I wrote this portrait piece for a non-fiction class a couple years ago. I could probably rewrite this story every year of my life, but it would never be what I would want it to be or know that it could be. But this is who I was when I wrote it, so I'll leave it at that...
I saw Matt Dill standing a little ways off with his guitar. He was looking back at us in surprise. I didn’t want him to know I was there. He was a quiet, contemplative-type, and I didn’t know much about him other than that he was one of Ryan’s best friends. I didn’t want anyone to know we were there. I felt like such an intruder; I knew Ryan’s close friends would think the same thing. They would see me as someone only there to witness their grief rather than someone who shared it. I was like the uninvited guest. This paranoia made my sadness even more painful and empty because I didn’t have anyone else with whom to cry.
I think I scared Luke. I doubt if in the six years he’d been my best friend that he’d ever seen me look so blank. I’m not even sure how I appeared to other people; they were used to seeing the smiling and cheerful me. But he was with me on the phone the night I’d found out and then again at the wake and the funeral.
When Matt played, everything was better, for a while anyway. I even sang along to a few songs despite usually being too shy to open my mouth and sing along in crowds. I couldn’t join in for every song, though, because I was trying to stay composed and think of things unrelated to the room I was in or the people in it, or the body of my dead friend lying peacefully in one corner. I have no idea how Matt held himself together. I guess he was just so far beyond sadness, past crying over it.
Before I’d left my house for the wake, I’d tied hemp jewelry to nearly every available limb on my body. My sister laughed while she waited for me so we could go. “You think you’re wearing enough hemp?”
“No,” I replied sardonically. In fact, I wished that I had more. Somehow, putting all my homemade jewelry on made me feel better. Perhaps the ritual made it seem as though I was just going to school instead of going to a wake.
Standing in line at the funeral home, waiting to see Ryan one last time, I became very aware of the floor beneath my leather sandals. I thought I would at any second sink into the carpet and disappear; I’m sure I hoped for that. I didn’t want to be seen. I just wanted to get in and see my friend one last time and get out of that sad place as fast as I could. I was also aware that Jack Johnson’s first album was playing on the intercom overhead, and “Flake” was the first song I heard when I came in. I’d never known anyone to do that at a wake, play an album so that everyone could hear it. I liked that, but I was finding it harder and harder to keep myself from shaking.
To avoid any imagined stares, I kept my eyes on the pictures of Ryan through the years. I realized how little I knew of him; the three months that I’d known Ryan were just a glimpse of his whole life. One picture in particular made me smile in spite of myself. In it, Ryan was dressed in a suit coat and tie with an older man whom I assumed was his confirmation sponsor. He looked so awkward with his half smile and broken-out face. I didn’t recognize him like that.
I finally reached Ryan’s parents, both of whom hugged me tightly even though we’d never met. His mom, whose name I knew was Leslie, asked me how I knew Ryan, and I told her in a tiny voice about our class together. I kept saying over and over that I was sorry; what else was there to say? Slowly, I walked over to the casket and, standing a few steps back, looked in. Ryan had let his sideburns extend into a beard, and I almost didn’t recognize him. I was so used to seeing him with a big grin and squinty eyes; that somber face couldn’t have been him. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm just one last time, but I didn’t. I was scared of how that would feel. I’d felt my grandfather’s arm at his wake, and I didn’t want my last memory of Ryan to be a cold stiff arm; I couldn’t touch him. Now I wish I would have.
I didn’t cry when my sister dropped us off at the funeral home, but I thought I might. I didn’t cry while I was looking at the pictures of Ryan even though they made me miss him more. I didn’t even cry when I hugged Mrs. Brice although I had an impossible time trying to speak. I didn’t start crying until I’d walked away from the casket and past Ryan’s friends. That’s when I just let it all go. That’s when I realized that this was really the end. I wasn’t going to see Ryan ever again.
Ryan William Brice had been an assignment. And even though I’d already finished a semester of high school, I had never seen him around before our Intro to Acting class. But there was something inviting about him that I couldn’t help but notice. He wore leather sandals and had dark sideburns that extended down each side of his face and covered his jawbone. His eyes were grayish-blue and his smile was warm yet exciting. Before class, his friends would congregate around him, waiting for him to say something that would send them all to pieces. I wanted to meet this guy, but I kept my distance.
On the second day of class, I did. The first day, our teacher had introduced the class by saying that destiny had placed all of us in the same class. Then she presented a project we would be working on the next class period. We would have to introduce someone to the rest of the class. I can handle that, I thought. I looked around and saw several girls I’d been friends with since grade school. I would have no problem introducing any of them to the class. Unfortunately, our teacher was going to pair us up, presumably with people we’d never met. From that moment on, I imagined interviewing the boy with the sideburns. Sure enough, we were paired up together the next day.
Once everyone in the class had been numbered off, I looked across the room at him as if to say, “Where do you want to do this?” I walked over to his desk where he had already turned the desk in front of him around to face his. I can’t remember if we shook hands when we met or who went first, but I do remember our conversation, partly because we didn’t go beyond the facts and the favorites. I found out his birthday and his parents’ names, and I discovered that his favorite color was tie-dye and his favorite movie was Tommy Boy. When he told me, though, that his favorite bands were the Beatles and Bob Marley, I was hooked. My situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he played guitar and piano.
Our assignment for the following class was the actual presentation of the person we had interviewed. Before the bell rang, Ryan came over to me. I tried to act cool.
“Hey, I lost my notes, but I think I remember most of your answers. I just need you to tell me a few. What are your brother and sister’s names? Andy and Katie?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“And your favorite movie? I Am Sam?”
“Yeah,” I replied again.
“Okay, that’s all I needed.” He walked back to his desk while I stood at mine, amazed that he’d remembered everything but my siblings’ names and my favorite movie.
Just as class was beginning, my acting teacher’s son came in to visit, and we were given extra time with our partners. Sitting on the couch next to Ryan’s desk, I told him that I wanted to introduce him first. He said he was fine with that, and the awkward silence set in. “Well this is great,” he said. Wonderful, I thought, I’m losing him. I had to think fast. My eyes jumped to a picture on the back wall of Bob Dylan.
“Uh, do you like Dylan?”
“What?”
“Dylan. Do you like Bob Dylan?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, he’s not one of my favorites, but I like him.”
Yeeeeeaaaaah, I thought. More awkward silence.
“Do you like Jack Johnson?” he asked.
“Yeah! Do you like Ben Harper? He played on one of Jack’s songs. ‘Flake’ it’s called.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get some of his stuff.” From that point on, we named off bands that we both liked, forgetting the awkward silences that had preceded. Finally, our teacher returned, and the time had come to start the introductions.
I could feel myself getting increasingly nervous as each pair finished and our turn came inevitably closer. Finally, Ryan raised his hand, and we went to the front of the class. I spoke first, as promised, and after I said that Ryan’s dream was to be on Saturday Night Live, I continued with, “And we all hope Ryan’s dreams come true.” Why did I say that? I thought. That’s so cheesy. But it was too late then. Ryan went next, and although he flubbed my father’s occupation and my relationship to John Wilkes Booth’s doctor, everything else was just as I had told him. At the end, he said my name and introduced me as “his new friend.” As we passed each other on our way back to our seats, I thanked him. He stopped for a split second, surprised I guess. I was glad I surprised him. I even surprised myself.
In the three months I knew Ryan Brice, I didn’t know much about him beyond the specifics of his life and his favorite things. I learned what I could from watching him act in our class, but none of that could replace the warmth of a real friendship. Somehow none of that mattered. The lack of a personal connection didn’t change the fact that Ryan greatly changed me, leaving me without a foundation when he died.
The last few years I spent in grade school were some of the loneliest transitional years I can remember, even more so than moving to college. In seventh grade, I found myself practically ostracized from all the girls I’d been friends with since the beginning of elementary school. All my life I’d been one step ahead of everyone, and it was no different then. The girls I’d revered just years before were suddenly bossy and cliquey, and I wanted no part in it. Unfortunately, this left me without any close friends.
By eighth grade, I couldn’t stand it anymore. Instead, I turned to three boys in my class who shared my distaste for the girls in our grade. Luke was one of these boys. I’d had a crush on him pretty much since I’d met him in fourth grade, but he was hung up on Karina, a girl who had no interest in him and couldn’t stand me. Ben was another one. He’d had a crush on me in fifth grade, and when I found out, I completely ignored him until I assumed it had blown over. Looking back then, I felt horrible for doing that because in that last year of grade school, he was my best friend. He was a Goth and a mall-rat and still hung up on me, but he was always there to talk to, and he clearly cared about me. Joey, on the other hand, was not always there. He always joked that he put vodka in his Kool-Aid, but I didn’t believe him—who does that in grade school anyway? Not until high school did I realize that he hadn’t been lying. At recess—when I hung out with this group of guys—he would sit on the ground and shout at people. I just assumed he was a weird kid.
Being friends with these boys didn’t “complete” me or make me fully happy, but they were good enough. We would stand around and laugh at Luke’s little jokes and comments during recess, but I saw them very rarely on the weekends. Every once in a while we would meet up to see a movie that I had no interest in, but usually I stayed home with my family on weekends. That’s just how things were in grade school. I was a girl and they were boys: we occupied ourselves differently away from school. My situation made for a lonely few years.
After meeting Ryan, something inside of me changed. I was suddenly motivated to meet people and make myself happy. In our acting class, he was always making me laugh until my throat hurt when he took part in an improvised skit. Because of Ryan, I wanted to act and improvise and make people laugh too, especially him. I wanted him to know that I was funny like he was. I wanted him to like me and want to talk to me.
From our interview on, I wore a permanent smile. Suddenly, I saw my life in more vibrant and electric colors. I knew high school was going to be different, but I didn’t know just how different it would be or how much more fulfilling my life could become.
In and out of class, Ryan and I didn’t come into contact with each other much, but every so often, I would see him in the hallways. Sometimes he wouldn’t see me, but that didn’t matter; I still felt my heart leap inside my chest. And when he grinned at me and said hello when did see me, well…I had trouble walking up flights of stairs or just down the hall to my locker.
Sometimes in class, I would glance over in his direction, just a few rows to my right, and catch him looking at me. Unfortunately, I was always too shocked to smile or nod or show any sign of recognition when this happened. I guess part of me thought I was imagining the whole thing.
I would see Ryan every time I went to my lit class, the one taught by my quiet tennis coach. He would be standing at his locker, grabbing books and standing in the center of his laughing friends. That was the thing, everyone always looked so happy when they were around Ryan. I can’t say that I was surprised. I never joined him though. I didn’t want to intrude. They were, after all, sophomores, and I was just a freshman.
Maybe if I can think of something halfway important to tell him, then I’ll go talk to him, I thought. I knew he liked Jack Johnson—we’d talked about him during our interview—and I had heard his unreleased second album. Plus, I knew he and his friends had been talking about seeing Ben Harper and Jack Johnson in Columbia that summer, the same concert I was trying to gain permission to go to. That was plenty to talk about, surely.
The next time I walked past his locker, I couldn’t go over to him. I just walked past like I didn’t see him there. Next time, I thought. There’s always next time.
I never did talk to Ryan about the concert, but I looked for him there. I couldn’t find him. I asked someone later if he’d been there. “We wanted to go,” Matt Dill said, “but Brice’s parents were going, and he didn’t want to be with them. I told him we could sit separately, but he didn’t want to do that.” I wish he would have.
My Intro to Acting exam was the last of my first year of high school. Half of the exam consisted of each person standing in front of the class to state what he or she had learned that semester in our acting class. Over the course of the semester I had tackled my intense unease at speaking in front of the class, so I didn’t worry about preparing for my short speech. I had, after all, learned to improvise.
When the time came for the speech portion of the exam, I didn’t want to wait around; I was ready to go for it, for better or worse. I didn’t usually volunteer to participate in sketches we’d do in class, so when I raised my hand early on, my teacher acted a bit surprised. Now, I can’t remember exactly what I said. There were, of course, the tidbits of theater trivia that I said I’d learned, but that was so…trivial. I’d made out note cards with phrases to start with, but towards the end I put them down and took a deep breath. My exact words have escaped me now, but I know I told the audience how this class had “brought me out of my shell” and that I wished them all luck in their futures. As is customary in public speaking, I looked up every once in a while at my audience. One of these times, Ryan was smiling back at me when I glanced his way. I stumbled over my words then and wrapped up my speech as quickly as I could at that point. I returned to my seat and tried to steady my breathing. Funny how a boy’s smile can do that to a girl.
After all the exams were finished, we sat in excited tension for the bell to ring and for school to be out for the summer. Finally, we were released, and we all headed out the door. Somehow, Ryan ended up right in front of me. As we walked out the door, he headed to the left and I started to follow him, almost reaching out to him, even though I had to go to the right. My friend Molly was behind me and kept me from following him. “I’ll never see you again,” I said to him in my head. I was being overly-dramatic, but looking back, that phrase haunts me. I just let him go.
Although I was excited to be finished with the school year, I moped around the rest of the day. I couldn’t believe it. What chance was there that I would see Ryan over the summer? Little to none, I realized. And once we would be back to school in the fall, we probably wouldn’t have a class together, and I would never see him. I knew of a party going on that night that he would probably be at, and I thought about going. I could see him in my mind, playing guitar with Matt Dill while everyone looked on. “Piano Man,” that’s what they’d be playing. I was so jealous, but I didn’t go. I wish I would have.
I was making my way home from Chicago with my family when Ryan died. He died on Tuesday, June 24, 2003. I was sleeping in a hotel in Michigan City, Indiana, when his truck flipped while turning a corner on the curvy road that night. The driver had been drunk, but no one knew if Ryan had actually been driving or if it had been his friend. His friend wasn’t saying anything. The two had been fishing all day and took the country roads at too high a speed on their way home that night. Ryan’s sister Shannon drove up to the scene on her way home from her boyfriend’s. She definitely recognized the truck. But of course, I didn’t know any of this until later. The night Ryan died, I was curled up in a queen-sized bed next to my sister, falling asleep with a smile on my face, smiling because I was thinking about him.
We made it home Wednesday afternoon, exhausted but happy. That night, I dreamt that my family owned a restaurant. Ryan was there, but he was hiding in a bathroom stall. I wanted to introduce him to my cousin, but I decided to leave him alone and wait until he came out, instead walking back into the restaurant. While I was talking to the hostess, I saw Ryan walking along the side of the road with his back to me. But I wasn’t concerned; I just let him go.
Thursday morning, I woke up with “Piano Man” stuck in my head. As I was finishing a late breakfast, the phone rang. My mom answered it, and I could hear my friend Lacey on the other line saying, “Did you hear?” I was in my room by the time my mom heard. When she knocked on my door, I knew something wasn’t right. When she sat next to me on my bed with that concerned look of hers, I expected the worst. And when she said “Ryan Brice” I wasn’t surprised. I just knew already.
Luke called me that night to tell me, even though I’d already heard. He stayed on the phone with me despite my silence, and he agreed to go to the wake with me. I tried to hide the fact that I was crying, but I’m sure he could tell. He didn’t say anything though.
I don’t have many one-on-one memories of Ryan, but I do have the music. So many riffs and lyrics connect me to single moments when I had been picturing Ryan or thinking about something he liked or talked about in acting class. I remember buying Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on my sister’s birthday, just a few weeks after Ryan’s funeral. When we played charades in acting class, Ryan was always using Beatles’ song titles as phrases to be acted out, and I wanted to know what all of it was about; I wanted to hear what he listened to and loved. Every time I listen to that album, I remember my sister’s birthday and my room at the time.
I was still in my first room, the one with yellow walls. My mattress was situated atop the box spring because we’d sold the bunk beds my brother and I had shared growing up. My room had always been peaceful with its yellow walls and soft light, but that room became a prison of bad memories. Nearly every night that summer, I would lie awake after everyone else had gone to bed and listen to a Beatles or Bob Marley album. Lying there on my bed, wearing my tie-dyed shirt and crying until I was too exhausted to cry any more, I found a sort of therapy. Something about the pain of crying so hard that I couldn’t any longer took me out of myself. Listening to sad, memorable music and crying like that became a habit. I don’t know why I tortured myself, but I couldn’t help it. I think I did it to keep that picture of him in my mind. By the fall, though, when I started to get better, I moved into my sister’s old room and painted it a shade of Smirf blue.
When I returned to school for my sophomore year, the routine helped me recover from a long summer. I guess really, all it was doing was helping to numb the pain, but it worked. In October, a memorial Mass was held for Ryan. I was part of the choir for the Mass, so I offered to play the Beatles’ song “Blackbird” on guitar. I was no good on the instrument, but I had learned the song that summer and felt like I owed it to Ryan to give him a sending off with a song by his favorite band. When I’d brought up the idea of performing the song, I was told that Matt Dill had at one point offered to play “Piano Man.” I don’t know why he didn’t.
At the meditation after communion, I was set to play. I’d been practicing so much that my fingers were blistered, but I didn’t feel ready. I sat there waiting, unsure as to what I was waiting for, when I realized that the priest and the soloist of the song were watching me, waiting for me to start. Oh, yeah, I actually have to do this, I thought. My name’s on the program, so I really have to do this. So that’s what I did. I started and didn’t make any mistakes. But I wasn’t really playing; it was all Ryan. There’s no other way I could have finished playing that song if he hadn’t been playing along with me.
I didn’t visit Ryan’s grave on his one-year anniversary, but I have every year since. You can see his gravestone from the road; it’s a giant four-leaf clover that says “BRICE” right in the middle of it. When I’m there, I sit on a little stone bench inscribed with the saying, “If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I’d climb right up to heaven and bring you back again,” and I look at all the flowers, notes, and teddy bears keeping Ryan company. Obviously, he’s not soon forgotten. I still picture him as I remember him best: laughing, seventeen, excited, magnificent, happy. I picture him in class, or out fishing and playing guitar. That’s one comfort I have: no matter how old and unrecognizable I become, Ryan will always look the same to me as he did the day I met him.
On his first-year anniversary, instead of going to the gravesite, I stayed up ‘til midnight, listening to Beatles songs and remembering everything I could about Ryan. That night, I had my window open, and I could hear a group of birds chirping for a long time outside my window. I sat back, smiling, leaning my head against my bed, and let out a long sigh, letting him go. From then on, I let time do what it does best, and I shed my skin. I left the guilt behind and let myself laugh and be happy. But I’ll never forget him; I don’t think forgetting someone like Ryan is possible. He was electric and alive, and he instilled in me the desire to be as alive as he was, even in his death.
