Jessica Sorensen - Saving Quinton

“Nova, I understand that you care about him,” she explains, picking up my duffel bag from the floor. “I just don’t want you to be unable to move past this. I don’t want to see you pulled under like you were with Landon’s death, and Lea said things were getting really bad.”

“They were…are,” I admit as I slide the handle of the laptop bag over my shoulder. “But it’s going to be hard to get over this when I have no idea where he is and I was the only one looking out for him, so no one’s going to even try to find him anymore.”

She walks up to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Well, we can still keep working on his father. Maybe if we tell him what you told me happened…that he might be hurt and in trouble, he might want to help him a little more,” she says, heading toward the door and guiding me with her. “And maybe we can get Tristan’s parents involved, too.”

“I don’t think that’ll work,” I tell her as we go into the living room. “I think they blame Quinton for Ryder’s death.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure they care about their son,” she says. “And maybe if they go looking for him, they’ll find Quinton, too.”

“And what if they won’t? Or what if they do and they find Quinton and make things worse?” I’m wary of her optimism, partly because of what I said and partly because I’m worried there’s no Tristan and Quinton to find.

“I don’t think they will,” she assures me, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And it’s their son too that’s out there and as a mother, I know that despite any angry feelings I’d have, I’d want everyone to be safe.”

I start to cry because I have no hope at the moment and my mom hugs me while I cry, letting me feel the pain because she knows it’s better than keeping it trapped inside. Whether she realizes it or not, she helps. It’s so nice to have so many people in my life who do, and it hurts to think about Quinton who has no one, just wandering around waiting to die like he told me that night. I wish I could stay and search for him, but my mom loves me too much to let me stay and deep down I know that I’m not strong enough at the moment to take on such a huge task. I thought I was when I started this. Thought I could handle this. I’d been doing good, helping at the suicide hotline. But the problem is that I have huge, massive feelings for Quinton, ones that remind me of my feelings for Landon. They make this so much more personal and trigger too much instability inside me.

It’s one of the hardest things to do, getting into my car and driving away from that noisy city, knowing that he could be out there lost in a sea of people who barely acknowledge his existence, who don’t want to see the ugly, dark, messed-up part of life, so they pass by it without giving it a glance, like the lost part of the city Quinton showed me. Forgotten by the brighter side of town.

As my mom drives the Chevy Nova down the freeway, I watch the city behind us, turning on the song Quinton and I were listening to that night we danced in front of the car, the one good time when everything seemed like it was going to be okay—when I thought maybe, just maybe, I was helping him. I mutter the lyrics underneath my breath as the buildings and hazy sky slip farther and farther away until Vegas disappears completely and all that’s left to do is turn around in the seat and face the future.

June 30, day forty-six of summer break

Quinton

Time is becoming nonexistent. Even major events, like the apartment building burning down a couple of weeks ago. Such a big thing, but I barely remember stumbling out of the apartment in the middle of the night, while flames engulfed the building.

No one really knew what happened. Someone said they’d heard gunshots coming from where Dylan and Delilah were living. I’d seen them a couple of times since the whole thing with Trace. Dylan and I even got into a fight. But he was too high to really do anything and so was I.

I wondered if maybe one of them started the fire, but I didn’t stick around to find out—I couldn’t. The cops and fire trucks showed up and that was Nancy’s and my cue, along with everyone else’s who was doing illegal shit there, to bail out and take to the streets.

And that’s where I’ve been living ever since. Sleeping behind Dumpsters, in vacant buildings when we come across them. We sometimes crash at people’s places when we have the opportunity, but that’s rare.

All we really have left is the clothes on our backs and a limited amount of drugs that we buy after stealing stuff when we can, and sometimes Nancy prostitutes herself out, when we’re running really low.

I’d hate my life at the moment, if I could feel hate, but I can’t feel anything except the hungry monster living inside me. He’s taken over every part of me and almost killed off the old Quinton entirely.

“Don’t shoot up right here,” I warn as I pace the alley between a strip club and a pawnshop. There’s a stack of crates at the back, concealed by a Dumpster, and it’s where Nancy I spent last night after the cops showed up at the vacant warehouse we’d been staying at for the past week.

“Why the hell not?” Nancy asks, glancing up at me with starvation in her eyes as she searches her backpack, looking for the one thing that can feed her hunger. Just seeing the look on her face—seeing the need—makes me salivate.

“Because first off, the last thing you need to do is pass out in an alley,” I tell her. “Then I’ll have to stay awake and keep an eye on you.”

She laughs at me from the ground, this hysterical laugh that she gets when she’s super sleep-deprived. “Is someone a little greedy?” she asks. “Afraid you’re going to have to watch instead of taste?”

I stop pacing and glare at her. “Can we please just go somewhere more private?” I glance nervously down at the end of the alley, at people walking by. Always looking over my shoulder, worried someone might show up. I’m not even sure who I think will show up or maybe deep down it’s that I want someone to—a blue-green-eyed girl I still think about no matter how much numbness I put into my veins. I don’t even know if she’s in Vegas anymore or if she went home. And that’s how it should be. I should know nothing about Nova Reed. “Somewhere we can just lie down and enjoy getting high?”

Nancy sighs and then zips her backpack up before getting to her feet. “Where the hell are we supposed to go?” she asks with irritation as she glances up and down the alley.

I rub my hand down my face as I start pacing again. It’s been too long since my last hit. I can feel emotions surfacing, sharper than the needle, more potent than heroin. I need to silence them. Now. Before I melt into the ground. I need somewhere quiet and away from all these people.

I lower my hand to my side, getting an idea. “I think I know a place.”

She nods as she puts her backpack on and doesn’t even ask questions. She just follows me, hoping that I’ll lead her to a place where she can pump her veins full of drugs in the hopes that she can escape whatever she’s running away from. Just like everyone else. Just like me.

Escape.

It takes us a while to travel across the city and toward the less populated side of town. Hours or maybe even an entire day. It’s hard to tell. I know it’s daylight when we leave and the sun has set when we arrive, but sometimes I lose track of time because I become so focused on getting to that one place where I can fly and soar through my past without having to feel it—without having to feel the guilt of everything that’s happened in my life. The guilt of death. The guilt of love. The guilt of existing.

When we step inside, I’m blasted with memories of the last time I was here, with Nova, and I almost turn around. But then Nancy nudges me in the back.

“Hurry up,” she says, heading for the stairs. “I’m dying here.”

I move forward, stepping over the rubble and debris, trying not to think of Nova, but it’s hard. The only thing that keeps me stable is the fact that when I get to the roof, it’ll only be minutes before everything filling my head right now vanishes. So I keep moving, going through the motions of walking, and when we reach the roof I feel like I can breathe again.

Nancy eagerly drops her backpack to the ground beside one of the massive signs and starts taking the spoon and syringe out. I don’t help her. I can’t. Despite how many times I’ve shot up, I still can’t inject myself. The memory of needles and injections bringing me back to the life I didn’t want to live is still too strong. But I always get over the phobia the moment she shoots me up. So I lie down on the ground and stare up at the stars like I did with Nova—like I did that night I died. I keep my eyes on them, waiting with zero patience until the needle enters my vein and slowly makes its way through my body, erasing everything inside me. My guilt briefly goes away and thoughts of Nova leave my mind. It feels like everyone in the world has forgiven me. I feel so much lighter as I float up to the sky, feeling closer and closer to Lexi. And I swear to God that if I could reach my hand out, I could touch her.

Almost there. Almost within reach.

August 1, day seventy-eight of summer break

Nova

I’ve been working really hard to keep busy, keep moving forward, keep going. I’ve been doing as much as I can to distract myself and have been spending a lot of time making video clips. I even got a real camera, or, well, my mom got it for me, I think because she feels sorry for me.

“It’s amazing how fast the last couple of months moved by,” I say to the camera that’s positioned on the kitchen table, aimed at me while I talk and work on the photo album I’m putting together of Landon. “I’m not even sure how it happened. I blame it on my mom and not in a bad way. She’s been working really hard to keep me busy, having me help her organize the house, she’s even helped me create a photo album of Landon, just like I was planning on doing but never was able to start…” I glance down at Landon’s photos and sketches all over the table in front of me and at the photo album pages I’m supposed to be putting them on. “I even went and visited Landon’s grave the other day…it was hard, but bearable, and for some reason it seemed to help with the obsessive need I’d been feeling to watch his video over and over again,” I say as I put a piece of tape on the back of a photo of Landon and me. He’s kissing my cheek and I’m laughing and just glancing at it, it looks so perfect. If I stared at it long enough I’d see the flaws, but I’m not going to—I’m only going to remember the good.

“I still sometimes feel like crying for Quinton …not knowing where he is…the not knowing sometimes feels harder than knowing he’s dead…” I unfold one of Landon’s drawings of a tree and smooth out the wrinkles. “My mom somehow got Quinton’s dad to go down to Vegas and look for him…although I’m a little skeptical about how hard he’s searching for him, since he even flat-out said he didn’t want to. But I heard my mom give him this big huge lecture where she almost completely lost it and yelled at him to be a”—I make air quotes—“‘Fucking father’…I’ve never heard her curse like that before or get that intense.” I tape the photo to the page. “When we first got home, she tried to call Tristan’s parents to get them looking for him, but apparently they were already down there getting Tristan, which would have been good, except Tristan’s parents are assholes…I don’t want to be unsympathetic or anything because I know how hard it is to lose someone you love, but the stuff Tristan’s parents said to my mom about Quinton being responsible for Ryder’s death—it’s completely messed up. To put the blame on someone like that is terrible. I don’t care if they’re mourning. Purposefully going out of their way to tell Quinton he’s responsible for everything that happened is messed up…and it painfully helps me sort of understand Quinton a little bit more…although it doesn’t do me any good now…” I start to choke up and quickly clear my throat a few times, telling myself to keep it together. This happens a lot, whenever I think of Quinton.

I exhale, then add another photo to the page, then turn to a clean page. “I’ve also learned some stuff about Quinton from Tristan, who’s back here in Maple Grove as of a week ago. To make a long story short, I guess around the same time I lost track of Quinton, Tristan almost OD’d. Quinton called the ambulance and then Tristan was taken to the hospital. Then I guess Quinton called Tristan’s parents, who showed up at the hospital and got him to go to rehab. I’m not even sure how they got him to agree to go, but I wish I did—I wish I could find the magic thing to bring Quinton to his senses and realize how good a person he is, despite what he thinks. That the bad stuff that happened to him was out of his control, something I’ve been working on telling myself, too…although it’s still hard. That I could never get through to him enough to help him.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “I failed. I don’t give a shit what my mom says. I failed him, just like I failed Landon, and now all I can do is live with it.”