Chapter Thirteen
3 Years, 31 Weeks, 1 Day
Avery’s house is familiar in all the wrong ways. I park in the same place I always do—easy to back out and easy to drive away fast if I gotta. The music is thumping across the lawn, down into the street, and permeating the gated community. It bounces off the trees and the dozens of cars parked haphazardly in her yard. People are already drunkenly stumbling out the front door, lying on the lawn, wrestling with each other, and chasing each other with toilet paper and the hose.
I smooth my shirt one last time. It’s the Florence and the Machine one I wore here the first time, and I didn’t even realize I was wearing it until I got in the car. My jeans are frayed on the thighs—not because I bought them at some high boutique that purposefully frayed them, but because I’d eaten pavement so many times on my bike. The cool air on my thighs through the fray reminds me how broken the jeans are, and why they’re broken, and how I broke them myself. I did it. I broke them, but I can still wear them, and they work just fine at what they’re supposed to do—cover my fabulous butt.
Things are broken, but they still work.
I get out and pull my jacket closer to me. It’s bitter cold. Did spring not get the memo? Does spring ever get memos? What are they written on, leaves? Petals? The carcass of a newborn deer?
“Getting maudlin this early in the night, are we?”
I look up. Jack’s standing there, in a preposterously gross leather jacket and dark jeans. Wren’s standing by him, looking a little shaken up in his usual plaid shirt.
“It’s sort of my job,” I say. “Provide the searing atmosphere, throw a few shallow but well-meaning compliments, mutter to myself, maybe break a bottle or two.”
“Please don’t break a bottle.” Wren wrings his hands. “We’ve had three people cut themselves already.”
“Whoa, what’s that on your chest, Prez?” I blurt. A little golden star pin that has the number one on it is tacked to his shirt. His glasses slide off as he looks at it, and he pushes them up.
“Um. Just something Sophia gave me. From when…from when—”
“Is that the math rally pin?” Jack interrupts. “Wow. I didn’t know she still had it.”
“Neither did I.” Wren lets out a half laugh. “I mean, I thought she got rid of it a long time ago.”
“Math rally pin?” I ask.
Jack nods. “Back in the day, Wren and Sophia competed in this math rally. They were really into it, invested like only competitive smart kids can get. They studied for weeks, months. Sophia wanted to win so badly. But Wren did. They tied, technically, but the judges gave it to Wren for some extra calculation he did.”
“Sophia was furious at me,” Wren says. “She wouldn’t talk to me for a whole month. So I gave her the pin, and she started crying and said to not be so nice to her.”
Jack laughs, low, and Wren shakes his head, a wistful smile on his face. It’s a history I’m not a part of, but it gives me a warm feeling just to see them remember that time when they were all friends, and close, and cared for one another, without the darkness between them.
“Look, I’m gonna go get a mood fluid. Thirst burst. Flavor saver,” I say.
Wren and Jack raise their eyebrows in sync, and I laugh.
“A drink. I’ll be back.”
I recognize a lot of people—not just Avery’s group is here. She’s invited the not-populars; Wren’s student government friends, the band kids, the hipsters, even Knife Guy. And I know he didn’t just sneak in this time like he usually does, because I see Avery nod at him as she passes, instead of curling her lip.
“Pretending to be civil? Color me surprised,” I say. Avery looks me over. Her hair is straight and glossy again, her skin perfect and makeup on-point. She looks much, much better than usual.
“Sophia wanted me to be nice. And I figured, hell, I can do it once in my life. It might kill me, but I’ll do it for the sake of getting to say I did. I was nice.” She ponders this and sighs. “Should’ve put that on my college résumé. They love nice people.”
I chuckle. “Most people like nice people. Good thing I’m not most people.”
“You’ve never liked me,” she sneers. “And I’ve never liked you.”
“True. But we’re willing to put up with each other. That counts for something, right?”
She stares at me, green eyes flaring. And it’s then I notice she’s been crying. She’s applied makeup over it, but I can barely see red puffiness under her eyes, and her nose is swollen.
“Have you seen Sophia?” I ask.
“I was just talking with her upstairs. She’s been bugging me to tell you to come find her when you get here, so, go talk to her. Quick. Before she explodes.”
“That happy, is she?”
For once, Avery smiles. It isn’t a sneer, or a sour grimace, or a catty, petty grin. It is exactly a smile, no more and no less. It is a younger Avery that shines through in that smile—a lighter Avery. A more innocent Avery. She nods.
“Yeah. She’s happy. She’s really, really happy.”
I pat her on the shoulder and then walk upstairs to the third level. It’s quieter up here but less like a soundproof room and more like the top level of a jungle infested with monkeys in heat. Correction: monkeys in heat with access to EDM. The noise dulls, and I wander around aimlessly, but with a very specific aim. I spot a wisp of platinum-blond hair at the end of the hall, where French doors open to a mini balcony. Sophia’s leaning on the banister of it, watching the stars, a drink in one hand. She’s in a beautiful, lacy white dress with a short skirt and no sleeves, and she looks stunning, like a dove about to take flight.
She hears me coming and turns.
“Hey! It’s about time you came. No drink?”
“You were a little higher on my priorities list. Which is weird because no one comes before booze. Except Tom Hiddleston. But even he has to take a number and wait in line a little.”
She smiles, and I lean on the balcony with her. Someone streaks by below, completely naked and yelling about the “king of alien invaders.”
“It’s a good party. People are having fun, losing their pants—”
“Possibly their minds,” Sophia interrupts.
“—and most definitely their minds. I take it back. It’s a perfect party.”
She giggles, then drinks out of her cup. It’s something blue and frothy, and she sticks out her stained tongue and waggles it at me.
“Gross!” I push her playfully. “You really are sick!”
“I’m contagious!” she insists. “That was my plan all along: hold a massive birthday party, infect you all, and start the zombie apocalypse.”
“’Bout damn time. I’ve been waiting for that thing for years.”
There’s a comfortable silence. I look over and notice then her wrist is decorated with Tallie’s bracelet. It’s just barely big enough, and her wrist is just that thin and tiny. The silver glints in the moonlight. It’s breathtaking.
“I wanted to thank you,” Sophia says. “Properly.”
“For what? Making your life hell?”
“For trying.”
The wind plays with her hair, and she tucks it behind her ear and smiles at me.
“Not many people try. Once they see the real me, the one who’s suspicious and bitter and angry and hopeless, they leave or give up. But you stayed. So I wanted to thank you for that.”
“Wasn’t a big deal. I just…I was just sort of pigheaded around you. I didn’t really do anything.”
“You tried to help,” she insists, grabbing my hand. Tallie’s bracelet is cool on my skin, and her palm is surprisingly cool as well. “You tried to help, and for that I can never thank you enough.”
We stand there like that, our hands joined, me looking at her and her looking at the sky.
“Do you know about Van Gogh?” she asks suddenly.
“Cut off his own ear and painted LSD sunflowers, right?”
She laughs. “Yeah. His paintings…everyone says they’re beautiful, but they’ve always made me a little sad, and scared. They’re frightening—all those bright colors and all that chaos. But I suppose that is beautiful, in its own way.”
I nod, quelling the snark in me to try to enjoy this moment of peace.
“He painted Starry Night while he was in a mental asylum,” she says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Right before he died, he painted a lot of wheat fields. I like those paintings the best—they’re calm, peaceful.”
“I wanna see ’em someday.”
“You will,” she asserts. “They’re really nice. It’s sad, though; he killed himself. With a gun. Well, he tried to. He missed and crawled back to the inn he was staying at, and died in his bed after hours and hours of pain.”
“Jesus.” I suck in air through my teeth. She shakes her head and smiles.
“But his last words were ‘The sadness will last forever.’ And I think he was right, but I also think he was very, very wrong. It doesn’t last forever. Because we don’t last forever.”
The darkness I’d put bars over to appear cheerful at this party bubbles up from my heart. Sophia must see it, because she squeezes my hand gently.
“Hey, it’s okay. Go and get me some more of the blue stuff, will you? I’m not nearly tipsy enough to dance yet, and that’s gotta be remedied.”
“Hah, I know that feeling. I’ll be right back.”
I take her glass and squeeze her hand as I leave. Downstairs, the party is batshit insane and only getting batshittier insaner. I wave to Jack, and he follows me into the kitchen.
“So? Is she all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, she just wanted a refill on the booze. You should go see her. Drag her down here, dance with her, something.”
He flinches, but it’s well-hidden.
“I still haven’t told her.”
“I know.” I nod. “And I haven’t told you some things, either. So. Everybody’s not telling everybody else stuff. It’s fine. Secrets are kind of the crappy bread-and-butter around here.”
“I haven’t told you something very important. And I want you to know it,” he starts, icy eyes burrowing into me.
“Don’t,” I start. “Don’t, seriously, Jackoff. Not now.”
“If I don’t tell you this, Isis, it’s going to drive me crazy.” He leans in. “I need you to know. I want you to know—”
“Isis! Come dance with me!” Kayla appears at my side, obviously tipsy and pulling me by the hand toward the dance floor. Jack’s hand on my other wrist is instant, yet gentle.
“Please, Isis. It’ll just take a second.”
The earnestness in his voice catches me off guard. Kayla doesn’t stop pulling, and I trip over another guy’s foot. Kayla’s pulling keeps me from falling, and I stagger forward. In a split second of shifting bodies I’m enclosed on the dance floor, the music jackhammering straight into my skull. Kayla’s way drunker than I thought she was, because she wraps me in a hug, half swaying with the music.
“It’s almost over,” she shouts.
“What is?”
“School. Graduation. What if I—you’re— You’re the bestest friend I’ve ever had, Isis! What if we get to college and stop talking? What if we stop being…friends?”
Her voice is loud and quaking with emotion all at once. I wrap my arms around her and lean in.
“We won’t,” I say. “I know it’s hard to say that for sure, because the future is the future and we don’t know the future.”
“What?” Kayla knits her eyebrows.
“It’ll be okay, is all,” I assert. “You can’t worry about the future. All we’ve got is right now.”
“You sound like a Hallmark card!”
“And you sound drunk!”
She laughs and releases our hug. I tiptoe and see Jack’s face over the crowd, my heart beating faster with every moment our eyes linger. He wanted to say something, something important to him. Deep down, I know what it is. I know what it has to be—the same thing I felt in the hotel room, in Avery’s sea room on Halloween. It’s the one thing I’m afraid of, the one thing I crave. I want to run to him and run from him all at once, as fast as I can.
I’m scared in the best way.
A little shove from Kayla brings me back to the dance floor. She’s smiling.
“Go on. He’s waiting. Sorry I dragged you off. I had no idea it was deep-talk time with you two.”
“It’s not,” I say shakily.
“It is.” She nods. “It’s okay. You can’t worry about the future. All we got is right now, yeah?”
I push her playfully. “I hate it when you stab me with my own cheesy words, you foul betrayer.”
Her laughter is just barely louder than the music as she turns from me and starts spinning, dancing, her arms high in the air.
It shouldn’t feel like a movie, but it does. As I walk toward Jack, slinking through the dancers and the crowd around the dancers, everything seems to slow. His eyes are patient, the sort of patience I never thought I’d see from him. He’s waiting, a hundred mishmashed emotions on his face. The ice mask I’d seen on him so many times is gone, and all that’s left is a smile half hidden by anticipation, his sky-blue eyes practically glowing in the dimness. There are no butterflies in my stomach, just a gentle humming.
I’m scared, but not afraid. Not anymore.
And then I’m in front of him, and he’s so close, and we both wait for someone else to talk first.
“Isis—”
“I didn’t know—”
We interrupt each other at the same time, and laugh at the same time.
“Sorry,” I say. “You first.”
“What if I want you to go first?” he asks.
“Why? Historically, I haven’t had anything important to say.”
I feel a warmth on my fingers, and look down to see him holding my hand.
“Wrong,” he says. “Everything you’ve said has been important.”
“Even the poop jokes?”
“Especially the poop jokes.” He chuckles. “I’m too serious, you know.”
“Really?” I feign innocence. “I had no idea!”
His hand squeezes around mine, smile twisting sardonically.
“I’m too serious, and this year I’ve learned…” He pauses, looking me over. “I’ve learned it can kill you. From the inside out. I was no better than dead for so long. And it’s cliché and masochistic, but when you punched me that first time—”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“It was like waking up from a coma, like coming up for air from an ocean dive. I was angry. For the first time in a long time, I felt something. My life wasn’t still and silent anymore. It moved. You made it move. You made noise when no one else could.”
My chest feels heavy and tight all of a sudden. His face looks so sad.
“I was sure, after everything that happened, that nothing would ever make me feel like that again. But you came along—in all your irritating, righteous glory—and proved me wrong.”
He holds my hand to his lips, gently.
“There’s something you need to know—”
A scream rips through the party, piercing his words down the middle. That’s typical, but what’s not typical is it doesn’t stop. Someone is screaming, and they’re screaming over and over, and it’s like metal scraping over slate. It is panic and terror, pure and unfiltered, and it’s coming from outside. Jack drops my hand and looks up, and I follow his gaze.
“What the hell is that?” I hiss.
Jack and I push through the crowd that’s running in the direction of the scream. The night air is crisp and people’s breaths float up as a suspended ring of clouds around a certain patch of grass on the left side of the house. People are swearing, some are sobbing, some are frantically dialing on their phones. Jack keeps pushing through the people, Wren pushing with him, but I’m frozen to the ground as I look up and see the balcony just above.
Everything goes quiet, but people’s mouths are still moving. Jack’s screams are barely audible above the ringing in my head. I move achingly slow, like I’m in a sea of sludge. People won’t move. I lean on them until they do, until the last person in the circle parts and shows me Jack leaning over Sophia’s lovely white dress, Tallie’s bracelet around her contorted wrist, her head twisted at a perfect ninety-degree angle and her deep blue eyes staring at me, wide and open, like a mannequin, like a doll, like a bird that never learned how to take flight.
The sadness will last forever. And I think he was right, but I also think he was very, very wrong. It doesn’t last forever. Because we don’t last forever.