Booker's Hill

This is a piece from a year ago, influenced by a specific place in my hometown. I made final edits but lost them somewhere in the mess of a college computer.

Booker’s Hill

 

I stand at the top of Booker’s hill as a tear rolls down my cheek. Her ghost dances in front of me, twirling around like a drunken ballerina, singing a little off-key. I can barely hold back the pain as I imagine her smiling as I make some smart-a*s comment about how Morrissey would be jealous of her Smith’s renditions. I can hear echoes of her laughter sounding atop the hill. One year to the day after the accident, the sting still persists. It was never a romance�"at least not for her�"but she was my best friend, and I was hers.

 

I still hear her saying, “Sometimes I wish we could stay like this, here, forever.” And I still whisper back, “Me too,” as the breeze rolls across the field at the top of the hill, seeming to meet my response with its own whisper of agreement.

 

…

 

We were the most unlikely of companions. She was a three sport all-star athlete and the most beautiful girl in school, with emeralds for eyes and legs that never seemed to end, toned from the endless hours spent training in the gym. Her shorts always challenged the length allowed by the school dress code. And every time she wore them a traffic jam ensued like there was a ten-car pile up in front of her. Every guy stopped to stare, triggering angry stares from their jealous girlfriends.

 

I, on the other hand, was the clumsy, Morrisey T-Shirt clad music nerd, wasting away in the band room, skipping class to toil away at the piano.  If her brother, a musical genius and star catcher on the baseball team, hadn’t introduced us, she probably would never have known I existed.

 

But he did, and somehow we bonded over our mutual appreciation for The Smiths�"she made me swear to never tell a soul she knew who they were�"and our shared desire to have her brother’s musical ability.

 

As high school went on, we got closer and closer. Every time something went wrong with one of the many moronic jock boyfriends, she would call me for support, which I would willingly return, hoping one day maybe that support would be seen as something more.

 

We were inseparable by senior year. One night during the fall she called me late at night after learning her boyfriend had made out with some daft, drunken freshman girl at a party celebrating his four touchdown passes in the homecoming game. She seemed more shaken this time than any other. Her voice quivered as she choked out words between violent sobs. Apparently she hadn’t seen the wolf behind the sheep’s clothing this time.  My parents were asleep, so I told her to meet me at the field overlooking town that we all knew as Booker’s hill. It was only a two-minute drive from the house party she was trying to escape, so she could easily manage it, even drunk.

 

When I met her there, her eyes were pouring out a flood of tears as her body shook uncontrollably like she was having a seizure.

           

            “Why always me? What do I do to deserve this?” she begged.

           

            “I don’t know. It’s not you,” I said, pulling her into my arms, relishing in the moment of contact even despite the awful circumstances.

 

            When the tears finally seized, and she had almost collected herself, we sat down in the grass and stared in silence at the view in front of us. The hill sat high above our one-stoplight town. It was the type of place that people only passed through on their way somewhere else. That didn’t do much for someone like me who dreamed about touring the country playing music. But that night the lights of the houses and the school lit up like New York City below us. And for once, the town that we both agreed was slowly killing us, was beautiful.

 

Almost completely absent of sound, I could hear her breathing next to me, and I wished that I could do something to speed it back up again. I wished that I could pull her into my arms and kiss her until neither of us could breathe or think or hear or talk or move or, anything. But I knew that was only a distant, unrealistic dream. So I settled for the silence, until she broke it.

           

            “Thanks for coming. I know it’s late.”

 

            “Oh yeah, it’s nothing. Really.”

 

            “I’m glad you decided to meet me here. It really is incredible at night.”

 

            “Yeah. Who’d have thought this place could actually look nice?”

 

            “You know what?” she said, turning to face me. I couldn’t answer her, lost in her emerald eyes lit up by the starlight. “We should come up here more often. Just sit and talk.”

 

            And so we did. One night a week we would meet at the top of the hill and soak in the view of the town below. Sometimes we would steal our parents’ beer and dance drunkenly in the field to our favorite songs.

 

            Sometimes I’d bring my guitar and we’d just sit around talking about music. She always asked me to play her favorite Bright Eyes song and she’d always sing along when I came to her favorite line, “I’ve got a flask inside my pocket, we can share it on the train, and if you promise to stay conscious I’ll try and do the same.” Then she’d laugh and hold up her drink for an imaginary, ironic toast.

 

            And we met every week until the night everything changed. All year long she had been drawing attention from colleges around the country trying to sign her to play one of the three sports she excelled at. In April she signed to play softball at Texas, making her the first girl in school history to get a scholarship to play a sport at a D-1 school. We met at our usual spot to celebrate.

 

            Since it was a special occasion, I stole a bottle of Jack Daniels from my dad’s liquor cabinet to celebrate. I was the first to arrive on the hill, so I sat, waiting anxiously. As her car rolled up, I noticed that she was listening to her favorite Pixies’ album. She only listened to it when she knew no one but me would hear it.

           

            As she emerged from the car, I took on the mocking baritone of an announcer and cupped my hands around my mouth to half shout, “And up to bat is Tara Allen! The star, freshman longhorn short-stop!”

 

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cut that s**t out, you jerk,” she said, trying to mask the smile on her face.

 

            “Seriously though, congrats,” I said, extending my arms for a hug. As she pulled away, I added, “Oh by the way, I brought your boyfriend, Jack,” holding up the bottle.

 

            “F**k yeah. You know me all too well. Let’s drink!”

 

            We sat on top of the hill, passing the bottle back and forth. Wincing after every pull. Once we had taken a solid dent out of the bottle and we were both hammered drunk we sat and admired the view in silence, like we always did at the end of a night on the hill.

 

            “I can’t believe how fast this is all happening, though. I’ve got to leave the day after graduation for training camp. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without you.” I shook as she spoke. Sure it was hard for her, but she couldn’t fathom what it was like for me.

 

            “Oh I’m sure you’ll have no problem. You’ll be living it up in Texas, partying it up with the best of them,” I replied in a hushed tone. What I really wanted to say was something more like: Yeah, try being me. The girl I’ve been madly in love with for years�"who still doesn’t even know how I even feel�"is leaving for Texas in a month. She could see the pain in my eyes as I looked back up at her.

 

            “Oh come on, you’ll be fine. You’ve got your music!” she said, trying to provide me with some kind of comfort.

 

            “Yeah. I’ve got my music, all right. The highlight of my music career is covering a Bright Eyes song during the choir concert that no one even goes to. What a sparkling achievement! I’m not like you, Tara.  I have no college scholarship. No direction. No record label interest. I mean f**k, only the 300 kids at school even know I’m decent. I’m fucked.”

 

            “It’ll all work out. Just trust me. Okay?” she said, her gaze sharp and stern. I just nodded. She reached out and rolled her hand into the grasp of my own. I looked up at her with a shocked expression that begged the question “why?” She’d never done anything like that before. “I believe in you. You’re talented. No Morrisey, but you’re all right,” she said with a wink and smile.

           

            I wanted to freeze time at that exact moment. I never wanted her to let go. I know that it probably didn’t mean anything to her, but for me the only thing that mattered in the world was that moment�"her hand in mine. I never wanted it to end.

 

            Then she stood up and started to sing along to “Asleep,” her favorite song by The Smiths, which was now flowing out of her open car window. “Don't try to wake me in the morning, 'cause I will be gone. Don't feel bad for me. I want you to know, deep in the cell of my heart, I will feel so glad to go.” The words cascaded from her lips, just the right amount of off key to bring a smile to my lips.

 

            “I should really get home. It’s getting late and I’ve got practice in the morning.” She said, walking towards her car. “You coming?”

           

            “No I’m gonna stay here and relax for a bit. Be careful all right?”

 

I should have stopped her. I should have taken her keys and confessed everything that I’d felt for her over the years. If nothing else, maybe a long rant about loving her and wanting her to stay and never leave would have allowed her to sober up a little. Then maybe she would still be here today.

 

Instead, I just sat and stared out at the town, which despite the beautiful lights that usually captivated me had come to resemble a prison. She was off to Texas, and I was stranded in that god-awful, good-for-nothing, piece-of-s**t town. She was my refuge from it all. Reality didn’t matter much when it was just she and I. I could ignore how miserable I was. How stranded I felt there. But that was all coming to an end. I’d had to face it all without her now.

 

 I drove home, still pretty drunk, but not nearly as plastered as I was when she left. I knew it was wrong, but we were young and reckless and I’d done it a thousand times. I made it home fine and went to sleep.

 

The next morning I stumbled down the stairs, my head throbbing from the night before and a little depressed, to find my parents in the living room, their eyes red from crying.

 

            “What the hell happened?” I asked. My dad handed me the newspaper and I saw the picture of Tara’s car wrapped around a tree, and a headline reading, “Local softball star fatally injured last night.” She lost control of her car while navigating the country road to her house, skidding through one of the many sharp turns before hitting a tree. When someone found her in the morning, she was motionless and without a pulse.

 

            The world around me froze and the incessant pounding in my head crescendoed to a scream. I tried to move, to speak, to cry, but I couldn’t do anything but stand there catatonic and expressionless. No one had to tell me. I knew I killed her. Sure, I didn’t drive her into the f*****g tree, but the principle was the same. She was gone and it was all my fault.

 

            The next few months were hell. I could hardly work up the nerve to leave my house. Every time I drifted off to sleep I relived that night and woke up screaming as I watched her car skid off the road.

 

            When I actually worked up the energy to get out of the house, I would drive around my hometown aimlessly and always found myself haunted by the memories of the times we had there.

           

            The only relief came when I would pick up my guitar and strum and sing through her favorite songs. As I played I always heard her voice whispering, “You’ll be fine. You have your music.”

 

 

…

 

            And so here I stand, eyes cloudy with tears, my head whirling in regret. I sit down in the same spot we would always sit together. I feel her hand roll into mine like it did the night I last saw her. I know I’m only imagining it, but I ignore it and revel in how real it feels.

 

            I think she’d be proud of me now. I auditioned late for the Berklee School of Music, and they made an exception to admit me for the fall semester. She was right after all. Maybe she wasn’t as crazy for believing in me as I always thought. I’m starting to track some demos to send out to record labels and focusing on music, just like I know she’d always have wanted.

 

That’s when I hear her singing that familiar tune, the same song I used to audition for Berklee, “Don't try to wake me in the morning, 'cause I will be gone. Don't feel bad for me. I want you to know, deep in the cell of my heart, I will feel so glad to go.”

           

I smile and walk back to my car. It’s a long drive to Boston. But for the first time, I’m ready for it. Really ready.

 

 

Author's Note

There were some final edits made to the last couple graphs to tie up the discrepancy of the main character seemingly feeling so little about the loss at the end of the piece.