I sit on Jenica’s bed while she rummages around in the closet. Her room is so tidy, so sparse and clean, not at all like a normal teenager’s. She’s always been like this, even as a kid. It’s like she was meant to skip childhood and go straight to being a forty-year-old woman with a great career and a solid marriage, like her entire youth, all of its silliness and manic uncertainty, is just a nuisance until her real life starts. I’ve always secretly admired her for this, for her inexhaustible confidence. She’s always seemed to know exactly who she is and exactly what she wants. She never seems confused about anything.
“Here you go,” she says, handing me the dress in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. As I take it out, I remember the night she wore it, standing in the living room while her junior year boyfriend slipped a corsage on her wrist. She was wearing makeup, her hair was in a fancy updo, and she looked so beautiful, so glamorous compared to her usual, plain bookworm self, and I was jealous. I couldn’t wait until this year, until I could finally go to prom too. I had just received my first diagnosis at that point, and it seemed like such an extravagant wish, but one I was determined to get.
And now, that wish is coming true, but it seems like a chore. In a year, everything can change. The world can turn upside down. A wish can turn into a curse. But back then, going to prom with Will was enough of a reason to want to survive.
Jenica zips me up and I stand in front of her full-length mirror. I have gained some weight, but the dress still sags in too many places, most noticeably the bust. The spaghetti straps are hopelessly loose. The tiny blue sequins I thought so magical when Jenica wore it now seem dull and misplaced. But the dress is good enough, I guess. It has to be.
I can see Jenica standing behind me in our reflection. She tries to smooth my patchy hair with her hand. She licks her finger and tries to style the front into some sort of side bang.
“Did you really just rub your spit in my hair?”
“Shh,” she says. “I’m working.” She fusses a little more, but I don’t see much of a difference. She stands back and says, “There. Pretty good.”
“Do you think this’ll look good with tennis shoes?”
“It’s going to have to,” she says. Then, after not even a beat, “Are you and Will getting back together?” Jenica can always be counted on to be direct.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t think so.” She fluffs the back of my hair with her fingers. I fight the urge to close my eyes and lean into her hand. “He thinks you are, though.”
“I know.”
“For some reason that guy is crazy about you.”
“I have no idea why.”
She shrugs, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She steps out of the reflection. “The dress fits well enough,” she says.
That should be my cue to go, but strangely, I don’t want to be done here. “I’ve kind of been seeing someone,” I say, and I realize this is the first I’ve ever spoken of Marcus to anyone out loud.
“Really? Who?” Jenica sits down on the edge of her bed. I could sit next to her. We could talk about boys like real sisters. But I stay standing.
“He goes to Templeton.”
“Wow, you got yourself a Templeton man?” She looks genuinely impressed. “You may not be as hopeless as I thought.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to show how much that stings. “Maybe.”
“I was kidding,” she says. “I don’t think you’re hopeless.”
“It’s okay.”
The silence that follows is bigger than us. Bigger than this room and this house and this family and our history together.
“Evie,” Jenica says, and we lock eyes. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”
I feel so awkward standing in the middle of the room in a formal gown and bare feet. Jenica’s eyes burn holes in me. I feel naked, exposed. I am a specimen on display, being poked at, prodded. She is too close. She sees too much. I have let her in too far, and now I need to push her back out before she sees anything more.
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my clothes from the floor. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Thanks for the dress.” I move toward the door.
“We can talk, you know.” No, Jenica. No, we can’t.
“Yeah,” I say, and I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I have just enough of Stella’s weed left for one joint. I will be able to smoke away this mistake, just barely. I will inhale stillness. I will inhale clouds. I will exhale this fog of sadness and regret that follows me out of Jenica’s room.
I wish my parents drank. I wish they had a liquor cabinet I could raid for reinforcements. I wish I had some sort of promise that I’ll be able to sleep until tomorrow, that I’ll be able to get through the school day, that I’ll survive until I get to see Marcus again, until the brief relief of the clock finally ticking hours I don’t want to forget.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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if.
Dear Stella,
I get through the day in one-minute increments. Fifty-five of them add up to one class, during which I have to sit still and not fall asleep. Five minutes adds up to the time in between classes, when I limp through the hall quickly and pretend to be in a hurry to avoid having to stop and talk to anyone I know.
The forty-five minutes of lunch are the worst. I am supposed to do something besides sit, walk, and be silent. I am supposed to speak and engage and act interested and not show how much I wish I were somewhere else.
My life has been reduced this—a collection of tiny fragments to endure and survive, a countdown of sorts. Everyone else is looking forward to prom tomorrow night, and the end of school two weeks from now, then summer, then senior year, then the rest of their lives unfolding in front of them like flowers, everything getting better and better and bigger and longer until they reach out into forever and become massive, infinite. My world is so small in comparison. I busy myself with seconds. I survive these series of unendurable minutes, these miniscule fragments of forgettable life, until the end of the day when I get to see Marcus. And then the world opens up and becomes infinite again.
I wonder if you would have gone to prom. Would you have taken Cole? Or would you have planned some kind of amazing anti-prom night?
Tonight is going to be special, Stella. Something’s going to happen. Something big. Marcus says he has a surprise for me.
I’m ready to ask him about DL. I’m ready to ask him about his scars and I’m ready to tell him about mine. And then maybe we won’t have to creep around in shadows. Maybe our secrets will be released and they’ll float away into the night and be replaced with light, and I won’t feel the need to lie all the time, I won’t feel the need to hide, and I won’t feel so lost, and everything will become clear. Everything.
Love,
Evie
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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twenty-seven.
I TRY TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE WITHOUT ANYONE NOTICING me, but Mom pounces as I’m reaching for the door.
“Evie,” she says. “Before you go. We need to talk about making your appointment with Dr. Jacobs next week.”
“We can talk tomorrow,” I say, the doorknob already in my hand. “I don’t want to be late.”
“No,” she says, unsurely, the word so foreign in her mouth. “I’ve been trying to pin you down for days. You’re due for blood tests again.”
“I don’t understand why I can’t get blood drawn in the outpatient clinic.”
“Dr. Jacobs wants to see how you’re doing. You know that. And he still wants to talk to you. You never went in after that whole thing with the—” But she stops. She can’t say it. She can’t say “pills.” She can’t say “drugs” or “addiction.” So sh
e starts over: “I don’t understand. What are you scared of? They’re going to take a little blood.”
How can she be so blind? No, Mom, I’m not scared of blood. I’m scared of everything else. I’m scared of seeing a sweet, confused boy with a brain tumor who refuses to give up on me even though all I do is treat him like shit. I’m scared of Moskowitz reminding me that I’m responsible for the outing that got Stella sick. I’m scared of seeing Dan and his big brown eyes full of sympathy I don’t deserve. I’m scared of all the kids who believed I was some sort of miracle, of the little girl who couldn’t catch it, who’s probably not there anymore, who’s probably not anywhere anymore.
Shit. Tonight was supposed to be fun, and now I feel like I’m on the verge of crying.
“I’m going now,” I say.
“But what about the appointment?”
“What about it?”
“When is a good time?”
“I don’t know. Whenever.” I turn the doorknob.
“So I should just make the appointment for any time? You’ll be free? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Mom. Whatever.” I walk out the door and down the street three blocks to the corner where I told Marcus to pick me up.
It feels weird being inside Marcus’s house. It’s weird being somewhere that isn’t just ours, a place where he exists separate from me, where he inhabits a life that has nothing to do with us.
But the house itself is nothing of Marcus. It’s one of those Victorian mansions in the rich enclave of Piedmont, but the inside is decorated in the starkest, most modern style possible. Almost everything is white or black, sharp angles, and shiny leather. The furniture is hard and uncomfortable-looking, like you could hurt yourself trying to sit on it. There’s nothing that says real people live here. There is nothing that says family, no awkward school photos, no vacations or holidays, no pictures of Marcus as a baby.
“Pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?” he says as I stare at the spiral staircase that goes to the second floor.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I guess,” he says. “If you’re into the minimalist thing.”
“Do you actually, like, hang out in here?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time someone sat on that couch. My dad and I don’t really spend time anywhere besides our own rooms. Sometimes we accidentally meet in the kitchen while we’re grabbing food to take back to our lairs. We don’t eat meals together or anything. The oven hasn’t been used in like two years. Living here is like sleeping in a museum.”
“Is your dad here?”
“No, he’s at some kind of fund-raising gala with his new girlfriend of the week who’s barely older than me.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
We climb the staircase to the second floor where the house separates into two distinct wings. I follow Marcus to the left, down a long hall to the very last door.
“Dad lives on the other side,” he says. “As far away from me as possible.”
“Where’s your brother’s room?” I say, looking down the hall at so many doors to so many rooms.
Marcus looks at me like I’ve caught him off-guard, like there was something strange about my question.
“That one,” he says flatly, pointing down the hall. “Third door on the right.” He turns around and opens the door to his room.
Marcus’s bedroom is a relief from the coldness of the rest of the house. His walls are covered with posters of bands I’ve never heard of. The hardwood floor is softened by a huge blue rug. A big, soft couch sits against one wall, his unmade bed against another, a desk and shelves stuffed with books next to that. Everything colorful and cozy and funky, as if in direct retaliation to his father’s stark aesthetic. There are plants everywhere, green leafy things of various sizes in colorful pots on the floor, on shelves and tables, hanging from the ceiling. There is life all over the place.
“It’s a jungle in here,” I say.
“All of these were my brother’s. One of his many special talents.”
“I’m impressed.”
Marcus shrugs. “Someone had to take care of them after he moved out.”
“I don’t know. Most people I know can’t take care of anything besides themselves.”
Marcus opens a desk drawer and pulls out a baggie of weed, far less than Stella left me, but enough to last me for a week at least.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “As you ordered. Though I have to say it feels kind of sucky to be selling drugs to my girlfriend.”
“You’re not really selling them; you’re just helping me procure them. It’s not like you’re making a profit.”
“So I’m the middle man, then?” he says. “And I’m not even getting anything out of it? Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better.”
“Who said you weren’t getting anything out of it?” I put my arms around him, pull him close, and find his lips with mine.
“Are you going to pay me in kisses?” he says when we come up for air.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe other things.” I could stay here all night. I could stay here forever.
“Do you want your surprise?” he says.
I nod my head, not believing this moment could get any better. He pulls away, opens the same desk drawer as before, and takes out another baggie. He sits on his unmade bed and pats the spot next to him. I sit as he opens the clear plastic, revealing a tangle of what looks like dry, shriveled sticks.
“What’s that?”
“Mushrooms. You ever tried them?”
“Not yet.”
“You want to?”
“What do they do?”
“They make you see God.”
I’m not sure if I want to see God. I’m certain I don’t want God to see me.
“Do you trust me?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “I trust you more than anyone.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ll take care of you, you know.”
“I know.”
“I won’t let you get hurt.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? We don’t have to.”
I put my hand out, palm up, ready.
We chew the dirty stems in candlelight. In silence. The houseplants send intricate patterns of shadow across the room, dancing as the flame flickers.
“Let’s go to the cemetery,” Marcus says. “We can climb the fence.”
I am scared but I say yes. I want to be brave. I want to be the tough girl Marcus thinks I am.
We walk through the streets of Piedmont, passing the stately mansions and perfectly manicured front yards. We’re holding hands, like we could be any normal couple, anywhere. A woman walking a poodle smiles at us. She has no idea we just ate mushrooms and are about to sneak into a graveyard.
“When do they kick in?” I say.
“About an hour after you eat them.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know,” he says, and squeezes my hand.
The night is warm and smells like flowers. It’s so perfect, I can forget about my other life, my false life, the one that threatens to consume me, the one that keeps holding on no matter how hard I try to shake it off. This is the only one that matters. This is the only one that’s real. This place Marcus and I make exist by our being together.
It’s nearly ten o’clock, only two more hours until my curfew, but I don’t care. My parents can’t find me here. I am untouchable. And if I get grounded, I’ll have a perfect excuse to not go to prom tomorrow night.
When we reach the gate, the perfection of the night is tarnished just a little. “I’m supposed to climb that?” I say. Street lamps illuminate the fully exposed gate. Anyone driving by could see us. But what worries me more is how high it is, how it requires a far more nimble body than mine to climb it.
“I know you can do it,” Marcus says. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wasn’t sure.”
His belief in me, however foolish, has to b
e enough. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I could fall and break my leg again? I could get caught? None of those threats seem reason enough to quit this adventure right as it’s getting started.
“Here,” he says, making a cradle out of his hands. “Let me give you a boost.”
I lift the foot of my good leg and push myself up, my hands clutched on the metal fence. His hands support the back of my legs as I scramble the rest of the way up, kicking and clawing as ungracefully as possible, until I’ve somehow made it to the top and he can’t reach me anymore, until all I have are the fence and gravity and myself.
“You made it,” he says.
“I still have to get down the other side.”
“Just swing your hip over.”
Easier said than done. My hip doesn’t want to obey. I send it the command, but it’s like the message doesn’t compute. Somehow “swing over” is something it lost the ability to do after so many surgeries, after so much bone removed and replaced with metal.
“I can’t,” I say. “My leg is stuck.” I am starting to panic. I feel the world swirling around me, the metal grating of the gate turning to string. This net can’t hold me for much longer. It will collapse and I will go down with it, and I will smash to the ground, which suddenly looks so far away—fifty feet, a hundred, a thousand. “I’m scared,” I say. Marcus is so far away and there is no way he can help me.
“It’s okay,” Marcus says, his voice so smooth and strong and calm that it turns the string fence back to solid metal. “I’m coming over,” he says. He climbs up quickly, gracefully, like he is made for the air. He kisses me when he gets to the top, then climbs down the other side.
“Now what?” I say.
“I’m going to catch you.”
“No,” I say. “It won’t work.” He is a thousand feet down. Gravity would catch me and together we would crush him.
“Look at me,” he says. The world is swirling and dark, but I find his eyes so far below, blinking up at me from the depths. They are the only stable thing I see. They are the only light.