Every Last Word

Somewhere around midnight, I thought about taking my sleep meds and calling it a night. But I couldn’t stop researching, and so by four a.m., I’ve learned a lot about Devon Rossiter.

I’ve been manically opening window after window, clicking on link after link, scanning site after site, but I’m still following this white rabbit down the hole, trying to feed my brain enough information to reach my own personal wonderland.

Like Kyle, Devon’s an impressive athlete, well ranked on the varsity team. Carlton High posts everything from team to individual player stats, so not only can I see her official photo (again, pretty, very little makeup) I can see every point, goal, shot, assist, and steal for every game she played last season.

There are lots of team photos, and in each one, she’s wearing her long blond hair in a ponytail with her bangs pulled back in a sporty-looking headband. There are a few videos, but she’s not in many of them.

Across the Internet, I’ve uncovered a few articles about her. I can’t figure out where she lived, but that would be easy if I really wanted to find out. Even if my mom didn’t represent either side of the sale, I bet her laptop has all the details. I can’t tell where they live now, but I’ve located her dad’s new office in Boston on Google Maps.

Devon seems to be settling in well at her new school, making friends both on and off the team. Her Facebook page is open, so I can see everything, including a long and photographically detailed history of her “almost a year” relationship with AJ. There are pictures from our winter formal—I recognize the background—and I notice that she’s wearing more makeup in these shots, but still not as much as I wear every day. There are photos of the two of them at the beach and the two of them at her niece’s third birthday party and the two of them at various soccer tournaments, including one of her standing in between AJ and Kyle, her arms draped over their shoulders. She checked in at a few movies and tagged AJ, too.

Of course, that leads me to AJ’s Facebook page, but I find his almost completely untouched, save the times she’s tagged him. There’s nothing about him here. Nothing about music. Nothing about poetry. Nothing about his brother or his mom, and nothing that connects him to the people in Poet’s Corner.

With every click, I feel the tightening in my stomach, the adrenaline rush, the need to learn more—not about her, about them. I have to understand this relationship and what’s at the root of that expression on AJ’s face when he’s looking at Devon and not at the camera, which he’s often doing.

It’s not jealousy. It’s my OCD, this inexplicable, uncontrollable need to know one thing, and then one more thing, and then yet another thing, until my brain is exhausted. And tonight, I’m having a hard time reaching that level, because it’s been hours and I still don’t know what it feels like to be in a relationship like this one—to be that close, that connected to someone else—and I need to figure it out in a way no one but Sue would ever understand.

Sue. If she saw what I was doing right now, she’d lose it.

I shut my laptop and let it drop to the floor next to my nightstand. I shouldn’t be doing this. Devon doesn’t live here, and she and AJ aren’t together. And even if she did and they were, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re barely even friends.

My logical mind knows these things are true, but still, when I close my eyes, there’s this image of AJ and Devon twisted up in the sheets together. His mom isn’t home until six o’clock on weeknights. His brother’s never home either. He loved her and he still might. How often did they meet at his house after school? Did they cut classes, spending full days together in his bed? They must have, at least once. Serious relationship, empty house, that’s what you do.

I don’t want to think about the two of them, arms and legs intertwined under his blue comforter, but I can’t fall asleep because I can’t get the image out of my head.