“Let me get yours, too. What do you want?”
“A latte. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
I hold my breath as I follow Cole outside.
“That’s not Will, is it?” Cole says. “He doesn’t look anything like what I pictured.”
“No, that’s not Will.”
“Did you guys break up?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry. Stella said you were so in love.”
He said her name. “Things change, I guess.”
“Evie, it’s so good to see you.” He hugs me again. I just want to get this over with. The longer it lasts, the closer we are to talking about it. About her.
“I tried to get into the hospital when I found out Stella died,” he says. I can’t do this. I can’t listen. I need him to shut up. I need him to stop saying her name. “Dan called to tell me, even though I know he wasn’t supposed to, but somehow Stella convinced him. Her parents didn’t invite any of her friends to the funeral. Can you believe that?”
I can’t breathe. Fear turns into claws that strangle me from the inside.
“Evie?” he says. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say. And before I have a chance to figure out why I said that, I start crying.
This is not supposed to happen. I am not supposed to be this weak.
Cole throws his arms around me and I hug him back. It feels so good to be in someone’s arms who knew her. It almost feels good to be crying, to share this pain with someone who understands. I could have been doing this all along with Caleb. We could have been helping each other get through this together. I need to call him. I need to make things right between us. I need him.
“I miss her so much,” I say, and it feels like the only honest thing I’ve said since I’ve gotten out of the hospital.
“Me too.” Cole sniffles. “In some ways, her being in the hospital got me ready. I already had some practice getting used to her being gone. But no one can ever really be ready for something like that.” He takes my hand. “I never had a chance to thank you. For that night when you set up the Skype date for Stella and me. I can’t tell you how much that meant to us. It was the last time we got to talk.”
That seems so long ago, back when I was someone else. Back when I was someone kind and generous. Back when the world still had Stella in it and I was supposed to be dead.
This is not safe. Talking to Cole is not safe. Letting him in will only hurt both of us. I feel myself harden. Whatever opened up inside me when I saw him closes. My tears dry.
“I have to go,” I blurt out. I need to flee. I need to escape before more memories come.
“Oh,” he says, flinching. “Okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but it’s too late. I can’t take it back. I want to scratch my eyes out. “It was good to see you, Cole. Really good to see you.” I start backing away. I wish he would stop looking at me like that, with such kindness and warmth, as if I deserve it.
“Her hat looks good on you,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Maybe we can get together sometime,” he says. How could he want to hang out with me, when it’s my fault she’s dead? She never would have snuck out that night if it weren’t for me. I was the reason she put herself at risk.
“I have to get back to my friend,” I manage to say without breaking into tears.
A sudden fury burns through me. Wait a minute—it’s Cole’s fault too. He shouldn’t have agreed to pick us up. He knew it was dangerous. He knew Stella could get sick, but he did it anyway. How could he be so selfish?
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I guess I have to go back to work.”
I can’t even meet his eyes when I say good-bye. My feet feel like lead as I walk back into the café, and I can feel Cole’s eyes burning their sadness into the back of my neck. I am a horrible person. He didn’t deserve that. He loved her as much as I did, maybe even more. He deserved kindness. He deserved someone who would at least hug him back. Why did I have to be so mean?
I find Marcus sitting at a table with our drinks. “Can we go outside?” I say, trying to look as cheerful as possible. “It’s such a beautiful day, we should go somewhere, don’t you think?” Somewhere far from here. Somewhere without walls. Somewhere I can smoke this joint burning a hole in my purse. I must get out of here. Now.
“Sure,” he says. “Let me just get these to go.”
I walk out the door without telling Cole good-bye. I take deep breaths. I count in—one, two, three, four. Out—one, two, three, four. I struggle to keep myself from bolting down the street.
“Who was that?” Marcus says as he meets me outside. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”
“Nobody,” I say, but that is so, so far from the truth.
Marcus doesn’t push it. He says he has the perfect place to take us.
“The graveyard?” I say as Marcus turns left off of Pleasant Valley into Mountain View Cemetery.
“Have you ever hung out here?” he says. “It’s the most peaceful place in all of Oakland. Trust me. It was designed by the same guy who did Central Park in New York City.”
We climb the hill on a narrow, winding road, passing ancient gravestones and giant, ornate tombs like little stone palaces, with famous Bay Area names—Ghirardelli, Merritt, Crocker, Chabot, Tilden.
“Some of these are a hundred and fifty years old,” Marcus says.
“I never knew this place was so big.”
“Yeah, it’s the whole side of the hill. I love going for walks around here. Especially at night.”
“They let you in at night?”
“Well, no. Not really. I sort of let myself in.”
We finally crest the hill and Marcus parks on the side of the road next to a grassy area under a huge, old oak tree. “Wow,” I say as I take in the view. “You can see the whole Bay from up here.” It is so similar to another perfect view, one that burned itself in my memory the night that changed everything. I see the same outlines and shapes, the same landmarks, but this one is full of colors and textures and details, while the other was made of just darkness and light.
Marcus pulls a blanket out of his trunk and lays it out on the grass. “See?” he says. “Emergency nap blanket.” We sit there in silence, drinking our lukewarm coffees. The only sound is the fluttering of leaves on the trees and the occasional bird chirp. This is way better than any park.
“It’s so much easier to think when you’re surrounded by dead people, don’t you think? Live ones are just so loud.” He has no idea how true this really is. “Evie,” he says. “I have a serious question for you.”
Uh-oh. “I have a serious answer.”
“Okay,” he says. He is silent for several moments, then says, “That was the dramatic pause. Did you like it?”
“Very nice.”
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“What three things would you take with you in the apocalypse?”
“Hmm,” I say. For some reason, it seems like a perfectly reasonable question at this moment. “It depends on what kind of apocalypse.”
“Zombie.”
“Sturdy boots. A good backpack. A machete, definitely. To cut off their heads.”
“Biblical.”
“Boots. Backpack. And a Bible? No, probably still a machete.”
“You’re very practical.”
I am starting to like this feeling of being nervous and excited all at once. It’s like the tingle in my chest when my pain pills kick in. It’s the thrill of feeling something different.
“I have a question for you, too,” I say, making my voice sound way braver than I actually feel.
“Hit me.”
I try to act as cool as possible. I don’t even look at him. “Do you smoke weed?” I say.
He laughs so hard he nearly spits his coffee out. The tingle in my chest shuts off, squeezes tight. Did I read him wrong? Funky car, ironic T-shirts, misfit attitude—does that not fit the profile of a pot smoker?
/> “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before. I guess I’m not used to hanging out with somebody who doesn’t already know my reputation.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I’m basically considered the school stoner.”
Relief spreads through me. “Is that an accurate assessment?”
“I guess. Though when I think of ‘stoner,’ I think of someone who’s stoned all the time. I’m only stoned most of the time.”
“Are you stoned right now?”
“Nope. Thought it might not be the best way to impress a pretty girl.”
The compliment makes me brave. “Do you want to be?”
“Are you offering?”
I open my purse, find the joint I tucked inside an old breathmint tin, and present it to him in the palm of my hand. It is such a silly little thing, like a white twig, but I am ridiculously proud of it.
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” Marcus says with a smile. “Ladies first.”
“No, you. I insist. You’re my guest.” I hand him my lighter.
“All righty then.”
I watch him as he lights the joint and inhales. He’s obviously done this more than a few times. I try to match his confidence and ease when it’s my turn. I imagine the ghosts of all these dead people around us, watching us, laughing at me.
“So what’s your label?” he says, holding in his smoke. He exhales and I’m lost for a moment in a cloud of his breath. “If I’m the school stoner, what are you?”
I cannot tell him I’m a former cheerleader. I cannot tell him that, until a few days ago, I was the girlfriend of the varsity wide receiver. I cannot tell him I sit at the popular table. And I definitely can’t tell him about Cancer Girl.
“I’m not really anybody,” I say. “I’m kind of a loner.” I know no one would ever describe me this way, but it’s what feels the most true.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Mysterious, beautiful loner. I bet all the jocks are secretly in love with you.”
You have no idea.
“So where do you go? Berkeley High? North Berkeley?”
“North Berkeley. What about you?”
“You’ll never guess.”
“Oakland Tech?”
“Think richer.”
“Skyline?”
“I, my dear, am a Templeton man.”
“What? Are you serious? Don’t you wear, like, suits to school? Aren’t you supposed to be planning for world domination? Why are you hanging out with a mere mortal like me? I had no idea you were so fancy.”
“You want any more of this?” He holds up the half-finished joint.
“No, I’m done.”
“I’m not fancy,” he says, stubbing it out on a gravestone. “My dad’s the fancy one.”
“What’s so fancy about your dad?”
“He’s the chief judge of the United States District Court for the Northern District of California,” Marcus says in a hoity-toity voice.
“Wow, that is fancy.”
Marcus shrugs.
“That must make it extra hard for you to break the law.”
“Not really.” He hands me the joint. “I’m pretty good at it, actually.”
“You know what I mean. It must be extra bad if you get in trouble, right?”
“Let’s just say that as long as I don’t get caught, what I do in my spare time is not my father’s top concern.”
“My parents either.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
I have to think about this for a moment. I have to decide just how much I want to let him in. I decide I can tell him the truth while leaving out some of the details. “It’s like they have this idea about who I am and they really want to believe it. So they’re very selective about the stuff they notice.”
“I wonder if all parents are like that.”
“Some more than others, probably.”
“They can’t ever really see you,” Marcus says, looking into the distance, his eyes glassy and heavy. “No matter what you do to get their attention. They’ll only ever see what they want to see.”
“What doesn’t your dad see about you?”
He smiles but it doesn’t mask the sadness in his eyes. “This is really good weed.”
“It’s medicinal.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From a friend.”
“Can she get more?”
“She moved away, unfortunately.” For a second, I wonder if I could believe this. If I say it enough times, maybe I can convince myself it’s true.
“Too bad. The weed I get is pretty good, but not as good as this.”
“You’re not going to answer my question, are you?”
“Tell me about your leg.”
Of course. It had to happen sometime. “It’s not that interesting.”
“So tell me.”
Part of me wants to tell him. The weed and the view and his arm touching mine makes me want to tell him a lot of things. But not this. If he can keep his secrets, I can keep mine.
“Car accident,” I say. “Pretty boring.”
“Was it gory?”
“Not really. My mom’s car got side-swiped on the freeway, we ran into a barrier, and my leg got knocked around. There wasn’t even any blood.” It is way too easy to lie. I could get used to this.
“You act like it’s no big deal.”
“It’s not, really. It’s not like it makes me special or anything. No one will even know in a couple of months when I’m off the cane and have healed completely.”
The sky is turning the orange-pink of almost sunset. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, right now, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that. I think Marcus is happy too, but there’s an edge to his happiness, like he can’t quite accept it, like there’s some deep residue of an old sadness that won’t let him go. I want to touch his sadness. I want to reach inside him and pull it out and tangle it with mine.
“Most people spend all their time trying to convince people they’re special,” he says. “But you’re trying to convince me you’re not.”
I lean against him, his whole side warm touching me. The back of his hand brushes mine. I tilt my head without thinking, resting my cheek on his shoulder. We fit together perfectly.
“You know what, Evie Whinsett?”
“What, Marcus Lyon?”
“I don’t like many people, but I like you.”
The sky explodes in color and light.
“I like you, too.”
“Okay, good.”
“Good.”
I don’t want to leave. I could stay in the cemetery forever. Marcus and I could live in one of the stone crypts, plant a little vegetable garden out front, steal from people’s picnics when they’re not looking. We already have a blanket. What more could we need? We could stay here until we get old and die, then we’d already be in the perfect place to get buried. But I promised Mom I’d be home for dinner.
I get Marcus to drop me off in front of a restaurant a couple blocks away from Children’s Hospital, where I say I’m meeting a friend. He offers to park and stay with me until she arrives, but I manage to convince him I’m fine on my own.
“You’re so tough,” he says before I step out of the car. If only he knew.
I turn to leave, but he reaches out and catches my hand in his as I move to open the door.
“Wait,” he says.
“For what?” I say.
“I don’t know. I’m just not ready to let you go.”
We lean in to each other. Our foreheads touch. His musky smell makes me dizzy. “Evie,” he says, and it sounds like the first time my name has ever truly been spoken. His breath gives me life. He names me.
I am wearing Stella’s hat. I am fearless. I know how to get what I want.
I tilt the hat up and lean forward. I place my lips on his. His mouth feels perfect on mine. Warm. Soft. Delicious. I could inhale him. I
could eat him up.
I leave his car in a daze and float the block to Children’s. I can’t get the grin off of my face and I don’t try. I don’t care that Mom’s car is already there when I round the corner, that she sees me come from somewhere besides inside the hospital.
“Where were you?” she says as I get in the car.
“I left early. I went for a walk while I was waiting for you.”
“In this neighborhood? At this time of night? Are you sure that’s safe, honey?”
“It’s not even totally dark yet. Plus, I’m tough,” I say, leaning my seat back and putting my feet up on the dashboard. “God, Mom. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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twenty-one.
KASEY’S COMING TO DINNER TONIGHT. MOM INVITED HER without even telling me. These days, Will can just decide we’re not broken up and act like nothing happened, and Mom can decide to invite my friends over for dinner, and I don’t get a say in any of it.
I’m in my room, still giddy from a phone conversation I had with Marcus right after school. Unlike everyone else in my life, he talks about real things. He has opinions on issues besides prom dresses and sports teams and school gossip. It’s like everyone else I know is in black and white and he’s the only person in full color. Everyone else is a robot and we’re the only real people with real thoughts and real feelings.
When I get excited, I have to listen to this song from Stella about all the things the establishment wants to do to control us. I turn it up really loud and jump around my room on my good leg hitting things with my pillow.
This is what I’m doing when Mom knocks on the door and says, “Dinner’s ready, honey. Kasey’s here.” It feels like they’re forming an army and Kasey’s been recruited for their side. It’s four against one in the Whinsett family now.
I need reinforcements. I need strength. So I take Stella’s hat from my desk and place it on my head.
“That’s interesting music,” Mom says when I open the door. “What do you call that?”
“It’s called music, Mom.”