Read Online American Goth by J. D. Glass - Free Book Online

my plans had already been set: I’d decided to go home a week early, to surprise Nina and Fran, plenty of time to spend with both of them before I had to get ready for the move to the dorm before freshman orientation. Princeton was not only a phenomenal school, but I’d also been offered a scholarship, and it wasn’t too far from Staten Island, where Nina lived.
    And it had been where she’d planned to go as well…
    Fran. Fran was the one who called me to tell me she’d spoken with Nina’s father, and it started with a message she left during an afternoon when Uncle Cort and I were touring the countryside. “Hi Samantha, it’s Fran. Please call me as soon as you can, okay?”
    From the tone of her voice, I’d known it was important, and I missed her on the return call. “Hey, Fran!” I recorded. “How’re you doing? I’m coming back in about two weeks—don’t tell Nina, I want to surprise her. What say you we all get together and do something?”
    We finally connected on her next call. “…and Mr. Boyd asked that we respect the family’s grief and privacy—don’t call, send nothing.”
    The words sent a blankness running through me. They made no sense, they were unreal, and I responded with what I thought was logic.
    “I’m gonna call.”
    “Samantha, don’t do it,” Fran insisted across the miles. “I told you what her father said.”
    I was silent as I considered. That couldn’t be true, it simply made no sense , even though a prickling numbness, hot and heavy, crawled up my legs. I said the one thing that did make sense to me, that made the crawling numbness flash over into anger, the words I was now very sorry for. “I don’t believe you,” I told her flatly. “You’re just jealous because we used to date. You want her.”
    “Sammy, Sammer, I’m just trying to save you some heartache,” she protested and I could hear the tears as she spoke. “C’mon Sam, you know me—I wouldn’t ever try to hurt you or her like that. You guys are my friends. I love you.” I heard her breathe, could feel the effort she made to not cry. “God, I wish I was lying.”
    I breathed it in, her words, the emotions so clear to me across an ocean, and knew that whether I wanted to believe or not…
    “I’m sorry, Fran, just, don’t”—I took another breath—“I didn’t mean to make you cry. I can’t believe you right now—I have to hear this for myself.”
    I hung up and dialed another number, and a few rings later I got the confirmation I’d been seeking, though it wasn’t what I wanted.
    “How many times do I have to tell you fuckin’ stupid kids? She’s dead—don’t ever fuckin’ call my house again.” He hung up before I even had the chance to ask how or when.
    Fran and I hadn’t spoken since that call, not since the weight of loss had overwhelmed me, dared me to try to cross the gate, and as my memory once more replayed our last discussion, my body, raw from the shower and hyper from…everything else…remembered her, Fran and the sweet and shy experiments that led to further, more intimate contact until it was done, that first orgasm a revelation of her, of me, the next a response to hunger that had ripped through my stomach and chest the same way the energy did, and the third to ensure we knew what we were doing.
    Despite the growth and the changes between us, and perhaps even because of them, I knew we were united. First as friends and teammates, then, for a short while, as girlfriends. But now, any rivalry we’d had left was set aside: we both mourned the one girl neither of us would ever have. I’d loved, still loved, Nina, but so had Fran, and more than that, I owed her, owed Frankie for the friendship we’d shared. It was time I called her.
    After having paced enough to calm my blood, I pulled out my sadly neglected acoustic guitar, carefully tuned it, and ran through a few scales, then a few finger exercises. It felt good, but it wasn’t what I needed; it made me think