Killer Teens

We Can't Be Friends

Milo's POV

We wait patiently for Brooke to stop laughing. I wonder if hearing it pains the others as much as it pains me. 

When she finally does stop, her cheeks are stained with tears.

“I’ll drive,” I say gently to her. “Jason, sit with Brooke, make sure she’s okay. Just… tell me where to go."

I help Jason lift Cole’s body and put him in the trunk of Brooke’s parents’ old Rodeo, noticing with a touch of anxiety that it isn’t even dark yet. “Should we wait?”I ask, but they all shake their heads, and I don’t blame them; we need to get this body underground as soon as possible, for all our sakes.

“We’ll bury him,” Brooke says, as if reading my mind. She seems to have regained her sensibilities to some extent. “We’re not just going to dump him in a lake, or whatever. I know where to go.”

I follow her directions to a deserted patch of woods and follow her gaze to a small clearing. Jason helps Brooke out of the car, gives Kate the shovel I used as a weapon, and then moves on to Cole. With my help, he carries the body to the clearing, where the girls are waiting.

Jason and I take turns digging. I can tell he isn’t in the mood to be an ass to me, and I appreciate it. He picks up most of the slack, being the athlete and all, and he doesn’t complain once. 

We dig for a long time. It feels like the earth is resisting us, trying not to let Cole in—trying not to let us get away with what we did.

Brooke is the first to speak, and her voice is less certain now, less sure of herself, than before. “We need to make a plan.”

Kate and Jason both look up. I, of course, was already looking.

“When we run,” she says, “they’ll look for us. We’re missing persons if they don’t find Cole’s body. If they do…”

“…then we’re fugitives,” Kate finishes for her.

They’re right, of course. With the cops on our tail, we won’t be able to take Jason’s Lexus or Brooke’s Rodeo to wherever we’re going. There are a million complications with this plan. But, even though there are other options, it doesn’t feel like we have any choice at all.

“Staying isn’t an option,” Kate says. “We couldn’t pull off hiding it while still trying to live our normal lives. And we’ve already gone too far to turn ourselves in.”

I consider voicing my opinion on the matter, but all I can think about is the bandage on Brooke’s arm. It’s already soaked through with blood. “You need stitches,” I tell her. “We’re not going anywhere until you have that arm fixed.”

She glances down at it again, expression still hollow. “Mom’s got a sewing kit at the house.”

The bile is back in my throat.

“No way,” says Kate. “Do you have any idea how much that would hurt?”

“It’ll be fine,” Brooke says dismissively. “We’ll go home, pour some peroxide on it, stitch it up, and that’s that. Can’t be more painful than the knife, can it?”

The bile doesn’t stay in my throat this time. I turn away from them, bend over, and retch up everything that was previously in my stomach.

If anyone has any sympathy for me, they’re disguising it well.

“Okay,”Kate concedes. “I’ll do it. For Brooke. Jason, once we get back, take your Lexus to my place, then Milo’s, and pack our things.”She tosses him her keys, and I toss him mine. “I’ll have Milo pack Brooke’s things at the house while I… stitch.”

We’ve dug so deep that I’m down to my shoulders now; we’ve gone far enough. “We should get him down here,”I say quietly.

Jason crawls out of the ditch. I wait, knowing what’s coming. A moment later, Jason slides me the foot end of the tarp-covered Cole. I set this end on the ground, then lower his head end as gently as I can. Jason helps me out of the hole, tosses the shovel down into it, and uses his hands to toss dirt back into the hole.

I follow suit, as does Kate. Brooke reaches to scoop up dirt with her good hand, but I reach out to stop her.

We both freeze when our hands touch. 

For a split second, our eyes lock, and there’s so much emotion flooding between us, I almost feel like I’ve traveled back in time.

But as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, and all that’s left on her face is emptiness again.

“Thank you for helping us,” she says softly. “But we can’t be friends.” 

Her words don’t surprise me, but they still sting.

I look away from her, glancing back at Kate. 

When I was with Brooke, Kate really liked me. She always convinced Brooke to forgive me when I made mistakes, supported doing whatever I wanted to do, and was genuinely nice to me. 

But times have changed.

I don't argue with Brooke. I just waited for Jason to finish filling the hole. Once he does, we drive home in silence, the weight of the burial of Cole sitting heavy with us. We park in Brooke's driveway and get out of the Rodeo. I try not to watch Brooke kiss Jason goodbye before he heads for his Lexus.

Once Jason is gone, the rest of us head inside. Kate leaves to get a needle and thread (I shiver at the thought), leaving me with Brooke. She doesn't say anything mean; the problem is, she doesn't say anything.

Kate returns with a sewing kit, peroxide, and a lighter, and takes a seat. “Milo, can you go pack for Brooke?” she asks me, so I do.

I know it will be a few minutes before Kate gets everything sterilized, so I take the opportunity to see Brooke’s room for the first time since we broke up.

The first thing I notice is that it's colorless. Sure, her bed frame and desk are brown, and the framed magazines and pictures have splashes color, but most of it is just this bland off-white with no personality. It isn't ugly, but it isn't Brooke—at least, not the Brooke I knew before. That Brooke’s room had lime green walls, littered with band posters and a bed with bright, tacky bedding.

The second thing I notice is how much is missing. Of course I didn't expect her to keep the pictures of me and her, but she doesn't even have pictures with her and Kate up. They're all of her crowd at school—Jason, the football team, and the party girls. No one she actually cares about.

At least, I hope not.

Kate already set two suitcases out. I face Brooke’s huge closet, filled with designer clothes that look fashionable but have no personality. I think back to our freshman year, when she wore band T-shirts and ripped jeans and jackets with South Park characters on them. I look through her closet a bit before an old Pink Floyd shirt catches my eye. I pull out the basket it was in and smile. This is it.

I fill one of the two suitcases with these clothes, as well as her toothbrush and, out of courtesy, a bunch of products I don't recognize—hair, skin, everything.  I fill the second with her designer clothes, underwear (trying not to picture it on her or Jason seeing it), makeup, and everything else in her room that looks important.

Then I hear her.

I temporarily forgot about it in the whirlwind of seeing her room again. Either that, or I wanted so hard to forget that I actually did. But her loud grimaces aren't easily ignored, and I find myself running downstairs.

“Is she okay?” I ask Kate, who is sewing up her temple. I see with surprise that Brooke’s arm is already finished. She must not have made any sounds for that. I'm sure it hurt—it's the deeper and much larger wound—but it wasn't on her head. The one on her face seems to be causing her the most pain.

“It’s painful,” Kate says to me, not moving or even blinking. “I’m doing it right, but it really hurts her.”

I always hated the feeling of being helpless. My big sister Bec always warned me not to get hopeful, because in the end, nothing we do ever makes a difference in the world or to the people around us. But it was always hard for me to accept that, even after everything I’ve been through. 

Now, watching Brooke go through so much pain but knowing that I can't make it go away because it's for her own good, I understand Bec better than ever.

So I do all I know how to do: I hold her hand.

She doesn't object. Her hand hangs limp and helpless, almost asking me to help support it, and when she feels mine brush up against it, she clutches it tighter than I expected. Kate gives me a scornful look, but says nothing, focusing only on her stitching—which, as far as I could tell, is pretty good. I try not to look at Brooke, but of course it's all I find myself doing. Her cloudy, gray eyes are red, tears streaming down her cheeks. I knew they aren't real tears, those of emotion, but only of physical pain. Brooke has a thing about real tears. She never really sheds them.

Except once. But that was different.

Finally it's over, and Kate knots her up. Brooke lets go of my hand the second it's over, takes about eight painkillers, and sticks her head in the freezer “so she’s have something else to think about.” She walks on needles, biting her lip and fanning off her red, tired face with her good arm, until finally she seemed to settle down. That's about the time Jason gets back with three suitcases (one for me, one for him, one for Kate) and a backpack (Kate’s), handing us our things and heading over to inspect Brooke’s arm.

“Make sure you’ll have the supplies it takes to take them out when the time comes,” he tells Kate. “Okay?”

Kate nods. “I already did. We’re fine.” She turns to the rest of us and asks, “Should we be going, then?”

We glance at each other wordlessly. It's clear that Brooke and I are eager to go. Kate looks uncertain, like she wants to escape everything and yet she doesn't feel ready. Jason just looks confused.

But when I head out the door, they follow—about ten feet.

At ten feet, we quite literally bump into Alex Evans. 

Brooke’s sister.