Chapter Twenty

I heard my door open, light footsteps sounding. I was working on a lab report for my chemistry class, too engrossed in it to turn around; besides, I already knew it was my mom. 

      “Hey,” I said casually, continuing to type up the analysis I was working on.

      “Marcus is dead,” she said gravely. I spun around in my chair to face her, and saw her expression was somber and serious. Her face had droplets of black running down it, leading me to the conclusion that she had been crying. 

      “W-what do you mean?” I asked shakily, not comprehending the statement she had made.

      “He was in a car accident, and it just happened! Marcus is dead!” she sobbed. 

      “Marcus-Marcus Bianchi?” I questioned. She nodded, wiping the tears off her cheeks with the side of her hand. I took a deep breath, recognition filling my mind.

       My entire world froze. All I felt was numbness. The world around was on hold as I processed the three words that my mother had uttered: Marcus is dead. Three simple words that changed everything about my normal Tuesday night. Suddenly, the small, trivial notions in my life no longer mattered. Marcus was dead.     

      Marcus Bianchi was one of my friends back in Boston. We had known each other since pre-school, and my mom had been close with his parents. The two of us were never overly close, but we were still friends. He played basketball, and we had been on the same team at least three times. While some of the other guys I hung out with had their occasional doubts that I wasn’t “good” enough to chill with them because I was girl, Marcus assured them that I was as badass, if not more, than them. He was a good kid- not the best student academic wise, but still a good kid. 

      “The funeral’s on Saturday,” she informed me.

      “Saturday? Isn’t that the same day-”

      “As the Fall Formal. Yes, I know. I’m sorry sweetie; it’s out of our control. We have to be there to support the Bianchis,” she said apologetically.

      “You know what, screw the dance- I didn’t even want to go,” I said, unsure to whom I was lying. “Besides, you’re right, we need to be there for the Bianchis.”

      “I’m glad you understand. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to be in a position like that… He was your age, Liz! Just a kid, and some moron didn’t step on their brakes in time, and-and k-killed him!” she cried, breaking back down into a steady flow of tears. Though tears would be appropriate in a time like this, I couldn’t bring myself to cry. I had to be strong for my mom. 

      “Sh… I know, mom,” I said, getting up from my chair to offer her a hug. She gladly accepted, and enveloped me tightly, weeping.

      After my mom had finally stopped crying, she left to put herself back together in a presentable state. I sighed, and picked up my phone, scrolling through contacts until I found the one that I wanted. I pressed call, and put it on speaker, not wanting to hold the small device up to my ear with my unsteady hands.

      “Hello?” a male voice answered.

      “Hi, E-Eric, umm... I don’t know h-how to tell you this,” I started.

      “Oh! Hey, Liz! You can tell me anything!” he assured me.

      “I-I can’t go with you to the F-Fall Formal,” I said unevenly, the news I had received setting my mind. Marcus died. Marcus was dead. Marcus Bianchi was no longer living and breathing on this earth.

      “What?! Why not?” he demanded, concerned.

      “Uh… A p-personal issue came up,” I said, not wanting to go into detail.

      “Bullshit. What happened, Liz? Did you find someone else? Lose a bet? What?”

      “My friend… d-died,” I exhaled, the last word barely escaping my lips.

      “Your friend died? I’m so sorry, Liz! I’ll be right over!” he said.

      “No; it’s fine,” I began as I realized he had hung up. I sighed, putting my phone down and returning to my computer to try finishing the remainder of my assignment. After a few minutes of blankly staring the electronic screen before me, motionless, I gave up. How could one think about something as trivial as chemicals and flasks in a time like this? 

      The doorbell echoed through the house, the familiar tones striking my ears. “Got it!” my mom called. The faint sound of a conversation between two met my ears, and I knew what was coming next.

      “Liz!” a masculine voice said, rushing into my room.

      “Oh, hi,” I said, staring at the boy in front of me who was living.

      “Why is it that every time I see you out of school you look so different?” he asked cheerfully, approaching me. I shrugged, mentally evaluating my outfit: A pair of gray sweats and a Red Sox T-shirt. My hair was in a firm ponytail, held back by a black headband that reflected perfectly upon the news I had received and the mood it put me in. I didn’t look overly boyish, but I could’ve looked more on the feminine side. It was my house; I could wear whatever the hell I wanted. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

      “So am I,” I said, blinking vacantly.

      “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. “My grandpa died a while back, and I found that talking about it really helped.”

      “I don’t know, Eric…” I trailed off distantly.

      “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, it’s just something that might help you,” he said soothingly.

      I bit my bottom lip, and then nodded. He walked a short distance over to my bed, and sat down on the side of it. Patting on the space beside him, he indicated that I should sit down too. I got up from my chair, and ambled over to him. Lifelessly, I plopped down my bed, and took a deep breath.

      “It’s okay Liz, I’m right here.” I didn’t know what it was about that sentence, but it made me truly believe as though I could trust him… even though he didn’t know an entire side of me.

      “His name was Marcus- everybody under the age of thirty called him Mark, though,” I recalled, looking over to see if he was listening or spacing out. His eyes had a look of concentration and compassion in them, so I continued. “He was a huge sports fan. He could name every player on the Red Sox since the team was founded to the current.”

      “That’s pretty impressive,” Eric commented. 

      I nodded, continuing to talk, “He was. He met Big Papi for his birthday once, and couldn’t stop talking about it for a month after,” I smiled at the fond memory. Marcus was a really good kid.

      “Who?” Eric asked, as I realized I was talking to a New Yorker.

      “David Ortiz,” I said, using his real name. He scrunched his face and shook his head in a lack of understanding. “He’s a Red Sox player.”

      “You big on baseball?”

      “Eh. Growing up in a city like Boston, everyone’s kinda big on baseball," I said, neglecting to mention that I was in fact big on every sport.

      “I see. The Yankees are pretty cool too,” he said, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t agree or object for fear that my argument would sound too valid and he would actually think that sports mattered to me… which they did. “So, what else about your friend?”

      “He was the type of guy that could make you smile no matter how bad of a day you were having. He had this indescribable quality about him that resonated to everyone,” I recollected.

      We had been playing hockey once, a lesser sport in my eyes, and the guys I was playing with were completely ignoring me, not passing me the puck. When it was in Marcus’ possession, he had a clear pass to another boy, but instead turned around, and passed it to me. Such a small act that made me feel as though someone was there for me. Marcus was there for me.

      “He sounds like a great guy,” Eric said sympathetically.

      “He was; a good, loud, happy, carefree Italian kid. He was the son every parent wanted, and the boy girls fell for too easily.”

      By the time we were in eighth grade, Marcus had dated a number of girls, all of whom had thought the world of him. He could pretty much get any girl his heart desired; that is, until he chose one that the challenge was simply too great. The girl he chose was a rebel. She was crazy and couldn’t be tamed by any guy. She wasn’t looking for love, or a relationship of any kind at the time.

      Marcus was the first boy who ever admitted to liking me. He was also the first boy, of the few who dared, that I regretfully turned down. He asked me out, and I said no. I said it would interfere with our friendship, and that I didn’t want things to become weird between the two of us. He understood, but always held some degree of caution when talking to me then after.

      “Did you fall for him?” Eric asked quietly.

      “No,” I shook my head, “I was too naïve at the time to know what an amazing boyfriend looked like…”

      “How about now?”

      “How about now?” I repeated the question, questioning it myself.

      “Do you know what a good boyfriend looks like,” he said.

      “I don’t know, I’ve,” I paused, not sure if I was exposing too much information, “never had a boyfriend.”

      Eric’s head spun to face me. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?” he reiterated, stunned.

      “Nope,” I said meekly.

      “A gorgeous girl like you, who’s a genius might I add, has never had a boyfriend?”

      “No,” I said again. 

      “Why?” he inquired, wanting to know the reasoning behind my past.

      “Uh, I guess the right guy hasn’t come along yet,” I said, not exposing the true reason behind my boyfriend-less existence.

      “And what would the characteristics of being Elizabeth Turner’s Perfect Boyfriend be?”

      “I don’t know,” I said, using the familiar phrase my younger years were full of.

      “But if you don’t know, then how will you know who he is if you meet him?” he said, a perplexing tone echoing in his voice.

      “I’ll know…” I assured him. When the right guy did come along, I would know. 

      “Can I tell you something, Liz?”

      “Sure,” I said, dropping my back to the sheets of my bed. I felt a strip of skin exposed to the air as I did so, between the waistband of my pants and my T-shirt.

      “I’ve only had one girlfriend,” he said.

      “What?” I said, sitting up. From the conversations I’d had with Tara, Lauren, and Alice, I could recall only hearing that Eric didn’t date.

      “Some parts of my past are kept hidden,” he said deeply. “I’m sure you can relate.” Damn right, I can.

      “Yeah,” I said. “Even I don’t tell anyone everything.”

      “What about me?”

      “What about you?”

“What don’t I know about you?” he asked. I smirked at how much my life would change if I chose to answer truthfully. The girl who wore Chimmy Joo’s (I think that’s what they were called..) one day was really the girl who played more basketball than the average teenage boy in her past life. What a story that would make…

      “A lot,” I chose to respond with instead of anything specific.

      “Meaning?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

      “I’m not an open book, reading me on the outside isn’t the most reliable way of gathering information about what’s inside,” I sighed.

      “So, what’s on the inside?”

      “A girl who- no, just a girl,” I said, changing my mind mid-sentence.

      “Liz, what don’t I know about you?” he asked again, pleading with his eyes for me to give a real answer.

      “A lot,” I reiterated my own words.

      “Please, just tell me… one thing that I don’t know about you,” he begged.

      “Why?” I demanded, hoping my tone didn’t come across too defensive. Why did he want to know about me? Why couldn’t he drop it?

      “Because, Liz, you’ve got that one thing. There’s something about you that’s… different; I don’t know what it is, but you’re different,” he said thoughtfully.

      “Marcus was the first boy that ever asked me out,” I said, revealing a small sliver of my history.

      “I’m so sorry, Liz,” he said, moving his arm behind my back, and hugging me lopsidedly.

      “He’s gone,” I said, burying my head into his shoulder.

      “I know; it’ll be okay,” he comforted me.

      “No, it won’t be. Marcus is gone, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. He’s not coming back; he’s dead. He’s dead, Eric!” I said, letting a tear escape from my eye.

      “I know, he is, but you know what’s not gone?” he asked. I shook my head. “All the great memories you have of him. Those times you will always have in your mind and in your heart; no one can take away your memories of him, Liz.” He was right.

      “Thanks Eric, I’m sorry about the dance,” I said, straightening up and removing my head from his side.

      “Don’t be,” he said, unexpectedly wrapping his arms around me. He squeezed my frame, as I hugged him back. 

      “Thank you,” I whispered into his ear, allowing a single tear to crawl down my cheek. Though crying was a sign of weakness, death was a perfectly acceptable excuse to be weak.