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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.

Separated at Birth

I always wanted a twin. Even though I had siblings, I was born an only child. Completely separated by a seventeen year gap from my youngest sister, I was the only child at home since before I can remember. At the age of 38 and 45 respectively, my mother and father were yet again going to tackle the dangerous world of parenthood. I remember growing up my mother always told me she’d wished I had been twins. I realize now that was only because I drove her crazy with my constant pleadings for her to join me in jumping on the trampoline or in playing Nintendo.
I have a close friend who happens to be a distant cousin. My early memories of Julie are dreadful. I recall in elementary school how she would repeatedly tell everyone that we weren’t related and that our same last name “problem” was mere coincidence. I, of course, was quick to agree, I certainly didn’t want to be related to her either. In junior high, Julie and I stayed out of each other’s way for the most part. It wasn’t until our sophomore year of high school, in our Drama 1 class, that we realized it was okay to be friends.
It was around that same time we also learned that it was okay to be family. So we tried to figure out just exactly how we were related. One day Julie came to school and told me that she had investigated it. I was excited at the possibility of actually knowing what to say when asked how we were related. Listening intently and hoping to hear something along the lines of fourth cousin, I heard, “My great, great, great grandpa was your great, great grandpa.” This she said with a satisfactory smile. However, I was less than satisfied.
“So what does that mean?” I asked with a bewildered look on my face.
“Well we’re related.” Of course we already knew that. So how could this information really benefit us?
One afternoon while hanging out backstage during a long rehearsal for our high school musical, a fellow cast member asked if Julie and I were related, a frequent occurrence. To my surprise, Julie quickly responded, “Yeah, we’re twins.” I was shocked but the glance she shot me said, play along or I will kill you. So I nodded my head. Never before had this ingenious idea occurred to me. We were twins. It was a lie, but a beautiful one. And it was too easy—someone had already believed it.
There was a problem, however. Julie and I didn’t live together. We had different birthdays. Yet, these were only minor details. We quickly set in on devising a plan, writing a script, to strategically cover up any conflicting evidence. We merely divided the 28 days between Julie’s birthday and mine, and our new birthday was August fifteenth. Then we simply would explain how our parents were divorced when we were twelve. Julie had stayed with our father while I had moved out with our mother. Since then our parents had both remarried. Who wouldn’t believe that, right?
Obviously, there were those whom we couldn’t convince. One day at rehearsal I was trying to convince a friend. I was working alone, performing a monologue so to speak, while Julie was using the restroom. “You’re not twins!” she said.
“Yes, we are,” I argued, trying my best to keep a straight face.
“Then when is your birthday?”
“August fifteenth.”
Then she went to ask Julie. Of course this couldn’t wait until she was out of the bathroom. I nervously followed her as she marched down the long hall toward the girl’s room. She came to the restroom, opened the door and screamed, “Julie!”
“Yeah?” hollered back a startled and confused Julie from the toilet.
“It’s Gretchen. When’s your birthday?” she shouted without giving me any chance to tip Julie off as to what was happening. It seemed to take Julie forever to respond. Would she say August fifteenth or would she ruin all I had worked so hard for in those last five minutes? I could feel the sweat running down my forehead like blood gushing from an open wound.
“August second. Why?”
My heart sank. “Oh, just wondering,” Gretchen said with a sneer on her face. She walked away without saying a word. I waited until Julie emerged from the girl’s room, an uneasy look stretched across her pale face. Then I let her have it. I was pretty upset. I had played my part perfectly, all for her to miss a cue and ruin our entire production. We both agreed that our little act needed more rehearsal. We picked a few more people to practice on.
Of course, our close friends already knew the truth so we not only had to decide who we could convince, but who we could convince to help us. Casting our show was crucial, and many of our friends were in on our little scheme. We couldn’t have done it without them. However the biggest help in spreading our little lies was ironically, my mother. She worked in the school cafeteria. At first she thought it was just a joke, and she found it rather endearing when Julie would call her mom. Later, she realized that people actually believed we were twins. So she would play along. Nearly everyone knew she was my mother, so anytime we came across a doubter, we would simply tell them to ask the lunch lady.
My mom loved it. Who would have thought she’d have a knack for acting? One afternoon as Julie and I sat in the cafeteria talking with her, Max, the janitor, came in to take out the trash. He started talking with my mom about a messy chocolate milk spill down the hall, so Julie and I decided to take off. “Okay Mom, we’re going back to class,” I said.
“Oh are these your kids?” Max asked.
“Yeah, these are my twins,” replied Mom without skipping a beat. Julie and I stared in amazement. Her performance worthy of a standing ovation, we stood to leave.
“Good thing we’ve got her on our side,” Julie said as we left the cafeteria.
About this point, we began classifying everyone we knew as a believer or a nonbeliever. At times I felt as if we were the leaders of some apostate religious group, leading so many to believe what ever we wanted them to believe, whether it was true or not. Every time we met someone new it was far too easy to introduce ourselves as twins. We had become addicted. With each lie it became more and more fun. I found such pleasure in it. Each lie led me to a state of sheer bliss, complete joy which can only be compared to the feeling one gets when purchasing a new pair of shoelaces. I often asked myself if what we were doing was wrong, but at that point it didn’t matter to me. All I cared about was how many people we could actually trick into believing us.
Our junior year, we had a friend by the name of Ricky. Ricky was the firmest believer yet. He was constantly asking us questions about our childhood and what it had been like growing up as twins. We tried our best to steer clear of his interrogations so as not to divulge our secret. This was not always easy as the three of us had a class together. I recall one day in class conversing about Star Wars. Ricky brought up how Luke Skywalker had kissed Princess Leia without even knowing it was his twin sister. Since we were twins, he asked us what we thought about that. Our response? “They were both just actors.”
At the end of the year Ricky would be moving away. Our conscience getting the best of us, we decided we had to tell him the truth before he left. We came up with an ingenious idea to give our closing night performance at the yearbook dance. We figured there would be a lot of bright lights flashing—perfect for a curtain call. I signed in Ricky’s yearbook next to where Julie had signed and then wrote P.S. We’re not twins. We told him he had to read what we had written. He strained his eyes to read the book in the dark room. The music blasting, we watched as Ricky’s toothy smile slowly faded into a look of utter disappointment. This sad face lasted only a moment, and then he started laughing. He didn’t believe us. He insisted we were twins. We tried to explain to him that we really were not and that we’d been lying to him all year. He asked several of our friends. Of course, the little computer viruses we had programmed so well lied and told him we were twins. Julie and I felt guilty. However, we had tried. To this day I’m sure Ricky still believes.
Our biggest adventure was taking on the faculty. Of course we only tried convincing a select few. Julie’s English teacher was perhaps the hardest to convince, but definitely the most rewarding when we finally did. One day after school we were talking with her in her classroom, she asked Julie if I was her boyfriend, which of course we laughed at, “No, he’s my twin brother.”
“He is not! You don’t have a twin.” she said. After all Mrs. Peterson had taught Julie’s older sister and knew their family quite well.
We insisted that it was true. What sealed the deal was when Julie said, “Well you know our mom, from the cafeteria right?”
“Oh, that’s your mom?” Suddenly Mrs. Peterson’s eyes lit up! Her green eyes scanned back and forth making contact with Julie’s blue eyes, then my brown eyes. “Oh. Yeah, I can see it now! You look so much alike.” Brown hair being our only true mutual characteristic, I could hardly contain my laughter.
Toward the end of our senior year, our Musical Theater class performed a revue of sorts. Our Theater teacher made up a program with a short biography of each person in the show. She combined Julie’s and mine into one. The closing remarks of our bio read, They may seem like twins and in fact they’ll tell you they are. However, that just goes to show what great actors they truly are. We were outraged. There would be hell to pay. What was she thinking? When we confronted her, she said she had no idea that people actually believed us. She apologized but the damage was done. Several believers had seen the show and read the program. The truth was out, and our acting career in shambles.
Friends were coming up to us left and right, asking what it meant. We tried to write it off, comparing it to anti-Mormon literature. Yet our believers did not hold strong. Obviously they realized we had lied to them. What had been done was irreparable. There was no way we could convince anyone now that so many people knew the truth. We tried, but someone who we had duped into believing us, and had then found out the truth, always seemed to be around. Bitter about the situation, they would blow our cover every time.
Our freshman year at college found us yet again, in an Acting 1 class, needing all the training for our lies we could get. However, this time, no one knew either of us and this could be used to our advantage. While calling roll the first day of class, our professor got to our names, “Julie Gurney.”
“Here.”
“Trent Gurney”
“Here.”
“Ah...any relation?” he asked.
Just as if we’d memorized the line from a script, we spouted off simultaneously “Yeah, we’re twins.” Smiling innocently, I thought about how we had never lied to this many people at the same time before. Who knew what would happen. Yet, it was easier now, we no longer needed our divorced parents excuse. I recall one day in class Julie and I planned a conversation to be overheard by our classmates just to make sure they believed us. Needing something interesting to talk about, we made up some story about how our father had broken his leg. Wondering how Dad’s leg was doing, she would ask me whether I had talked to Mom the night before. We even performed a scene in class together about growing up as twins and always fighting.
In the dorm adjacent to mine lived a set of actual twins. Julie and I were ecstatic. We told them how we were twins too. Next we went to work on my roommates, then Julie’s roommates. Sooner or later our entire college life was a lie, one big act. Everyone we knew believed we were twins. It was much different than high school when only a handful of people actually believed us. There was no reason for them to doubt. It was easier than it had ever been.
One Sunday afternoon, Julie, another friend and I were taking a nap in my room. The three of us had crammed onto my twin size bed. We were only half asleep when my roommate and his friend came into the dorm.
His friend saw us and was surprised. “Does that kid have two chicks in there?” he asked my roommate.
My roommate poked his head in the room and looked at us. “Yeah, but one of them is his sister so it’s all right.”
Many times, it was hard for Julie and me to stay in character all the time. We nearly gave our game away several times. Many times, friends would say things to me like, “I saw your sister today.” My sister was thirty-six years old, married, with four children and lived three hours away. Naturally, I would look at them confused, wondering how in the world they had seen her. Luckily, I would always catch myself before it was too late.
Truly, it’s unbelievable that we were believed. I remember countless times we would be with a group of friends, Julie would start talking about her mom and I would say something about my mom. Of course, we were supposed to have the same mom. When Julie’s parents would call her apartment, our friends found it rather odd they would never want to talk to me since I was there anyway. We shrugged such discrepancies off, and luckily, so did our friends.
About this time, Julie started dating a guy. Eventually it got to the point where he was always around and it was far too much work to keep him convinced. We decided to fill him in. We were at Julie’s apartment and he was looking through some of Julie’s old pictures. Julie handed him her family picture, one he had seen countless times before. As he scanned the faces, he realized the problem. I wasn’t in it. He asked why.
“We’re not twins,” Julie said. Eventually he got the point. The look of horror and distrust on his face was priceless. However, James was into theater too, he was a techie. So naturally, he quickly joined our production team, introducing his friends to his girlfriend and her twin brother.
Sometimes, I just wanted to tell the truth. I constantly had to remind myself to lie. It was just so unnatural to me. Even though we had done it for years, that had only been for a select few people. I guess you could say I got stage fright. High school had merely been a matinee and now that we were into the actual run, I wanted out. There were too many people that I had to lie to. I kept up the facade mostly to appease Julie. With practice, I became better and better.
After some time, telling lies came more natural to me than storing acorns does for a squirrel. I did it habitually. There were no longer any close calls. Julie was my twin sister. We had been living the lie so long that the lie itself was now our life. I couldn’t imagine anything else. I would never have imagined calling her my cousin.
At the end of the year however, our conscience resurfaced. We felt like we should tell at least some of our closest friends that we weren’t twins. So we did. Surprisingly enough, many people, just as Ricky had done, refused to believe us. Those that did were angry. I felt like a fraud. I had betrayed people who trusted me.
After our freshman year, I moved to California for two years. The majority of my correspondence with Julie was limited to letters. Julie informed me she had kept the lie alive, telling roommates and friends she had a twin. Each time I got a letter from her someone would ask who it was from. For a short time, I too continued to feed the lie. Eventually I resorted to telling the truth, the letters were from my cousin. I’m not really sure when it happened, but I realized none of the believers we had convinced mattered at all if I couldn’t believe it myself. I felt like a kid, finally realizing for myself that Santa Claus was one great big lie. How could I have been so childish? I refused to tell anyone we were twins again.
When I moved back to Utah, Julie had transferred universities. Both of us now lived completely different lives than we had when I left. We were no longer into acting. Julie had moved on to nursing school. As for me, I still make up stories; I just write them down rather than act them out. I’ve found that it’s safer that way. Upon returning, Julie introduced me to her roommates, they asked jokingly if I was “the twin.” I smiled and said yes. Apparently someone still believed.