I Was Here Read Free Page B

with it,” I say.
    “You do that,” Tree replies. Such open hostility is a shock after a month of people
     tippy-toeing around me.
    Outside Meg’s door, I half expect one of those shrines that have popped up in town;
     whenever I see one, I want to yank the heads off the flowers or throw the candles.
    But that’s not what I find. There’s an album cover pasted on the door: Poison Idea’s
Feel the Darkness
. The image is of a guy holding a revolver to his head.
This
is her roommates’ idea of a memorial?
    Breathing hard, I unlock the door and turn the knob. Inside, it’s not what I expect
     either. Meg was notoriously messy, her bedroom at home full of teetering stacks of
     books and CDs, drawings, half-completed DIY projects: a lamp she was trying to rewire,
     a Super 8 film she was trying to edit. Sue said that her roommates had just locked
     the door and left it as was, but it looks like someone has been in here. The bed is
     made. And much of her stuff is already neatly folded. There are unassembled boxes
     under the bed.
    It will take two hours to do this at most. Had I known, I would’ve taken the Garcias’
     car and done it as a day-trip.
    Sue and Joe had offered me money for a motel, but I didn’t accept it. I know how little
     they have, how every spare cent went toward Meg’s education, which, even with a full
     scholarship, still had all kinds of hidden costs. And her death has been a whole other
     expense. I said I would sleep here. But now that I’m in her room, I can’t help thinking
     of the last time—the only time—I slept here.
    Meg and I have shared beds, cots, sleeping bags, without a problem since we were little.
     But the night of my visit, I’d lain in bed awake next to a soundly sleeping Meg. She
     was snoring slightly and I kept kicking her, like it was her snoring that was keeping
     me awake. When we got up Sunday morning, something mean and hard had taken root in
     my belly, and I felt myself itching for a fight. But the last thing I’d wanted to
     do was fight with Meg. She hadn’t done anything. She was my best friend. So I’d left
     early. And not because of any sore throat.
    I go back downstairs. The music has changed from Phish to something a little more
     rocking, The Black Keys, I think. Which is better, if a strange turn. There’s a group
     of people sitting on a purple velour couch, divvying up a pizza and a twelve-pack.
     Tree is with them, so I walk on by, ignoring them, ignoring the smell of pizza that
     makes my stomach gurgle because I haven’t eaten anything except for a Little Debbie
     snack cake on the bus.
    Outside, it’s misting. I walk a ways until I get to a stretch of diners. I sit down
     at one and order a coffee, and when the waitress gives me a dirty look, I get an anytime
     $2.99 breakfast and figure that this earns me the right to camp here for the night.
    After a few hours and four or five refills, she mostly leaves me be. I take out my
     book, wishing I’d brought some page- turnery thriller. But Mrs. Banks, the town librarian,
     has me on a Central European author kick these days. She goes through phases like
     that with me. Has done ever since I was twelve and she spotted me reading a Jackie
     Collins novel at Tricia’s bar where I sometimes had to hang out when Tricia worked.
     Mrs. Banks asked what else I liked to read, and I rattled off a few titles, mostly
     paperbacks Tricia had brought home from the break room. “You’re quite a reader,” Mrs.
     Banks said, and then she invited me to come to the library the following week. When
     I did, she got me signed up for a card and loaned me copies of
Jane Eyre
and
Pride and Prejudice.
“When you finish, tell me if you like them, and I’ll get you something else.”
    I read them in three days. I’d liked
Jane Eyre
best, even though I hated Mr. Rochester and wished he’d died in the fire
.
Mrs. Banks had smiled at that, then handed me
Persuasion
and
Wuthering Heights
. I tore through those in