably thought they were aiming at his sister," I mutter bitterly. Today is not a good day for me. I have managed to upset myself and kill the conversation all in one sentence. Smooth, Alex. How many more hours?
It turns out that four hours later we reach our destination: Tom's house. The trial doesn't actually start until tomorrow, but Tom and Margaret both insist that we have a day to rest from our travels. Plus, I have somewhere to go today. Somewhere special.
Tom's outside watering his plants when we pull up. As it's only early March, there isn't much growing, though I do remember him saying he enjoys gardening to keep his mind of things. I don't really know if spraying water counts as gardening, though. At any rate, he's excited to see us, holding up a finger and running back into the house so fast you almost think he'll trip on something.
Margaret pulls her car up in the driveway, shaking her head as both she and Mitchie giggle at his antics. Even I crack a smile. It's good to be home.
Tom hurries back out, a couple of presents in his hands. Four, to be exact. It looks like he's wrapped them hastily. As we get out of the car, he says, "Because my Christmas presents sucked ass."
"We don't need no presents, Tom," Margaret laughs. "We're just glad to see you."
He looks at her in mock disbelief. "Moi? Little old moi?"
Mitchie can't hold it in anymore and jumps into his arms, causing him to drop the presents to the ground. "Sorry," she giggles into his shoulder. He doesn't even seem to notice them in his damp grass because of this moment. I think Mitchie has begun to look up to Margaret and Tom as mother and father figures, which is only natural, I suppose. They have been taking care of us like that. Tom even found time once a month to meet us halfway for a weekend trip. I have formed a bound with them as well, but not in a parental way like Mitchie. I'm pretty much done with parents, and according to the laws of the United States I get to be officially done with them in about 11 months.
Margaret has joined the group hug and I look at them, smiling. I've never been one for hugs other than those that involve Mitchie and only Mitchie. "Don't want in on it, kiddo?" Tom says jokingly. "Could really use the manly support over here."
"Don't be an asshole, Tom." I'm laughing, though. Tom has taken to speaking me like I'm his long-lost son who he has to instruct on proper manly things, but I don't mind. He's told me about all these karate moves he's learned and how to use them to my advantage as well as good fighting style if I'm ever caught in a tight situation. He promised to tell me how to throw a football and play baseball when we got here. Margaret thinks he's going to take me fishing next. She finds mine and Tom's entire relationship fairly amusing, but it's better than chilling with her and Mitchie and learning about make up. I don't understand it. We were allowed to wear it at Havenwood for the courtship dance, but nowhere near as elaborate as it is here. I think Mitchie looks better without it seeing as how totally fake it looks, though Margaret thinks I can only see it as fake since I've almost never seen it in my life.
"No worries here," he jokes as he releases Mitchie and Margaret. "You wanna throw the football now?"
My mood turns somber, as I've planned this answer. "No. There's something I else I need to do before the fun."
Tom leans down and picks up one of the gifts. He puts it in my hand, his covering mine. "This is for him."
"Thanks."
The graveyard is empty when we reach it, not a soul in sight. Margaret leaves Mitchie and I to let us go on our own. She never really knew Max, so she feels like she's invading. She only got to see him die, and in some way, I suppose it's worse to see someone you never knew die, someone you only got to see struggle. It makes you have a hard time believing that person was ever happy. And to be honest, I don't know how often he ever was. But I'm done with that now- it's in the past, for the most part. As much as I can, I've put it behind me. Now I'm bringing it back to the forefront. Seems dumb, I know, but all three of them think I should for various reasons: Tom thinks I should go to get closure, Margaret thinks it will give me strength for the trial, and Mitchie thinks it will help me to remember him. I haven't forgot Max- I don't think I possibly can- so I don't really understand her reason. But she says when we reach his grave, I'll understand. I hope she's right.
Max's grave lies somewhere in the far back, close enough to the other gravestones that it doesn't look random but far enough away so that he looks a bit isolated. As soon as I can read the very fresh engraving on his grave, unexpected tears spring from my eyes and nearly every bit of willpower leaves me. I feel my feet attempting to shuffle back to Margaret's waiting car, to go learn how to play football with Tom. To be anywhere but here.
I'm not getting away that easily, however, because Mitchie clamps her hand on my arm, slowly moving it into my own hand. "You can't turn back now, Alex."
"Can so," I mutter, though I know she's right because she'll beat me into pulp if I try.
"I won't let you."
Max's grave doesn't say much, not like I can really read what it does say through my tears. But I can make out the three lines that Tom purchased for him just before we left for South Carolina.
Maximilian James Russo
December 7, 1996- December 4, 2009
Brave and Loved
I can't stop the waterworks from falling as I brush my fingers against the words. Nothing I have to say seems fit for him to hear, because I know he's listening. My other hand slides over the grass as I realize his body is buried beneath us in an eternal sleep. And then I remember everything: every little detail that has never crossed my mind for the past two months comes back in vivid detail. I see his face in my mind, larger than life, more colorful and animated than ever before. I remember how he smiled, how he lit up, how he didn't like peanut butter, how he used to be so full of energy as a toddler, how he barely spoke, how I helped him to speak again. Mitchie was right: sitting here, I do remember everything.
Including Tom's present. Slowly, I unwrap it with trembling fingers. My tears drip onto the wrapping paper and the object, tainting them both with water marks. Mitchie sits down next to me, scooting close enough so that her hand can rest on my knee.
"I love you, Max," I say with a shaky voice. I'm not shaky about the meaning behind those words, but at the loss of the boy who I'm saying them to. I take out Tom's gift and open it, beginning at the first page.
"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'"
