Finding Abbey Road Read Free

blessed or cursed? Are we more awake, more aware, or just hopelessly lost in space?
    Is there someone watching us from a similar distance?
    Oh my God, Summer, get a grip.
    â€œYou okay?” Caleb asks.
    â€œFine,” I say, shaking it off. “I’m the one who should be asking you that.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” he says, like it mostly isn’t.
    The second passing bell rings. The last stragglers stamp out their cigarettes, adjust their bras and boners, stow away their cheat sheets, and sprint for the doors.
    Then the building is still again.
    We cross the parking lot and enter through the glass doors of the PopArts wing. We skirt quickly by open classroom doors, until we are in the window-lined hallway that rounds the back of the auditorium.
    â€œAw, man,” says Caleb, “I just remembered there’s a quiz in amplifier physics.”
    â€œShould you go?” I ask him.
    Caleb shakes his head, allows almost a glimpse of a smile. “Pretty sure this is more important.”
    The hall ends and we duck through old blue double doors into the athletics wing, a bleak, windowless hall of faded tan brick walls and stained brown tile floors, reeking of sweat and ever-damp showers.
    The walls are lined with sad trophy cases. Most of the photos and trophies are at least ten years old, some older than that. Once Mount Hope became famous for PopArts, any kid with real athletic prowess went elsewhere.
    We find the case beside the gym doors.
    It’s for the swim team.
    It’s as dusty as the others. Photo corners have curled away from the foil paper background, its shine dulled with time. Some of the medals that hung beside pictures lie on the bottom of the case.
    We look over the items. Apparently Mount Hope had state champion swimmers in the 1980s, and one kid named Topher went to Nationals and even swam in the Junior Olympics.
    â€œThere.” Caleb points to the bottom corner: a photo of four boys standing in their Speedos, arms around each other. They are grinning and holding up the silver medals around their necks. A strip of paper beneath the photo reads:
    Countywide JV Invitational 1991. 200m Medley Relay 2nd Place
    There are no names on the paper, but he’s easy to spot: Eli White, second from the left, smiling brightly and actually looking better in a Speedo than his later, skinny-rock-star appearance would suggest. Actually, he’s got kind of great shoulders, which I tell myself not to think and definitely not to say because eww that’s my boyfriend’s dad.But more importantly, he looks so young, and that smile: it’s got a light that I can’t ever remember seeing in his later photos.
    â€œDid you know about this?” I ask Caleb.
    He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone did. He was only a freshman then.”
    â€œWhen did he and Randy meet?” I wonder.
    â€œI think when Eli was a junior?”
    â€œThis photo is ten years before Eli died. I guess if he stopped swimming after freshman year, and never did varsity, maybe no one ever made the connection.”
    That said, here is another piece of information that seems to be conveniently missing from the narrative about Eli’s death.
    I text our mystery informant.
    Summer: We’re looking at the photo. So Eli was a good swimmer.
    (424) 828-3710: A very good swimmer.
    Summer: We already know he didn’t actually drown. We need more.
    . . .
    (424) 828-3710: When can you meet?
    I show Caleb the message. “My calendar is pretty free at this point,” he says.
    Summer: Whenever.
    . . .
    (424) 828-3710: My associate will pick you up in twentyminutes. By the loading docks behind school.
    The message makes an arctic chill pass through my abdomen.
    â€œYou up for this?” I ask Caleb.
    I wonder if I am.
    He just shrugs. “Does it matter?”
    Summer: We’ll be there.
    10:58 a.m.
    We kill time in the Green Room. Coach says hello and looks at us sideways,