Last Train to Babylon by Charlee Fam Page B

lacrosse profile, Facebook, an article from the local paper naming those enlisted in the marines, army, etc. There’s a mug shot from somewhere outside of Florida, but it’s just a DUI. I know because I’ve searched the name too many times to count, each time hoping that some scandalous arrest would pop up on the screen. Some girl coming forward on a forum, calling him out as the piece of shit that he is. But maybe he’s not. And maybe I’m wrong. I pick up my coffee too fast and the mug slips out of my hands, coffee splattering all over my lap.
    â€œI THOUGHT I’ D make dinner tonight.”
    I’m in my room—ex-room—with my back to the door when Karen’s voice hits me from behind. “That’s fine,” I say.
    â€œAnything special you’re in the mood for?” She stands in the doorframe.
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    â€œNot really.” I stand over my laptop, pretending to check my e-mail.
    â€œDid you meet Ashley?” she asks.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œEli’s girlfriend. She’s really very nice.”
    â€œOh, right. She’s okay,” I say.
    â€œI invited her tonight,” she says, and I realize now this isn’t just a casual family dinner, and the idea of socializing, even if it’s with Eli’s obnoxious girlfriend, makes me want to crawl between my sheets and fake the flu—which is already one of my backup plans for Thursday.
    I wish my mom would get a hobby, and by hobby, I mean boyfriend. She doesn’t date much, and she only brought a man home once, when I was in ninth or tenth grade. He took my mother, brothers, and me to Massapequa Bowl for a family Sunday-funday. He ordered a pitcher of root beer. I remember thinking that was weird.
    I check my phone again. Adam hasn’t called back. Danny hasn’t called either. And I’m not sure which bothers me more.
    Karen steps into the room and places a crumbling shoe box on my bed. “I found these in my closet,” she says. “I thought you might like to have them.”
    I wait until she leaves to open the box, and the first thing I see is Rachel’s gap-toothed grin beaming up into the sun. She looks about nine or ten, and her arm is draped around my slouched shoulder. I’m smiling, too. It was a Halloween parade. We’d dressed as hippies. We both wore blond wigs that fell to our butts and blue, tinted peace-sign sunglasses.
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    She wasn’t all bad. On her good days, Rachel could make me feel really special, and the girls in this photo were best friends. Sometimes I forget that. She never missed a chance to tell me that either—to constantly remind me that I was her best friend. Best friend. I was all she had, she’d say.
    I heard Rachel talk about her family like that once, and that was only when I’d walked in on her sobbing over my bathroom sink when we were thirteen. We’d been having dinner at my house—pork chops and applesauce—and she’d gotten up abruptly in the middle of a conversation on how much I hated pork chops and applesauce. I hadn’t realized there’d been an issue until Karen nudged me in the shoulder.
    I had assumed Rachel locked the door, so my plan was to knock twice and wait thirty seconds before halfheartedly rattling the doorknob. Then I would report back to my mother that I’d at least made an effort and go back to picking apart my loathsome pork chop. But the door creaked open just as I was getting ready to pull back and walk away. Rachel had obviously wanted me to walk in on this scene, but she acted startled, splashed water over her face, and smiled through the tears.
    I never could stand when people cried around me. It was never a secret. There was never anything that made me feel more uncomfortable and useless. And Rachel knew this, so when she saw me easing my way back out into the hallway, she reached out and pulled me toward her.
    â€œYou’re my best friend, Aub. You know