The First Time—For Brittany

There are no flowers, no not this time. –Davey Havok


2003
Do you remember when we pulled out of the cemetery? Your peach Slurpee spilled all over the floor of my mom’s car. Sticky, icy, peach slush everywhere. It sunk slowly into the carpet, surrounding my feet as I drove around screaming. You reached down to grab the nearly empty cup. We laughed so hard. I wanted to go back and buy you a new Slurpee, but you said no. You bought me a peach Slurpee the day I got my wisdom teeth out. I felt dead, but I got up, barely conscious, to see you. We ate the Slurpees, you with a straw, me with a spoon. We talked about life and death and everything in between. I didn’t remember it because I was on Hydrocodone. The best thing about peach Slurpees with you were the Lollies. The Smartie flavored suckers we would dip into our Slurpee, sucking the peachy goodness out of them. We would always ask for the red and blue ones. Orange and yellow just weren’t for us. Now it is silver and silent. It is silver and cold. The words spill out of the speakers, sticky like the floormat. I don’t remember if your Lollie fell to the floor of the car that day. I hope it didn’t.

2007
I still go to the cemetery sometimes, but never with you. My mom’s car is now my car. There is still the tiniest remnant of a Slurpee stain on the gray driver’s side floor mat. All the colors upon leaving, all will turn to gray. The dark spot will probably never go away. I eat Slurpees considerably less often these days. However, I’ll still have one once in a while. I like to collect the cups. In fact I had one tonight. Cherry though. Nothing compares to your peach. When I go to a gas station and they have our Lollies, I think of you. Red and blue mingled with orange and yellow. Thanks to you, I know it’s worth it to dig for the right colors.

2003
Remember when we went to the Dashboard concert? We bought t-shirts. I was so excited; mine had a car on it. As we pull them on over the shirts we are already wearing, you smile at me. Brand New is playing the kind of song that makes people glad to be where they are with whomever they’re there with. I smile back because I am. When Dashboard starts we push our way to the front of the crowd. You fall behind and I leave you. I look back to see you signaling to the side. I don’t want to give up my spot. I am literally the closest person to Chris Carabba in the room, so I pretend not to see you. You are mad and go outside to smoke for the rest of the concert. You hate every minute of it, and when it’s over you have taken off your new t-shirt. I ask you what’s wrong, and you say nothing, but I know I have hurt you. It takes hours to get out of the parking lot, and we wait in silence. We don’t talk; we don’t even listen to your brand new Brand New CD.

2007
I went to another Dashboard/Brand New show a few months ago with my friend Shelly. Chris came out first and opened for himself, before the opening bands. He was in a brown trench coat and a black top hat—hardly recognizable. He played some great acoustic tracks and I remembered the last Dashboard show. It was your third, my first, and our last. This one is Shelly’s first. She is scared of the crowd, even though the average age is fifteen. She hangs to the back to avoid the pushing and shoving. I am bored, but I do not leave her. I will not leave her. I could push myself to the front again if I wanted to; I am invincible. Weren’t we all once, before we felt loss for the first time? But this is the last time. This is the last time.

2003
Remember when we went to my that church pool party? I went to Glen’s grandmother’s house to pick you up. You, Glen, and Emily were on the trampoline. I got out of the car and instantly knew I shouldn’t have. We sat on the stairs in our bathing suits, as Emily and Glen passed the brightly colored glass back and forth, repeatedly offering it to us. First you, then me, then me, then you. But you refused—we both pretended I didn’t know. I had never seen pot before. You had never said no before. We were each other’s firsts. Finally we left, bound for our little church function, smelling like Teen Spirit. Glen chased us down his grandma’s lane. I don’t remember what was said then. I’m sure you apologized. You’re sorry; you swear it. You’re done, but I can’t tell you from the drugs. I’m sure I said that there was no need. My first time seeing pot wasn’t my last. Fortunately, your first time saying no wasn’t either.
At the pool, we ate pizza. We stood in the shallow end. We talked about how I was leaving in a couple weeks. I told you it was only two years. I knew you were excited for me, but worried about what would happen while I was gone. Without you here, I feel my fear. We didn’t know that you would leave first.

2007
About a month ago, there was a pool party here at school. I went for the barbecue, then left. Swimming isn’t nearly as fun as standing in the shallow end. Yesterday, my friend Alycen had a farewell party before moving to Brazil. I told her I would miss her. She told me it was always easier to be the one leaving than to be the one left behind. I agreed. You had already taught me that the hard way.

2003
Remember the night we sat in the elevator for hours? I had driven up to see you at Snowbird. We swam at your condo. When we went back to the room, your mom was already in bed, so we abandoned our plans of watching a movie. When we couldn’t find anything better to do, we ended up in the elevator sitting on the floor, talking. Just sitting. Just talking. Occasionally it would move. We would guess which floor we were headed to. We were usually wrong. The last time though, we both knew. Eight. The door opened, and there stood your mom. It was 2:30 in the morning and I still had to drive back home.

2007
Just two weeks ago, I went to Snowbird for the second time. I took my nieces and nephews. We spent most of the day riding up and down the ski lift to the top of the mountain. It wasn’t until our fourth trip to the restroom that I noticed where I was; I saw the little convenience store where we had sat reading dirty jokes on cards, looking at Utah shot glasses and souvenirs. As soon as I realized, I got out. I went outside to watch someone ride the mechanical bull. I rode the zip-line and the Alpine Slide. There wasn’t quite as much to do when we were there, but somehow with you I had a lot more fun.

2003
Remember that night you and Alicia came and knocked on my bedroom window? I immediately knew who it was. I didn’t want to talk to you, so I went and told my parents there was someone outside. My dad probably knew who it was too. He went outside, told you to go home. I sat in my bedroom, listening to every word. Wishing I hadn’t done what I had. As soon as my dad came back, I heard you scratch the window one more time. I heard the two doors of Alicia’s truck slam shut, saw the headlights turn on simultaneously with the growling of the engine. The next morning I looked out the window to see your message, written in lip-gloss. “YOU SUCK.”

2007
Every time I stare out my bedroom window, I am reminded of that night. I’m not sure what type of lip-gloss that was, but if it works half as good on lips as it does on windows, I’d be impressed. Because your message has never faded. It’s still there, even if you are not. It’s my daily reminder, the way you constantly tell me how vile I already know that I am.

2003
Remember that Thursday night when I left? I was going to spend the weekend in St. George with my family. We all wanted to go somewhere together before I left for two years. I told you I would call you on Monday, but you left on Saturday. I came back on Sunday to find you gone. I only needed one more day. Your brother had called and left a message. My mom heard it first. I didn’t believe her. I called your number, but you didn’t answer. I believed her then. You would never answer again. I really wish I’d got to say goodbye. I should have spent the next three days packing. I spent them crying instead.

2007
I went to St. George this past weekend. One of the places I have come to fear the most. My friend Sarah came. At 1:00 am we couldn’t sleep, so we went outside. We sat on the swings, talking. Just sitting. Just talking. The sand was cold. So were the steel chains. For the first time in a long time, I talked about life and death—and you—the only thing in between. I spent most of the night crying. She Promised I would find a little solace and some peace of mind. Whatever, just as long as I don’t feel so desperate and ravenous, so weak and powerless over you. I told Sarah about the slurpees. I told her about the elevator. I told her how much I miss you. I told her how I still sign into your email account. To keep you alive. I told her how I listen to the song you wrote for me every night before I go to sleep. I never said thank you for that. Now I’ll never have a chance. I told her how much I love you. I told her. Because I couldn’t tell you.

2005
After two years, I go back. First I visit my grandparents. It’s cold but at least there’s no snow. Unsure where the stone is, I look through the names—The Book of the Dead. 202-8, it’s almost like an apartment number. I make my way to the door, knock three times; that’s when I realize it’s not like an apartment at all. More like a prison cell. You look so precious. The picture on the stone is the same one I have in my wallet. “Sua musica erat suum donum ex deo nobia” I wonder what the Latin means. Obviously music is all that matters. And miles from where you are, I lay down on the cold ground and I pray that something picks me up and sets me down in your warm arms. I sit there on the grass, feeling cold and out of place. It’s been two years and this is my first time here—I had to find you in a book.
I come back in December. There’s snow now. Probably about eight inches. We are now 6’8” apart. I leave a little Christmas tree. No flowers, no not this time. On my way out, I stop at the stop sign—our stop sign. I’d show a smile, but I’m too weak. I look down at the stain on my floormat and force a smile anyway. I’d share with you could I only speak, just how much this hurts me.

2007
I still go to the cemetery sometimes, but never with you.