Bevin Abernathy

Sometime during the summer of 1998, Bevin Abernathy got a lip ring. On the first day of senior year, she sat down across from me in Mr. Scanlon’s AP Environmental Science class and whispered, “Kissing is a little weird at first, but then you get used to it.” I stared at her mouth, waiting for the next juicy tidbit to slip past that ring, but it didn’t come. She just smiled flirtatiously, bit down softly on the opposite side of that ring, and ignored me for the rest of the year. Lisa Miller, the quintessential girl next door and my only friend commented, “She’s such a tease.” She was, I thought, but it didn’t stop me from protesting, vehemently defending the honor of the milky-fleshed girl with the piercing that sent my head spinning every time she completed the triad at our lab table.

On June 5, 1999, we all graduated with honors, but Bevin Abernathy made me feel like the dumbest boy who’d ever lived. In the hallway outside the auditorium, she hugged me, and before pulling away, she whispered, “I really wish you would have asked me out.” I felt the cold metal of the ring tickle my earlobe. Then she turned around, caught the rhythm of Linda Abbey, and marched away from me.

“Mark Abrams.” A voice full of phlegm coughed out my name, snatching me from memory. By the time I reached the counter, the portly woman was on her fourth of a series of eight sneezes and searching for a new box of Kleenex. She held up a germ-ridden finger, a signal that she wanted me to wait a moment, and I stepped back, not wanting to get sick the last three days of vacation I had left.

“Just sign here,” she finally said, and I groped inside my interior jacket pocket for the pen I always kept there. “Remember,” she reminded, “you need to return the car with at least a half tank of gas. Otherwise, they’ll charge you extra.”

“Got it,” I said, tipping my hat like an old English gentleman. She returned my gesture with another set of sneezes and an uplifted finger. I didn’t wait for her to return this time. I grabbed the keys and headed out toward the waiting car.

After I’d adjusted the seat and mirrors, I pulled out my phone to read Lisa’s text again. “Do you remember Bevin Abernathy? Well, she died.”

I hadn’t responded to Lisa in the week since she’d sent the text. In fact, I hadn’t seen it until I was sitting in the lobby of the rental company. I’d turned off all notifications and placed my phone on Do Not Disturb in a conscious effort to “unplug” while I was in the Bahamas.

I’d driven all the way to my old neighborhood thinking about the Bevin Abernathy of my youth.

“What’s up, Fool?” Lisa always greeted me this way. It bothered me a lot when we were younger, but now, it just reminded me of how much I missed her.

“When are you going to stop calling me that?”

“Never,” she said, punching me hard in my shoulder before hugging me and kissing my cheek. “You really should visit more,” she said, dragging me toward my parents’ front door.

They were all there: Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Lisa’s parents, her husband, Lucas, their three rambunctious children, my sisters and their husbands, my seven nieces and nephews, and my parents, beaming at me with unnecessary pride. 

After the obligatory greetings and the first home cooked meal I had had in over a year, Lisa insisted that we go for a walk. 

“Should I be worried?” Lucas mocked.

“Always,” Lisa retorted before kissing him passionately. We grabbed our coats and hats and gloved our hands on the way out the door.

“Did you get my text?” she asked as we rounded the corner.

“Yeah. Earlier today,” I said. “What happened?”

“Cancer. She beat it the first time when we were in our twenties, but this time…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. 

We walked along in silence until we reached the football field. 

“The first time I saw her was right here.” I grabbed the chain link fence and leaned my weight onto it. 

“I know,” Lisa laughed. 

Bevin Abernathy, a lanky freshman, ran up to me at dismissal and said, “I need to do something on a dare. Don’t freak out. Ok?”

“Ok,” I said, and she took both her hands and squeezed my buttocks counting to ten with the Mississippis in between before running away giggling with her group of friends.

“You turned so red!” Lisa reminisced. 

“I did not,” I objected. But I did, and the burning in my cheeks lasted all that night, causing my mother to wonder if I had a fever.

“Did they bury her yet?” I asked.

“Yeah. This afternoon. But if you’re up to it, her repast is in the gym.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah. They wanted to do it before Christmas. You wanna pay your respects?”

“I’m not dressed for it.”

“You look fine, Mark. Let’s pop in just for a minute. It may do you good to get some closure.”

“What are you talking about, Lisa? What do I need closure for?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t been kicking yourself for nearly 25 years for not asking that girl out.”

She was right, but I didn’t like it. “I’ve dated plenty of women, Lisa. I almost married a couple.”

“Yeah, but none of them were Bevin Abernathy.”

I pushed my weight back to my feet and stood and looked at Lisa.

“Come on, Fool. Let’s just pop in. Ok?” She was pulling me toward the main entrance of the school, and I didn’t fight it.

Kids were running between tables while adults were standing in small huddles laughing or doing a slide on the makeshift dance floor. 

“Why does this look like a wedding or family reunion?” I was semi-appalled at the atmosphere.

“Shut up, Mark. You can’t tell people how to grieve.” Lisa waved to a group of women who looked vaguely familiar to me and left me standing alone near the door. The DJ grabbed the microphone and announced, “This was one of Bevin’s favorites.” The soft intro strummed in before Natalie Imbruglia began the lyrics to “Torn.” I sat in an empty chair near the bleachers and remembered Bevin Abernathy in the blue beaded gown at Homecoming during our junior year. 

“Everyone’s sleeping on how good this song is,” she said to me as I stood dateless near the punchbowl. 

“It’s ok,” I said, trying to fill the air with teenaged nonchalance. 

“Ok?” She was insulted. “Don’t you hear what she’s singing?”

I got up and walked to the exact spot, as best I could remember, where the punchbowl sat on the table in front of an offended Bevin Abernathy and an oblivious Mark Abrams. I closed my eyes, like I did back then, and listened, waiting to hear what Bevin wanted me to hear, and I hoped when I opened my eyes, that she would be standing there again in that sea blue dress, begging me with only her eyes to hear what I needed to hear. Back then I didn’t, and she shrugged her shoulders and gave me a polite smile before disappearing into a crowd of friends singing too loudly and off key.

“Did you know my mom?” I looked over my shoulder and saw a pale girl of about twenty with tear streaks cut into her foundation. She held our yearbook tightly to her chest, and I realized she must be Bevin’s daughter.

“Yes,” I said. “We went to high school together.” 

“Really?” She was smiling. “Can you show me your picture?” She was handing me the yearbook.

“Sure,” I said, flipping to my picture, right next to her mother’s with the lip piercing and bob haircut. 

“Wait,” her eyes popped, “You’re the Mark Abrams?”

“I’m not sure what that means, but yes, that’s me.”

“Mom said she had the biggest crush on you, but you never asked her out.”

I felt myself blushing with embarrassment. 

“I was really shy, and she was so popular and pretty and wild.”

“Wild!” She laughed. “Mom was the biggest nerd. She said she thought you would like her because you were a nerd, too.”

“I did like her. Too much, I think. I froze whenever she got near me.” 

She laughed. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that my mom would get a kick out of you being here. She was always in love with you. Did you know she got a lip piercing just to impress you?”

“What?” I was astonished. “No, she didn’t.”

“Yes, she did! And it got infected and everything. My grandma wanted her to take it out, but she refused and suffered through the healing all summer just to show it off to you on the first day of school.”

I laughed, too, now. 

“I think it’s really cool that you came here for her tonight, Mr. Mark Abrams.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss…” 

“Abernathy Rose.”

“Miss Abernathy Rose. Your mom was very memorable to say the least.”

“Let me introduce you to my dad.”

“What? No, that’s ok.”

“No, he will love seeing you.” She reached for my hand and led me toward a man sitting alone at a table.

“Dad, you will never guess who this is.” He looked up inquisitively. “This is Mark Abrams.” Recognition of my name made him stand on his feet and hug me. My body stiffened. 

“Man, I owe you the biggest gratitude.” When he pulled away, I could see him beaming. “Please sit down. I gotta tell you this.”

I grabbed a chair and sat down between Abernathy Rose and her father. “Bev and I were in the same biology class in college. I was this awkward kid who hid in my books, you know. Whenever she came in, I would stare at her, and every time she would notice, I would pretend I was taking notes or something. Anyway, one day I was packing up my bag after class ended and Bev walks up to me and lays one on me. She just kissed me, Man. Never said a word to me before that, but laid one on me. I was shocked, Man, and couldn’t move. Then, cool as ever she looks at me and says, ‘You can thank Mr. Mark Abrams when I marry you.’” 

“What?”

“Yeah, Man. I swear. That’s what she said.” He began to cry, but he was grinning, remembering that first kiss. 

“That’s wild!” I said, laughing.

“You telling me, Man. That girl was something. Bravest there ever was.”

“I can’t believe she said that.”

“Well, she did, and I gotta thank you, Man. It’s because of you that I didn’t have to be brave.”

I laughed, and realized I was crying, too. I remembered then that she had died and offered my condolences. 

“Thanks, Man, really. It means the world to me that you’re here right now. I know you’re probably here for the holidays, but for real, if you’re ever in town, please come have a beer with me.”

“I will. It will be my pleasure.”

“Oh, and since you’re here. Take this.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two gold rings. One was an engagement ring, and the other was the lip ring I’d stared at every day of our senior year. “She got it to impress you, but she really loved it. She said it made her feel courageous.”

“Oh, no. I can’t.”

“You can, and you will,” he said. “I had the woman. You can have the ring.” He was smiling smugly now, but his eyes were very friendly. 

“Thank you,” I said, taking it. 

I saw Lisa standing by the door and said my goodbyes. 

“She’s just like her mother, isn’t she?”

“Spitting image,” I said. 

We walked home in silence. When we stood under the porch light, Lisa asked, “You ok, Fool?”

“Yeah. It was nice reconnecting with Bevin Abernathy. Thanks, Lisa,” I said, running my thumb around the lip ring I’d slipped onto the tip of my pinky, remembering how it felt on my ear on graduation day.