November 17, 2002
Miami, FL
As soon as Melly answers her cell phone, I know I’m not getting laid today.
Leaning back in my seat, I look around the food court at Dadeland Mall, disappointed. Melissa says something into her cell, listens to the response from her best friend Karen and laughs, her curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. She crosses her legs and her spring dress rises up her thigh. On the other end of the line, Karen’s voice is a faint chirp.
Melissa puts the phone to her chest and looks at me.
You mind if we chill with Justin and Karen?
Justin is my boy, and Karen and I have come to a tentative truce over the past few months since graduation, since the last time Melly and I broke up. I enjoy their company.
However, chilling with them right now is not what I had in mind for this Sunday afternoon.
I nod anyways. Smile.
Yeah, let’s go.
We pull up to Justin’s mom’s house and park behind his two-door red Nissan. A week or two ago, Justin did donuts in it outside Karen’s mom’s crib with me in the passenger seat gripping the arm rest, absolutely sure we were about to die. The car’s parked under an adjustable basketball hoop hanging over the driveway that I‘ve dunked on a few times (though my short ass had to lower it to get up there).
I shut off the engine and Melissa hops out, heading up the stone walkway to the front door. I trudge behind, hands shoved in my pockets.
Melissa glances at me. What’s wrong?
Nothing.
She rolls her eyes because she knows it isn’t nothing, but she knocks on the door anyways. We wait a few seconds and nobody answers. Melissa mutters under her breath and pulls her phone out, dialing Karen’s number. She leans back against my chest as she raises the phone to her ear, the curve of her butt pressing against my pelvis. Her hair smells like vanilla.
The phone rings and rings until she hangs up with a sigh. She knocks on the door again. A faint light peeks through the blinds in the window next to the entrance.
Maybe they left?
They called us twenty minutes ago, she says.
Doesn’t look like they’re here.
Justin’s car’s right there, she says.
Then where are they?
Melissa looks up at me, her eyes unreadable.
You know Justin’s the one who told Karen to call? Said he misses you.
I’ll call him, I say, pulling out my cell and scrolling the contacts.
Melissa knocks again as I dial Justin’s number. I see a shadow move but assume it’s a trick of light. Something shuffles, like feet, and I assume it’s the wind, carrying a leaf or something.
The line rings once, twice, three times, voicemail.
Nothing.
Call the house phone, she says.
I call and the phone rings and we hear it through the door. There’s a click, and Justin’s mom tells us to leave a message. Melissa groans. I suck my teeth and bang on the door, then rap my knuckles on the window.
You’re gonna break it, Melissa says.
We look like we’re trying to rob the place, I say. Where the hell are they?
Melissa says nothing.
I walk around the side of the house to the wooden fence separating the front and backyard. Following behind, Melly hisses.
What are you doing?
Checking the backyard, I say, grabbing the fence and pulling myself up.
What if they’re having sex? she asks.
I look back at her, knee up on one of the fence posts. Melly’s grinning. I face the backyard again. Grass needs a cut. Screened-in pool, some floats lying around. A hand appears on my back and I glance down at Melissa standing beside me now.
Forget it, she says. They bailed on us.
A mischievous look’s prominent in her eyes. I take another glance at Justin’s backyard, the grass glistening in the fading sunlight.
Dropping back to the ground, I let Melissa pull me to my car.
Justin’s Nissan dwindles to a blood-red stain in the rearview as we drive away.
Pulling into the parking garage across from Melissa’s place, we park in a spot blocked from street view by some pillars. We’re joined by three other vehicles on the third floor, all empty with one of them rusted and missing a tire. I shut off the engine and unbuckle my seatbelt as Melissa leans across the center console, kissing me and putting her head on my chest. She rubs my leg and looks out at the sky.
I brush a hand across her knee.
We kiss lightly at first, the kisses turning heavy and then we’re in the backseat. The move is awkward and clumsy, full of grunts and giggles and apologies. Her skin’s clammy against my palms and her hair gets in my mouth. It takes a moment to get the condom on before her hands are grasping my back, mouth against my ear.
We lie there after, steadying our breathing, pants bunched at my ankles, dress a thick belt of fabric around her waist. I pass her underwear over and she nudges me with a smile as we get dressed and sit with the faint music on the radio.
They never called us back, she says.
I look over at her. What?
Justin and Karen, she says. They really just bailed on us.
I squeeze my eyes shut. That’s what you’re thinking about?
No, babe, she says, but I’m already pushing the car door open, stepping out and slamming it shut.
Melissa pops out the other side a second later. Babe.
Forget it, I grumble, buckling my belt.
The Miami evening roars around us: speeding cars, exhaust fumes, oncoming headlights, fading taillights, skyscraping condominiums. My eyes and nose and ears respond and it’s like a reset button, the familiarity of home. When I face the car again Melissa is back in the passenger seat. I climb in the driver’s side and look at her, reach out to touch her hand and she moves it to her lap.
I’m sorry, I say. Call them, see where they’re at.
I wanna go home, she says.
I hold my hands up.
Whatever you want.
I have math homework anyways, she mutters. I need your help.
I start the engine.
We’re in Melissa’s room going over her homework when my cell phone rings. I pull it out and check the ID and Melly pauses mid-sentence to look over, both of us reading the name: Yameliz.
Melissa’s eyes flick to me. Why is she calling you?
I shrug, heart racing as I picture the argument that is one thousand percent forthcoming. Yameliz, a former friend, is what we call a hot-button issue in our relationship. For many reasons, some reasonable, some not.
I press Talk and there are sobs on the other end of the line.
I frown. Yameliz?
They’re dead, Pat, she squeaks out.
I frown harder. What?
Justin and Karen, she says. They’re —
I don’t hear the rest because I hang up and throw the phone on the carpet.
What did she want? Melissa asks.
I open my mouth and the phone rings again. I snatch it up.
What the fuck? I yell. What game is this?
Instead of Yameliz though, there’s the gruff voice of Yameliz’s boyfriend, Paco.
Put on Channel 7, he says.
My phone beeps as the call disconnects and I pull it away from my ear, staring at the screen.
Melly’s glaring at me.
Quietly, I pick up the remote and point it at the television.
The TV flickers on. Two clicks and—
Breaking News: Double Homicide
Above the caption, a news camera centers on a house surrounded by yellow tape and a damp, glistening lawn that needs mowing. Droves of people stand outside the taped-off area, the sheen of police red-and-blues lighting up their faces.
I stare at the TV wondering why Paco told me to put this on, and I’m just recognizing the house when Melissa screams in my ear, jumps up and stumbles out of the room.
The TV camera zooms out to include a two-door red Nissan in the driveway. Underneath an adjustable basketball hoop.
The house looks different through the lens of a news camera. Not like the place I’ve been to so many times before but like a movie set. Justin’s mother and father stand on the porch where Melissa and I stood less than two hours ago, crying and hugging each other, and I want to believe they’re actors.
The camera shifts to a reporter, her voice inaudible beneath Melissa’s moans from the hallway. The caption beneath the reporter changes:
Breaking News: Teenage Couple Murdered in Perrine
A wave of nausea hits me suddenly and I jump up, spasming out a heave like I’ve been punched in the gut, the force knocking me back onto the bed. I take a few breaths and push myself up again, staggering out the door to the hallway. Melly’s gone, the hallway empty.
Steadying myself on the wall, I move to the living room, rounding the corner to find the TV out there also showing Justin’s house. Melissa’s grabbed her mother, Paulita, and both of them stand howling by the couch. Francisco, Melissa’s dad, sits stone-still on his recliner, eyes glued to the television. He picks up the remote and raises the volume, hands visibly shaking, his normally tan skin gone gray.
The reporter’s words hit like an inside pitch to the face.
“…victims beaten to death with a blunt object. Authorities are searching for a suspect…”
Suddenly everything in me goes numb. Joints, appendages, organs, every brain cell, frozen. I stand stone-still for who knows how long before breaking the trance to look at the apartment foyer, where Frankie’s golf clubs sit behind the door. Walking over, I grab a nine iron out of the bag and grip the rubber handle, testing the weight. It calms me, brings a little bit of feeling back.
I open the front door and I’m almost out of the apartment when a giant hairy arm appears around my waist, pulling me back inside. I glance at Frankie, and he’s staring at me with this hard, tear-streaked face. I look down at his arm holding me back and I try to pull away. Frankie flexes, burly chest and beefy arms picking me up.
I drop the golf club and every bit of restraint falls with it.
Spinning, I try to push Frankie off me but he drags me back into the living room and I don’t even realize I’m screaming until my throat starts burning, and even then I can’t stop. Can’t stop fighting Frankie either, clawing at him, punching him, kicking him but his arms don’t budge. I flail like a fish on a deck but he still carries me down the hall, pulls me further in when I try and grab onto the door handles as we pass, my wails inhuman now, not a sound that could possibly be coming from me, like… what the hell is that?
Frankie pulls me into his and Paulita’s room and throws me on the bed, holding me down.
And boy, let me tell you. Right then, I hate him.
Fucking hate him.
I hate him and because this is his and his wife’s room I hate Paulita too.
I hate Melissa and I hate Yameliz and I hate the news and the reporter who told me Justin and Karen are dead. Hate Justin and Karen too, for being dead, and whoever killed them for the same reason. I hate them all, everybody, everything with a passion so furious it feels like it might melt me from the inside, beads of sweat running down my forehead and mingling with the tears that I can’t see through, no matter how much I blink.
But most of all I hate myself for wanting this all to just go away, for wanting to not give a shit because not giving a shit has got to be better than this, screaming with my head buried in a comforter while Frankie holds me down and whispers in my ear repeatedly like a fucking monk in some Tibetan mountain
— okay, brother, it’s gonna be okay, brother, it’s gonna be o—
And I want him to stop because it’ll never be okay.
Even in this state I can see that.
It will never be okay that Justin and Karen are dead because it’s exactly the opposite of being alive and healthy and doing donuts in a red two-door Nissan and playing basketball on an adjustable hoop. It’ll never be okay that they were probably dead while me and Melly were having sex in a parking garage across the street because I was too preoccupied with that to notice my friends have been murdered, which has directly led to me being pinned under this heavy Cuban man with beer on his breath who won’t stop telling me it’s going to fucking be okay.
I let out a full-body shudder and go limp. My eyes blur and my cheeks twitch.
The first heave is the worst, bile rising in the back of my throat. My chest convulses and a thunderous sob erupts from somewhere deep in my soul, somewhere I’ve never accessed before.
I cry until I can’t breathe then I pass out.
Eventually Frankie gets off me and Melissa takes his place, rubbing my shoulder and weeping quietly to herself, both of us lying there with our eyes closed.
Jonathan Nodal, Justin’s cousin, made the initial 911 call that evening, claiming Justin and Karen were already dead when he arrived sometime before sunset. Police showed up soon after and immediately got into the obvious questions, like why is there blood on top of your shoes, Jonathan, if you showed up after they were dead?
Jonathan’s story quickly unraveled and he eventually confessed to murdering both Justin and Karen with a baseball bat, starting with Justin in his bedroom before moving on to Karen in the living room. While Jonathan killed Karen, a half-beaten Justin crawled towards the front door, where Jonathan finished him off.
Jonathan later told police he heard me and Melissa knocking at the door. That he was standing right behind it when we did.
He wanted to let us in, he told them.
But Justin’s body was in the way.
Prior to today, I didn’t know Jonathan by name. But when I see his mugshot in the detective’s office, I remember a day two or three years ago when me and some friends — including Justin — were playing basketball behind the high school a couple of blocks from our cribs, as we tended to do a couple times a week. This particular day, Justin was accompanied by a kid named Jon, who he said was his cousin.
Justin had handles and a decent jump shot. Jon did not.
Jon could barely hold a basketball without dribbling it off his knee.
It quickly became apparent after choosing teams that Jon was going to be a non-factor, essentially making it a two-on-three matchup.
Afterward, we all stood around drinking Gatorade and talking about the game. All of us except Justin’s cousin, Jon, who stormed off towards the parking lot.
We asked Justin if Jon was okay.
Justin brushed him off.
Dude’s weird, he said. Gets moody sometimes.
Sitting next to Melissa at the police station, I don’t remember driving here. I do remember the nightmare I had last night, same one from the night before. I’m alone on Justin’s porch knocking endlessly until Jonathan opens the door and greets me with a baseball bat to the face.
That’s how it ends, every time. Hell of a way to wake up.
The detective calls Melissa into his office and I peck her on the cheek as she leaves. We’ve both agreed to exclude the sex from our statements. It isn’t lying, I don’t think, not exactly. More an omission of insignificant details.
The case is a sure thing anyway, seeing as Jonathan already confessed. Though there’s still no motive. I tell myself a motive doesn’t matter. Justice is justice. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
Melissa comes out a while later and sits back down. I get up and walk in the detective’s office, answer his questions without much elaboration.
When did we get to Justin’s house? Around six-thirty.
What time did we leave? A few minutes later.
Where did we go after? Pause. Home.
Melissa cries quietly in the car when we’re done. I don’t try to console her. I honestly don’t know how. Instead, I drop her at her place and head home, pop a Xanax and lie on my bed until I zap out.
Sitting in the State Attorney’s office staring at a row of photos dated years ago, I wonder how I can make it all go away.
A flash of anger rises, and I get the urge to reach over this desk, grab this lawyer by his fucking tie, and strangle him with it.
I stare at my fists, willing them to unclench. Think about the violent tendencies lying within us all.
In the hallway, Melissa’s waiting for the photos to be taken away so she can come back in without breaking down. I study them and my throat tightens. He asks questions and I answer with a dry mouth and blank stare.
Yes, I know what their parents have been through.
Yes, I know. I don’t want them to see these either.
Yes, I can identify the deceased.
That’s Karen, but her arms and legs were tan before, not purple.
That’s Justin, but his face wasn’t all swollen and bruised last time I saw him. He was clean cut, brown eyes and a baby face. Nineteen but looked younger, you know?
What was he like? Cool dude. Really cool.
The prosecutor takes the pictures away and calls Melissa back in. She doesn’t look in my direction until we’re walking down the stairs outside the courthouse and she stops me. She’s gained a little weight since I last saw her. Makeup covers the bags under her eyes. She puffs a cigarette and it looks odd on her.
I puff mine.
How have you been? she asks.
I shrug. Okay.
She nods. Same.
I don’t believe her. I don’t think she believes me either.
Sitting at the witness stand in a courtroom staring at those damned pictures, I identify my friends, turn my head and close my eyes.
When I open them again, there’s a newspaper in front of me, an article on Jonathan’s verdict and sentencing.
Close my eyes again and I’m back in front of Justin’s old house, sold to a new family. I watch from my car, my backseat packed with the remaining possessions that I couldn’t fit in the U-Haul my parents are driving up to Tallahassee, to my new apartment and life at FSU.
I want to go knock on the door, ask if I can come in and just look around. But there’s a minivan in the driveway now, and the basketball hoop’s gone.
So, I drive to the cemetery.
Park and climb out, walk across the landscape of death and plop down cross-legged on Justin’s grave, staring at the inscription on the headstone. The grass has grown in and the plot doesn’t look fresh anymore. I pull out the letter I wrote him and tell him, out loud, that I loved him, that I loved them. I tell him I still have a lot of love to give but I don’t really know how to access it anymore.
I sit there crying by a three-year-old grave and feel stupid for it, because I’m still here.
I say goodbye and leave the letter under a rock next to the pot of flowers his mom and sister keep fresh.
Sit in my car for a while, eyes closed.
Then I drive away.
