Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [125]
I never imagined there could be an explanation. I just assumed the worst. Because that’s what I do. About everything and everyone. Most of the time I’m right, but not this time. This time I was wrong. Really wrong.
“It’s not about what kind of person you are, Virgil. It’s about what kind of person I am,” I tell him.
Someone shouts at us to play. More people join in. A chant goes up. I can see from his expression that Virgil would rather not play right now, but as he said earlier, this is a paying gig.
“You ready to go again?” he asks me, looking around. “It’s just the two of us. Everyone else split.”
I nod and we start a second set. Some Nirvana. Another John Butler tune. “Fearless” by the Floyd. “Beautiful” by G. Love. Virgil does most of the singing. I join in here and there. I’m not as good as Khadija, my voice is too raw, but it works okay on these songs. We do a very unplugged version of “Breaking the Girl” and “Snow,” and then I need a break again because my voice is getting raggedy but Virgil says he wants to do one more by the Chili Peppers. All I have to do is play. He’ll sing.
He plays a few notes. I know the song. Really well. And I don’t want to play it. So I don’t. I stop. But Virgil doesn’t. He keeps playing. For the first time since he kissed me he’s really looking at me. And he keeps looking at me as he sings the lyrics.
“My friend is so depressed
I feel the question of her loneliness
Confide… ’cause I’ll be on your side
You know I will, you know I will.”
And it’s me who looks away, because he cares, even now, even after I sent him away and thought the worst about him. It’s more than I deserve and I don’t want him to see my eyes fill with tears as he sings: “Imagine me, taught by tragedy. Release is peace.”
He plays it gorgeously and cheers go up when he finishes. He nods and puts his guitar down. He’s looking at me again when the noise dies down.
“You didn’t say nice,” he says.
“Sorry. It was. You played it really well.”
“You know what I mean. When I said I saved your life and you owed me, you said twice, not nice.”
I don’t say anything now.
“What were you doing at the tower?”
I want to lie. But when I look in his eyes, I can’t.
“I knew it,” he says, his voice low and hard. “Damn it. Damn you. Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say angrily. But I’m not angry. I’m scared. I’m terrified.
“Too bad. I said you owe me and I meant it. You owe me an explanation.”
I haven’t touched the wine someone poured for me. I pick it up now and knock it back.
“You should talk about it. You need to talk about it. Whatever it is, it’s killing you. For real.”
“I did talk about it. To the police. And my parents. That’s all the talking I need to do.”
“You haven’t told me.”
“Wait, tell me again … who the hell are you?”
He shakes his head and looks away. He’s going to leave now. Of course he is. Isn’t that what I want? But he doesn’t. He takes my hand in his and holds it and says nothing. We just sit there. Together. It feels stupid and awkward and I don’t know why he’s doing it until suddenly I do. He’s going to wait for me to tell him and he won’t let go until I do.
I wonder, again, how I could ever tell him. I can’t. I just can’t.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hand feels strong and steady. It feels like a last chance.
“My brother died,” I say suddenly, in a broken voice. “He was killed. Two years ago. It was all my fault.”
65
“My brother’s name was Truman and he was on his way to school. He was walking past this crappy welfare hotel, the Charles. It was about to be made into condos but tenants still lived in it. Poor families, old people, and a guy named Max. He was skinny with bad teeth. He wore beat-up suits and bow ties. He would sit outside the place on an old lawn chair.
“Truman and I went to the same school. I was supposed to walk him there every morning. On the first day of school that year, Max appeared. He’d just been dumped at the Charles by the city. He saw us and hauled himself over to us, getting in our faces. ‘Maximilien R. Peters! Incorruptible, ineluctable,