the woodchipper yesterday.”
She regrabs the present, snatching it from my hands.
“Beecher, tell me something that upset you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“In your life. Pick a moment. Pick something that hurt you… a pain that was so bad, you almost bit through your own cheek. Y’know… someone who really put you through the emotional wringer.”
“Why would-?”
“Tell me who Iris is,” Clementine says, reminding me that the people who know you the longest are the best at finding your weak spots.
“Why’re you bringing up Iris?”
“I heard Orlando say her name yesterday-and within two seconds, you had the same pain on your face that you have now, like someone kicked your balls in. I know the feeling… y’know how many DJ jobs I’ve been fired from? So what happened to Iris? Is she dead?”
“She’s not dead. She’s an old girlfriend. We broke up.”
“Okay, so she dumped you for another guy.”
“That’s not-”
“Beecher, I’m not trying to upset you… or pry,” she says, meaning every word. “The point is, whatever it was-however Iris hurt you-you’re over her now, right?”
“Absolutely,” I insist. “Of course.”
“Okay, you’re not over her,” she says as I stand there, surprised by the sudden lump that balloons in my throat and the familiar sting of self-doubt that Iris planted so deeply in my chest. “But you will be, Beecher. And that’s what you did for me yesterday. For my whole life, I’ve wondered who my father might be. And now, thanks to you, I
Looking down at the present, I give a tug to one of the scotch-taped seams. As I tear the paper aside, I spot the turn buttons on what looks like the back of a picture frame. It’s definitely a picture frame. But it’s not until I flip it over that I see the actual picture inside.
It’s a color photo of me in seventh grade, back when my mom used to shop for whatever Garanimals shirt I was wearing that day. But what I notice most is the other seventh grader standing next to me in the photo with the wide, surprisingly bucktoothed grin. Young Clementine.
The thing is, back then, we never had a photo of just the two of us.
“H-How’d you get this?” I ask.
“I made it. From our old class photo in Ms. Spicer’s class. You were standing on the left. I was on the right. I had to cut us out with an X-Acto knife since Tim Burton movies made me genuinely scared of scissors, but it still made our heads kinda octagonal-shaped, so sorry about that.”
I look down at the frame, where both of us have our arms flat at our sides in standard class-photo positions. Our heads are definitely octagons.
“You don’t like it?” she asks.
“No, I like it… I love it. I just… If you had scanned it in-I feel bad you had to ruin the actual photo.”
“I didn’t ruin anything,” she insists. “I cut out the only two people I cared about in that class.”
I look up at Clementine, then back down at the photo, which is choppy, poorly made, and completely unflattering.
But it’s of us.
A smile grips my cheeks so hard, they actually hurt.
“By the way, don’t think you get a pass on that Garanimals shirt,” she tells me as the video continues to play onscreen behind her. Her back is to it, so she can’t see it, but it’s the part where Nico is about to step out of the crowd.
“Listen, I gotta run,” she adds as a man with black buzzed hair, a big bulbous nose, and a bright yellow jumpsuit steps into the frame and raises his gun. My God-he
“Who did? What’re you talking about?”
“The guards. At St. Elizabeths.”
“Wait. As in
“Nico’s there. Same place as John Hinckley-the one who shot Reagan. It’s only ten minutes from here.”
“Can we please rewind one second? You went to see Nico!?”
“I can’t get in unless he approves me first. That’s how they have to do it on his ward. I’m waiting to get approved.”
“But he’s-”
“I know who he is-but what’m I supposed to do, Beecher? Sit at home and do my nails? I’ve been waiting to meet this man for thirty years. How can I not-?”
Onscreen, the gunshots are muffled. As Nico steps out of the crowd, his head’s cocked just slightly-and he’s almost… he’s smiling.
With her back still to the monitor, Clementine doesn’t turn at the gunshots. But she does flinch, her body startled by each and every one.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” the agents yell.
“GOD GAVE POWER TO THE PROPHETS…” Nico shouts, his rumbling voice drowned out by all the screaming.
The camera jerks in every direction, panning past the fans in the stands. Spectators run in every direction. And by the time the camera fights its way back to focus, Nico is being pulled backward, lost in instant chaos as he’s clawed to the ground by a swarm of Secret Service agents. In the background, two aides go down, the victims of stray bullets. One of them lies facedown holding his cheek. Luckily, the President and his wife get rushed into their limo and escape unharmed. It wasn’t until later that Nico tracked them down and killed the First Lady.
In the corner of YouTube, I spot the viewcount on the bottom right:
It seems like a lot.
But in truth, fourteen million viewers are meaningless.
All that matters is this single one.
“Please don’t look at me like that, Beecher. I can do this,” she insists, even though I haven’t said a word.
I don’t care how strong she’s pretending to be. I saw the way, even though she knew those gunshots were coming, she flinched at each pop. And the way, ever since Nico appeared onscreen, she still won’t look at the monitor.
She knows what’s waiting for her.
But she also knows there’s no avoiding it.
“You’re telling me if it were your dad, you wouldn’t go see him now?” she asks.
I stay silent, thinking back to my first year at the Archives. My dad died at the age of twenty-six, in a stupid car accident on his way to enlist for the first Gulf War. He didn’t get killed fighting for his country. He didn’t die a hero. He didn’t even die from friendly fire. Those people are given medals. But the grunts who aren’t even grunts yet because they’re driving to the recruiting office when some nutbag crashes into him on a bridge and kills everyone on impact? They die as nobodies. Their lives are half-lived. And during my first year here, I spent every single lunch hour going through old army records, trying to figure out which platoon he would’ve been in, and what kind of adventures he would’ve had if he’d made it to the enlistment office.
“If you want, I can go with you,” I finally say.
“What?”
“To St. Elizabeths. I can go with you. Y’know… if you want.”
