Forever
Yes. Forever. That was Jenson.
Sensitive, creative, romantic, idealistic
and easily hurt. A fatal combination.
I swallowed hard. Oh, I forgot to tell you,
we were sitting in those classroom chairs,
facing each other, Caitlan and me, and our knees
were touching
and I was holding Jensonâs poem that I just read
and I was thinking I really loved this girl,
this weird, hyper, intense, savagely beautiful girl
with long dark hair (Indian hair, I kept thinking).
And dark Indian eyes, too. This girl still hung up
on an old boyfriend
but that was okay because our knees were touching
and she had taken me into the
janitorâs closet alone.
This was so much better than being in class
but I didnât know what would
happen after we walked out of that closet
and back into the real world of school.
But I didnât have the whole story.
What happened to Jenson?
I asked again. Did he move away?
Did he stop talking to you?
No, she said.
It wasnât like that.
Jenson is dead.
I sometimes think I still hear his voice. Sometimes I think I feel him touching me on the shoulder.
Sometimes â¦
Iâm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, she said.
Iâm a little intense, I know. It scares people sometimes.
Iâm not scared, I said.
But she could feel my knees shaking a little.
I have shaky knees when I get nervous
and sweaty hands.
I shouldnât say this, Caitlan said.
Say what?
Well, you have the look.
What look?
The victim look.
The what?
You have this look that says youâve been hurt, you are vulnerable, and if someone wants to get you, to pick on you, to harass you, to hurt you, they will target you and wear you down. People like Thomas Heaney know that look and will dog you. And heâs not the only one. People like him will find you all throughout your life.
Thatâs not fair, I said.
Iâm stronger than that.
You donât know me.
(No, I didnât actually say that out loud.
I just thought that.)
I swallowed hard again.
Caitlan leaned forward until her forehead was touching mine.
But I wonât let that happen to you.
Not this time.
How Jenson Died
It was such a big story for such a small closet,
such a sad story for such an ordinary day,
such a dark and tragic tale from such a beautiful girl.
Caitlan said,
We had been going together for a couple of years. He wrote me poems. We went on long walks. We never ate meat, never used cell phones, only bought used clothes, refused to watch television. He taught me to meditate and to breathe properly. We read long old novels together. He taught me the names of birds and flowers. We knew for a fact we were living in the wrong century. The wrong time. The wrong place. But there was not much of anything we could do about it.
And then we broke up.
Why?
I donât know exactly.
I think everything we did was just
too
intense.
I nodded.
It was almost a year ago. We didnât talk for a week. My mom had often said we were too young to be so serious. His mom said it too. Maybe that had something to do with it. We were on a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes we were on top. But then we dropped to the bottom when we let the world get to us ⦠when it really got to us. When it got to us so badly ⦠do you understand?
Yes, I said. I understand.
When that happened.
It was bad.
There were black dogs in the room with us now.
Three of them. I could hear them breathing.
I could smell their breath.
While we were not speaking, Thomas and a couple of his friends had been dogging Jenson. And he was weak. I didnât know this at the time. But he had no one to turn to.
And they said something, did something. I donât know what.
He took his own life.
Pills.
Alone in his bedroom.
And there
was nothing
I could do
to bring him
back.
Caitlan Cried
The floodgates opened
and I held her
and then she sobbed
and blew her nose on my sleeve
and said she was
sorry.
I knew it was my
Yes. Forever. That was Jenson.
Sensitive, creative, romantic, idealistic
and easily hurt. A fatal combination.
I swallowed hard. Oh, I forgot to tell you,
we were sitting in those classroom chairs,
facing each other, Caitlan and me, and our knees
were touching
and I was holding Jensonâs poem that I just read
and I was thinking I really loved this girl,
this weird, hyper, intense, savagely beautiful girl
with long dark hair (Indian hair, I kept thinking).
And dark Indian eyes, too. This girl still hung up
on an old boyfriend
but that was okay because our knees were touching
and she had taken me into the
janitorâs closet alone.
This was so much better than being in class
but I didnât know what would
happen after we walked out of that closet
and back into the real world of school.
But I didnât have the whole story.
What happened to Jenson?
I asked again. Did he move away?
Did he stop talking to you?
No, she said.
It wasnât like that.
Jenson is dead.
I sometimes think I still hear his voice. Sometimes I think I feel him touching me on the shoulder.
Sometimes â¦
Iâm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, she said.
Iâm a little intense, I know. It scares people sometimes.
Iâm not scared, I said.
But she could feel my knees shaking a little.
I have shaky knees when I get nervous
and sweaty hands.
I shouldnât say this, Caitlan said.
Say what?
Well, you have the look.
What look?
The victim look.
The what?
You have this look that says youâve been hurt, you are vulnerable, and if someone wants to get you, to pick on you, to harass you, to hurt you, they will target you and wear you down. People like Thomas Heaney know that look and will dog you. And heâs not the only one. People like him will find you all throughout your life.
Thatâs not fair, I said.
Iâm stronger than that.
You donât know me.
(No, I didnât actually say that out loud.
I just thought that.)
I swallowed hard again.
Caitlan leaned forward until her forehead was touching mine.
But I wonât let that happen to you.
Not this time.
How Jenson Died
It was such a big story for such a small closet,
such a sad story for such an ordinary day,
such a dark and tragic tale from such a beautiful girl.
Caitlan said,
We had been going together for a couple of years. He wrote me poems. We went on long walks. We never ate meat, never used cell phones, only bought used clothes, refused to watch television. He taught me to meditate and to breathe properly. We read long old novels together. He taught me the names of birds and flowers. We knew for a fact we were living in the wrong century. The wrong time. The wrong place. But there was not much of anything we could do about it.
And then we broke up.
Why?
I donât know exactly.
I think everything we did was just
too
intense.
I nodded.
It was almost a year ago. We didnât talk for a week. My mom had often said we were too young to be so serious. His mom said it too. Maybe that had something to do with it. We were on a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes we were on top. But then we dropped to the bottom when we let the world get to us ⦠when it really got to us. When it got to us so badly ⦠do you understand?
Yes, I said. I understand.
When that happened.
It was bad.
There were black dogs in the room with us now.
Three of them. I could hear them breathing.
I could smell their breath.
While we were not speaking, Thomas and a couple of his friends had been dogging Jenson. And he was weak. I didnât know this at the time. But he had no one to turn to.
And they said something, did something. I donât know what.
He took his own life.
Pills.
Alone in his bedroom.
And there
was nothing
I could do
to bring him
back.
Caitlan Cried
The floodgates opened
and I held her
and then she sobbed
and blew her nose on my sleeve
and said she was
sorry.
I knew it was my
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