Dear evan hansen the nov.., p.12
Dear Evan Hansen--The Novel, page 12
“I’m not. I never say things that aren’t nice. I don’t even think things that aren’t nice. I’m just, I’m really sorry.”
“I was impressed. You’re ruining it.”
Oh shit. “I’m sorry.” Shit.
“You really don’t have to keep saying that.”
I want to. So badly.
She sits up on the bed and grabs a solved Rubik’s Cube off Connor’s nightstand. “You want to say it again, don’t you?”
“Very much so, yes.”
She smiles at me, a real and full smile, the kind Zoe seems reluctant to hand out freely to anyone, and I feel myself bask in it. Like: I made that happen.
She spins one panel of the cube and then, thinking better of it, spins it right back into place, as if not wanting to spoil its perfection. She slides it back where she found it on the nightstand.
“I should probably apologize about my mom emailing you. I told her not to.” Zoe looks up. “I don’t imagine you found what she wanted.”
I shake my head.
“I didn’t think so. My mom’s clueless when it comes to that stuff. She never knew when my brother was high. He’d be talking so slow and she’d be like, ‘He’s just tired.’” She pauses and stares at the Rubik’s Cube. “Why did he say that?”
It’s almost a whisper. She’s lost me.
“In his note,” she says. “‘Because there’s Zoe. And all my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me.’ Why would he write that? What does that even mean?”
“Oh. Um.” The letter. She has the letter memorized.
She stares at me, waiting for a response. When I don’t provide one, her head drops and her legs angle away. I recognize that feeling, when your body tries to fold in on itself in the hopes that it can go unseen.
I can’t stand to see her like this. So in need.
“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, I’m not one hundred percent sure about this, but thinking about it now, Connor always felt like, you know, if you guys were just closer—”
“We weren’t close,” Zoe says. “At all.”
“No, I know. But he used to say that he wished you were. He wanted you to be.”
Her chin comes up. Just like that, she seems resuscitated. “So you and Connor, you guys would talk about me?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely, sometimes. I mean, if he brought it up. I never brought it up. Obviously. Why would I have brought it up? But yeah, he totally thought you were awesome.”
She smells something foul. “He thought I was awesome? My brother?”
“Yeah. Of course. I mean, maybe he didn’t use that exact word, but—”
“How?”
“How did he think you were awesome?”
“Yeah,” she says, pulling up her knees and sitting cross-legged on the bed. I gulp, hopefully not audibly.
“Well, okay, let me try to remember. Oh. Okay.” How Zoe is awesome happens to be a subject I know a lot about. “So, whenever you have a solo in jazz band, you close your eyes—you probably don’t even know you’re doing this—but you get this half smile, like you just heard the funniest thing in the world, but it’s a secret and you can’t tell anybody. But the way you smile, it’s sort of like you’re letting us in on the secret, too.”
“Do I do that?”
“Totally. At least that’s what Connor told me.”
“I never knew he was even awake at any of my concerts. My parents always made him go.”
I laugh, like, Of course he was awake! That is so funny and ridiculous, what you just said!
She looks down and scratches the stitching in Connor’s quilt. I did it again. I took it too far. I shouldn’t be doing this, digging myself in deeper when the whole reason I came here was to finally break free. Just tell her. Do it. Now.
“You know the first time he ever said anything nice about me was in his note,” Zoe says. “A note he wrote to you. He couldn’t even say it to me.”
“Oh. Well. He wanted to. He just… he couldn’t.”
She takes it in for a long moment. Shyly, she asks, “Did he say anything else about me?”
How do I answer this question?
Before I can formulate a response, she jumps back in. “Never mind. I don’t even care.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just, he said so many things about you.”
She peeks up. Her eyes move through me. What am I doing?
“I know he thought you looked really pretty—I mean, sorry, what I meant to say is that he thought it was pretty cool when you dyed your hair blue.”
“Really?” She stares into space, seeming to travel back in time to sophomore year when her hair had lines of blue in it. “That’s weird, because he used to make fun of me all the time.”
“Well, he liked to tease you. You know that.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding to herself.
“He noticed all kinds of things about you. He’d watch you all the time. Just keeping track of you, I guess.”
Again, I have her full attention.
“He noticed how you scribble on the cuffs of your jeans when you get bored.”
A sheepish smile. I finally cross the divide between us and sit down on the bed, facing her.
“And how you chew on the caps of your pens. And how your forehead crinkles when you’re mad.”
“I didn’t think he paid any attention to me.”
“Oh, he did. He couldn’t not pay attention to you.”
She seems troubled. “I just wish I knew.”
I take a hefty breath. “I know. It’s just, he didn’t know how to say all this to you. He didn’t know how to tell you that… he was your biggest fan. No one was a bigger fan than him. He knew how great you are.”
Her eyes. Looking into mine.
“You are so great, Zoe.”
Freckled nose.
“I can’t even tell you.”
Shimmery hair.
“I mean it.”
Lips like pink pillows. Smiling at me.
“You’re everything.”
I feel them. Even softer than I imagined.
Her hand on my chest, pushing me back.
“What are you doing?” Zoe says.
“I don’t… I didn’t… I’m so…”
I can’t speak words. What the hell am I doing?
She jumps up, forehead crinkled, staring, processing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Dinner’s ready,” Cynthia yells from downstairs.
I see Zoe’s anger, confusion, hurt, all these emotions arriving at once, because of me.
“Tell them to eat without me.”
She’s out the door before I can stop her. Before I can clean up this brand-new mess I’ve made.
• • •
You what?
Is it that bad?
You tried to kiss Zoe Murphy.
On her brother’s bed.
After he died.
It looks really bad when you type it out like that.
Grapefruits.
Your balls are the size of grapefruits.
How do you walk around with those things in your pants?
I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened.
I just got caught up in the moment. It felt like she, like we, like something was happening. When I leaned in, it was as if my body was working without my mind, like we were being drawn together.
I don’t know how long I sat on Connor’s bed before Cynthia appeared at the door, announcing for the second time that dinner was ready. It could have been two seconds or twenty minutes. I thought about jumping out the window. Just one story down. I could have made it. I’ve survived falls from greater heights. I could have disappeared into the night and never looked back.
Somehow I willed myself off that bed and down those stairs and sat at that table. When Zoe didn’t show up, I suggested to her parents that she probably wasn’t feeling well.
As expected, over a home-cooked meal the likes of which I’ve never seen in my house, Cynthia asked if I happened to find anything in the emails. Larry seemed annoyed that she was even bringing it up. As they bickered, I reminded myself that this was my chance to come clean. At least I wouldn’t have to do it in front of Zoe, which was a small but not insignificant relief. I desperately wanted to. My stomach was a hot puddle of nerves, had been for a week straight. I couldn’t take it anymore. But to get rid of it once and for all, I had to do the brave thing. That’s where my plan failed. I couldn’t do it. I’m not brave. I’m extremely not brave.
Being not brave is just about as easy as breathing. Here’s how I did it. First I shook my head. Then I said, “I didn’t find anything.” That was it. The moment passed. Connor’s parents were content to move on to another topic and so was I. I can’t remember what the new topic was. It hardly mattered. Eventually, we returned to the topic of Connor. They asked me questions. I told them what I thought they wanted to hear. What I thought would make them happy.
I wish someone could do the same for me.
CHAPTER 13
On the bus to school, I write a new letter for Dr. Sherman:
Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why. Because it isn’t supposed to rain like yesterday and that’s good because I didn’t have to pack my umbrella and my backpack feels a little lighter.
Sincerely,
Me
It’s short and underwhelming, but factual. If Dr. Sherman asks me about it at our session today, at least I’ll be able to stand behind it as the honest truth.
I’m done being ambitious. Jared was wrong—my balls aren’t grapefruits. If ball size equates to confidence, then I’ve got the smallest ones you can have and still qualify as a man. My balls are poppy seeds.
It’s been four days since I tried to kiss Zoe Murphy. I mean, I did kiss her. It was just really brief and she didn’t reciprocate, but it did, in fact, happen. I wish it hadn’t, but it did.
It was only my third kiss ever, and my first two barely counted as kisses. Pretty depressing when you consider I’m old enough to drive a car and donate blood and get my own passport. My first kiss was with Robin, who lived in the one-story home across the street. It happened in her pool. It was a lightning-speed peck, more funny than anything, just because we both wanted to find out what it felt like. And my second kiss was from Amy Brodsky when I was ten. She just leaned over at recess one day and I instantly fell in love with her, until I saw her do the exact same thing to two other boys over the course of the next week.
I haven’t been the same since kissing Zoe. I can’t eat or sleep or think. I try to read, but the lines in books start to vibrate and turn blurry. I put on movies, but I can’t pay attention to what’s happening on-screen. When my mom gets home from work at night, I pretend I’m already asleep, but really I’m just lying there in the dark. I can’t even stand being on the computer. I’m too worried I’ll find a new email from the Murphys, asking me to come over for another dinner or send them more emails or both. They haven’t contacted me since I saw them the other night. Maybe they finally have what they need. Maybe they’re done with me.
That’s what I wanted, right? I’ve been telling myself that. Then why am I sitting here now, feeling something that seems awfully similar to disappointment? The plan, if there ever was a plan, was to offer the Murphys solace in whatever way I could and then for me to go back to living my normal life. But now, after everything, that just doesn’t feel right.
The bus bumps along. I picture, for a moment, the driver steering us off a cliff. Unfortunately, there are no cliffs in town. Maybe she could drive us off Xavier Bridge instead. Or take us under an overpass that’s too low. Trouble over.
The small comfort I get from this brief death fantasy is outsized by my guilt. I shouldn’t be daring mortality. Connor Murphy is actually dead, and I’m sitting here pretending like I want to be. I don’t want to be dead. I’m finally sure of that. I just wish that life, for once, for a day or even a few hours, would go smoothly. I can never just sit back and sail. People like Rox can put their feet up and let the water carry them along. Not me. I’m constantly on the verge of sinking.
The bus jerks to a stop and we all file out. Thankfully, I haven’t seen Zoe at school. I’ve tried to avoid her, and I think she’s done the same with me. Still, I keep fearing I’ll turn the corner and she’ll be there. You want to know what’s really fun? When your nerves are so fried that the sweat from your hand drips down your pen and onto your paper, making the surface so moist that the next time you try to write a word, you accidentally shred the paper with the tip of your pen. It’s the best.
I’m too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice the commotion up ahead. Students step aside to make way for the freight train that is Ms. Bortel. She’s coming at a clip, a cardboard box in her chiseled arms. Chasing behind is Principal Howard. “You’re making this worse, Bonnie. That’s school property.”
“This is my stuff.”
“Bonnie, please.”
Ms. Bortel turns to face Principal Howard. “John, get ready, because I’m suing your ass.”
Our collective jaws drop as Ms. Bortel strides into the parking lot and into her black sports car.
Principal Howard, donning a professional smile, encourages us to keep moving. But we can’t unsee what we just saw. What did we just see?
• • •
Already, yesterday, I noticed there weren’t as many people staring at me during lunch compared with when the news first broke about Connor and me. Now it’s down to a few passing glances. Those few glances may not even be aimed my way. It’s hard to tell.
As I’m inspecting the room, as surreptitiously as I can, I spot Sam. My fellow lonely loner. Except he’s seated at a table across the cafeteria. The last few days he sat at my table. We even chatted a little bit. Meaning, we said “Hey” to each other a few times. I figured we were the same kind of person. We both pack lunches from home. We both prefer to keep to ourselves. We both have nowhere better to sit in the cafeteria. Turns out I was wrong about that last one. Apparently even Sam has options.
I return to my sandwich. Again, that disappointed feeling. This is the existence I’m used to, being overlooked. I didn’t want people staring at me while I eat my lunch. I should feel relieved right now, shouldn’t I? I guess, as uncomfortable as I felt being watched, it was also kind of nice, for a change, to actually be seen.
I wonder how Connor Murphy got through lunch each day. Where did he sit? With whom? What did he eat? I never paid attention. Just like no one’s paying attention to me.
I take out my phone, just to have something to do. I scroll past everything. Most of the news is about a celebrity sex scandal or an upcoming election. There’s a big movie coming out this weekend that I’m interested in, but it’s the third installment in a trilogy and I still haven’t seen the first two.
I’m surrounded by voices, hundreds of them, and these voices combine to form a wall. I can’t break through the wall. This, what I hold in my hand, is the only way inside, the only way I can learn what’s going on in my own world.
According to my phone, the major news at school, unsurprisingly, centers on one single name. It’s just not the name I’ve grown accustomed to seeing.
• • •
I shut my locker and Alana Beck is waiting there. My rib cage does its best to hold back my skittish heart. “Jesus. You scared me,” I say.
“I need to show you something.”
Every time Alana opens her mouth I feel like I’m being scolded. She dresses like she’s the dean of a small liberal arts college, and she probably could be. Not only does she relish following the rules, but she’s also the only one who even knows what they are.
Her backpack sucker punches me as she does an about-face. I follow her down the hall. We stop in front of a trash can and Alana points inside. Resting on top of a pile of debris is one of the Connor Murphy pins that Jared was selling.
“It’s the third one I’ve found,” Alana says. “The first one was on the ground in the parking lot. Someone apparently ran it over with their car. And there was another one in the toilet in the girls’ bathroom.”
That can’t be good for the plumbing.
“Why are you showing me this?” I say.
“I was already noticing that people were mentioning Connor less, and now this. People don’t care anymore. All anyone wants to talk about is Ms. Bortel. Some people are saying she slept with a student, but I also heard she might have had an affair with Principal Howard.”
“No way.”
She shakes her head at the shame of it. “People have totally forgotten about Connor Murphy. You can’t let this happen, Evan. You were Connor’s best friend.”
It doesn’t sound so crazy to hear Alana say that. I mean, it’s not true, I know, but also, when you think about it, it might be kind of true. There’s a good possibility that I was the last person Connor spoke to the day he died. We had an authentic exchange. For guys like Connor and me, that type of interaction is rare, and it definitely forged a bond between us. I’m probably the only one who had any clue how he was truly feeling that day. Who else, besides me (and maybe Alana), even thought about him for a second in the last week? No one. Seriously, as absurd as it sounds, is there anyone in this entire school who was closer to Connor than I was?
“Maybe you can ask Zoe to do something,” Alana says.
Okay, obviously I wasn’t counting Zoe.
“Zoe is the perfect person to help get people interested again,” Alana says. “She was literally his sister.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t—I just don’t think that’s the best way for us to get people to remember him.”
Alana gives me a look that reduces me to half my size. “Well, I guarantee that if you don’t do something, no one will remember Connor. Is that what you want?”
She hurries off without waiting for a response. I look down at Connor’s face in the trash. I don’t want it to be this way, either, but what am I supposed to do?
• • •
I bite my nails as Dr. Sherman reads over my letter. The few strands of hair on top of his head resemble cracks in a wall. One of the reasons my mom chose Dr. Sherman, other than the fact that he was covered by our health insurance, was because he’s young. He looks old to me, but my mom says he’s “only” thirty.
