Tara Kelly - Harmonic Feedback

The police asked for IDs and kept asking questions. Questions I couldn’t answer. Justin told them we’d found her like this. Over and over. They acted like they didn’t believe him.

Justin was led to a squad car and cuffed. All I could think about was Naomi. How lifeless her face looked.

A female police officer patted me down and shined a light in my eyes. She asked me if I’d smoked or ingested any illegal substances. I told her about my meds.

“What is your diagnosis?” she asked.

“Asperger’s and ADHD.”

She nodded and wrote something on a notepad. “What’s your relationship with Scott Reynolds?”

I scanned the area for him. He was on the ground in cuffs. More paramedics were checking him out. “I don’t have one. He’s Naomi’s boyfriend.”

She asked more of the same questions.

“How many times do you have to ask me? I already told you, goddamnit!”

“You can answer them at the station, if you’d like. Your choice.” Her voice was cold. Didn’t she know that I needed to be with my friend?

“Just answer them, Drea!” Justin called to me. “It’ll be okay.”

I took a deep breath and finished answering her. They pushed Scott into the back of a squad car. Kari and Roger were nearby somewhere. I could hear their voices at least.

Mom appeared at some point. She leaned against her car door, her face crumpled, fingers hovering over her mouth. Grandma stayed inside the car.

They finally let me go, saying they’d call me with more questions. I glanced over at Justin. He didn’t have the cuffs on anymore. His sister was talking to him.

Mom hugged me tight. I tried to tell her what happened. She said she knew and she’d take me to the hospital.

Justin walked over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I rested my head against his chest, closing my eyes. His heart was still racing.

“Are they letting you go?” I asked.

“Yeah. Do you want me to ride with you to the hospital?”

I nodded, squeezing his hand.

“I’m going to go with them,” he called to his sister.

Grandma glanced at us as we got into Mom’s car. I expected her to start yelling, but she didn’t say a word. Her mouth formed a straight line, and there was something different about her eyes. They were softer somehow.

Naomi’s dad was a crumpled ball outside the hospital entrance. One look at his shaking hands, and I knew. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Mom and Justin moved to either side of me as we approached him. Grandma trailed behind us, still silent.

“Tom?” Mom asked.

Naomi’s father looked up at us with trembling lips. I’d never seen a grown man look so frightened. “She’s gone. My little girl is gone.”

Mom knelt down and put a hand on his back. He buried his face in her shoulder, his entire body shuddering.

Justin wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close.

“What do you mean?” I asked him. “She’s inside. Isn’t she?”

He pulled away from Mom and shook his head at me. “She had a heart attack in the ambulance. They couldn’t”—he sucked in his breath—“they couldn’t revive her.”

I backed away from him, the world blurring around me. “No. Tell them to try again! She can’t be. She can’t.” My breath came out in short bursts.

Strong arms pulled me close, but I shoved them away. Someone screamed. A high-pitched whirlwind in my ears that wouldn’t let up. It was coming from my raw throat.

I collapsed on the cement, and Justin held me tight. His body shook against mine as he rocked me back and forth. Someone with a scratchy ring held my hand. Grandma.

Naomi couldn’t be dead. Not the girl with the big blue eyes and the hearty laugh. Her voice was too strong. She was going places. They must’ve made a mistake. She deserved another chance.

I deserved another chance.

THE SUN BROKE THROUGH the clouds the day of Naomi’s funeral. And the birds chirped. People mowed their lawns and walked their dogs. Like they didn’t know the world had lost someone special.

Naomi made it into the local newspaper yesterday. teen’s death breaks up major drug ring, the headline read. Scott faced many charges, including manslaughter. Justin said he’d probably ratted everyone out within five minutes.

Naomi’s official cause of death was a meth overdose. Justin said a dose that makes one person twitchy can kill another, depending on how their body reacts. Naomi probably didn’t know she’d taken too much.

I scanned the comments on the newspaper’s Web site. Some of the comments were nice, but others were cruel. None of these people knew Naomi, despite what they claimed.

I know the Quinns. Believe me, she comes from a messed-up gene pool. This isn’t surprising in the least.—R.L.So Bellingham lost another junkie. How is this newsworthy?—AnonLook at it this way. That’s one less shitty driver on the roads. Lord knows we got enough of them.—Linda M.What does driving have to do with anything, Linda? Naomi Quinn was the product of bad parenting. Nuff said.—Anon

I typed my own comment. I wanted them to know that she was a person. Not just some name to trash.Naomi Quinn befriended me a month ago when no one else would. No questions asked. She told me I was the coolest girl she’d ever met. She told me I was pretty. Things nobody ever said to me before. She had a singing voice that was full of life and passion. A voice that touched anyone privileged enough to hear it. No, she wasn’t what you would call normal or perfect. But who is?So keep making your ignorant comments. But just remember that Naomi was a real person. And our lives won’t be the same without her.

Grandma made her way down the stairs. She hadn’t said much to me the last few days. Justin and Mom hovered around me practically every minute, asking if I was okay.

“Are you ready to go?’ she asked.

I slumped in my chair. My legs felt like tree trunks. “I’ll never be ready.”

Grandma walked over to my bed and sat down, her eyes combing my face. “I had a brother once. Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“His name was Paul. He was drafted in World War Two—got shipped to Japan. I was only four years old when he hugged me good-bye, but I remember everything he was wearing that day. Everything he said. He gave me his guitar—a Martin—and made me promise I’d play it. Even if he didn’t come back.”

“And he didn’t come back?”

She lowered her eyes to the floor. “No. He was a prisoner of war—almost made it out alive too. But his friend fell during the Bataan Death March. They’d make the soldiers walk for days without food or water and kill anyone who stopped. They caught Paul helping his friend up, and they killed him for it.”

“What happened to his friend?”

“He survived to tell the story. But even at that age, I remember feeling cheated. Paul was only eighteen. He had his whole life ahead of him, and I never got the chance to know him. It’s hard losing anyone, Andrea. And it’s really hard when they go before their time. So in that sense, no, you’ll never be ready. But it does get easier. You get to the point where you have no choice but to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and keep living.”

I couldn’t imagine that. Nothing felt real. I just wanted to wake up and see Naomi standing at the foot of my stairs again. Begging me to check out her drum set.

“Did you play his guitar?”

She smiled. “I did. Even did a little tour around the country with my sister. We dedicated every set to Paul.”

“Do you still have it, the guitar?”