Chloe pitched forward toward the light and into empty space.
This was it. This was death.
“Chloe? Chloe?”
That was odd. God sounded kind of annoying. Kind of whiny.
“Oh my God, she’s—”
“Call 911!”
“There’s no way she could have survived that fall—”
“GET OUT OF MY WAY!”
Chloe felt like she was spinning, her weight being forced back into her skin.
“You stupid shithead!”
That was Amy. That was definitely Amy.
“We should call her mom. …”
“What do we say? That Chloe is … that Chloe’s dead?”
“Don’t say that! It’s not true!”
Chloe opened her eyes.
“Oh my God—Chloe …?”
Paul and Amy were leaning over her. Tears and streaky lightning bolts of black makeup ran down Amy’s cheeks, and her light blue eyes were wide and rimmed with red.
“You’re a-alive?” Paul asked, face white with awe. “There’s no way you could have—“He put a hand behind her head, feeling her neck and skull. When he pulled it back, there was only a little blood on his finger.
“You—you didn’t—oh my God, it’s … a … miracle …,” Amy said slowly.
“Can you move?” Paul asked quietly.
Chloe sat up. It was the hardest thing she could ever remember doing, like pushing herself through a million pounds of dirt. Her head swam, and for a moment there was two of everything, four flat gingerbread friends in front of her. She coughed, then began puking. She tried to lean to the side but couldn’t control her body.
After she finished heaving, Chloe noticed that Paul and Amy were touching her, holding her shoulders. She could just barely feel their hands; sensation slowly crept back over her skin.
“You should be dead,” said Paul. “There is no. Way. You could have survived that fall.”
She was struck by what he said; it seemed true. Yet here she was, alive. Just like that. Why was she so unsurprised?
“Help me up,” Chloe said, trying not to notice the confused and frightened looks on her friends’ faces. They helped Chloe lean forward, then slowly rise on shaky legs. She pointed her toes and bent her knees. They worked. Barely.
“Holy shit,” said Paul, unable to think of anything else to say.
“We should get you to a hospital,” Amy suggested.
“No,” Chloe answered, faster than she meant.
“Are you insane?” Paul demanded. “Just because you’re not dead doesn’t mean you don’t have a concussion or something. … You can’t just fall two hundred feet and walk away without something happening.”
Chloe didn’t like the way her friends were looking at her. Shouldn’t they be overjoyed? Thrilled that she wasn’t dead? Instead they were looking at her like she was a ghost. “Yeah. We’re going. No arguments,” Amy said, stubbornly setting her pointy chin.
She and Paul helped Chloe up, one at each shoulder. My devil and my angel, Chloe thought ironically. Well, my nerd and my wanna-be outsider. Her head pounded, and she wanted nothing more than some aspirin.
And time alone to think.
She managed to get time to think in the emergency room, though she wasn’t exactly alone. After Amy made a big hysterical deal about her friend and the accident she’d had, the reception nurse took one look at the healthyseeming girl and relegated the three of them to the waiting room, behind a line of homeless people with visible damage: broken arms, scraped-up faces, oozing sores.
Paul took over filling out the contact information and paperwork, but after an hour of playing Guess the Symptom in her head, Chloe finally lost it.
“Look, why don’t we just get out of here,” she hissed. “I’m fine.”
“As if,” Paul said, reaching for a three-month-old Vogue.
“Don’t touch that,” Amy said, smacking his hand down. “Germs.” Then she turned to Chloe. “You fell like a million feet onto your head Chlo.”
Another half hour passed. They watched the muted news flitting by incomprehensibly overhead, stories about Iraq and Wall Street and some girl’s body found in an alley.
Finally, at four o’clock, the staff was ready to let in the girl with no visible injuries. The reception nurse put up her hand when Amy and Paul tried to follow.
“Only family,” she said.
Amy turned to Chloe, wrinkling her freckled nose and smiling. It was a “cute” look that Chloe knew she had practiced in front of the mirror for hours, but it just didn’t work with her friend’s regal nose. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”
I know. I am okay.
“Thanks. For everything.” Chloe gave her a lopsided smile, then went through the big, double-swinging metal door.
“If you and your friends are lying about your ‘accident,’” she heard the nurse saying to Amy and Paul, “her parents are going to owe their insurance company a whopper. …”
As soon as the door swung shut behind her, Chloe scanned the hall for the exit.
She wished she had money for a cab, but she had to take the bus instead. As soon as she was inside her house, Chloe ran into the bathroom, tore off her clothes, and turned on the water. After a long soak she finally began to feel normal again, as if a few minutes of downtime by herself were all she really needed. To recover from a two-hundred-foot fall. She wrapped the towel around herself when she got out and looked in the mirror. There was a slight bruise on her temple and some dried blood on her scalp that was kind of fun to pick at. That was all.
Chloe wandered out and sat in front of her computer, where her day had begun just a few strange hours before. She called up Google and then paused, her normally super-speed fingers hesitating over the keyboard. How do you research “chances of surviving a crazy long fall onto pavement”? A few minutes of surfing unearthed the interesting but useless fact that defenestration meant “the act of pushing someone out a window” and that almost no one besides Jackie Chan had easily survived a fall of much more than fifty feet.
Chloe got into bed and contemplated the ceiling. There was no way around it: she should not have survived her plummet from Coit Tower. Maybe this was the afterlife, and she was being eased into it slowly with familiar people and places?
She dismissed that quickly, though, picking some more blood out of her hair. Heaven would be cleaner, she thought decisively. But something strange had definitely happened. She should not be alive.
It was really a miracle.
Thinking in the autumnal afternoon light, Chloe drifted off to sleep.
She dreamed:
She lay in a comfortable hollow that was soft but did not move the way a mattress should when she shifted position. It was hot but not unpleasant; the sun’s rays were tangible on her skin, caressing her back into sleep. Something licked the side of her face, rough and quick: Get up.
Chloe rose from the sand, dusted herself off. She shielded her eyes and looked to the horizon. This was no beach: it was a desert, empty and vast—but familiar and not frightening. The dunes were golden and the sky a dark empty blue, foreshadowing a chilly night when the sun finally set, half a day from now. They were heading to the north, down the river.
Below her hand was the lion that had woken her; it nuzzled at her fingers. They were all lions around her, female and maneless, the real power of the pride. Four of them. She was upright and awkward; when they finally started moving, the great cats had to slow their normal pace so she could keep up. Their beautiful shoulders rose and fell in a languid, powerful rhythm.
A vulture circled in the sky, hoping to feast on whatever they left.
When Chloe woke up, she was ravenous.
In the first moment of wakefulness after opening her eyes, before remembering her fall or being brought home, Chloe thought about what might be in the fridge. The rest came back to her as she got up. She was stiff, but even the bruise on her forehead was already fading.
She was s
urprised to see that the clock on the microwave read six; she had napped for over four hours. Doesn’t feel like it. She opened the fridge and surveyed its contents, most of which were ingredients for whatever complicated gourmet dinner her mother was planning next. She pulled out a couple of yogurts, a pint of macaroni salad, and an old carton of lo mein. If falling two hundred feet didn’t kill her, this probably wouldn’t, either.
Chloe sat at the table and ate, still not fully awake, still not fully thinking, just enjoying the feeling of the food hitting her stomach and filling it.
The door slammed open and Mrs. King threw herself in. She opened her mouth to say something, then noticed the demolished feast on their table.
“I fell off Coit Tower today,” Chloe said without thinking.
She hadn’t planned on telling her mother immediately. She’d wanted to think it over first, plan the right approach—but she hadn’t come up with one. Apparently her subconscious had.
“I know,” her mother said in a low, angry tone. “I just came from the hospital, where you were supposed to be waiting for me. But no, you decided not to stay there, just like you apparently decided not to go to school today.”
Daughter and mother looked into each other’s eyes, not saying anything for a moment.
“What has gotten into you?” Chloe’s mother finally yelled. “Is this the week you decided to get all of your teenage rebelling out at once?”
“Mom!” Chloe shouted back. “I fell off Coit Tower. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Besides the fact that you were acting like an irresponsible idiot?”
But Mrs. King’s eyes flitted to the light marks on her daughter’s face, the uncomfortable way she was sitting, the black blood on her scalp.
“Are you okay?” she finally asked.
Chloe shrugged.
“That’s why I left,” she mumbled. “There wasn’t anything wrong. They wouldn’t listen to me.”
“I’m glad Amy and Paul had the good sense to ignore you and bring you in.” Mrs. King sighed. “Though I could kill them for encouraging your ‘day off.’”
“Paul wasn’t going to be around for my birthday,” Chloe said, feeling like an idiotic, self-pitying brat as she said it. “I wanted to celebrate it with my friends.”
Her mother opened her mouth to say something about that, but closed it again.
“You could have been killed,” she said. She was quiet for a moment. “It’s a miracle you weren’t.”
“I know.”
There was another moment of silence. Chloe stared at her empty plate, and her mother stared at her. Mrs. King readjusted her black-rimmed glasses. Chloe could almost see her mom’s thoughts tumbling around in logical lawyer circles: She should be dead. She’s not. I should be grateful. I’m angry with her. She’s not dead. Therefore she must be punished.
“We’re going to have to talk about this. About your behavior and your punishment.”
“Obviously,” Chloe said with heavy irony, suddenly irked. “Mom, I should be dead.”
“So? You’re not. Be grateful. I have some steaks. … I’ll make them in an hour, after I do some paperwork.”
“Did you hear me? I could—I should have been killed!!!”
Her mother opened her mouth to say something but didn’t. She ran her fingers through the wispy bangs that framed her face, pushing it out of her eyes. Her hair was thick and blond, as far from the color and texture of Chloe’s own hair as it was possible to get.
Chloe turned and stomped up to her room.
Maybe she was the one on drugs.
It was the only explanation Chloe could think of to explain such a blasé reaction. Maybe it was shock? Maybe she really didn’t care. Chloe bitterly considered how easily her mom could have been rid of her. She would be free to throw dinner parties, go to gallery openings, and maybe pick up a really cool boyfriend. The kind who stayed away from complicated situations like daughters. Especially adopted ones.
She thought about the father she could barely remember, gone when she was four. He would have cared. He would have rushed her back to the hospital, no matter how much she protested.
Chloe sat on her bed and carefully opened the middle drawer of her bureau. It was the only old piece of furniture in the room, ancient, solid, and oak. Perfect for hiding the only real secret from her mom.
A little gray mouse sat up on his hind legs and looked up at her expectantly.
Squeak!
Chloe smiled and put her hand down next to him, letting the mouse run up it. Her mother absolutely forbade all furred pets—supposedly because of her allergies. But back when her mom had gone on a rampant extermination phase, convinced that the house was overrun with vermin from their less cleanly neighbors next door, Chloe had come home from school one day and found the baby gray mouse in a live trap. With Amy and Paul’s help she’d installed a light in her bureau. Now Mus-mus had a water dropper, a feeder, and an exercise wheel. This was a whole little world her mother knew nothing about.
She took a Cheerio out of the sandwich bag she kept under her bed and carefully held it out to him; the little mouse grabbed it with its front paws and sat back, nibbling as if it was a giant bagel.
“What should I do?” she whispered. The little mouse never stopped eating, ignoring her. “My mom is such a bitch.”
Calling Amy was the only thing to do, really—Chloe could apologize for acting so weird after she and Paul had taken her to the hospital, thank her for it, then get into the nitty-gritty of how bizarre it was to be alive and discuss why she had survived. Amy would probably offer some explanation involving the supernatural or angels—useless but entertaining. Chloe smiled and picked up the phone, dropping Mus-mus carefully back into his cage.
Seven long rings … Amy’s cell phone was on, but she wasn’t picking up. Chloe tried three more times in case the phone was buried at the bottom of Amy’s bag and she couldn’t hear it. On the fourth try Chloe left a message.
“Hey, Ame, call me. I’m—uh—feeling better. Sorry about the total rudeness today. I guess I was in shock or something.”
She tried her at home.
“Oh, hello, Chlo-ee!” Mrs. Scotkin answered. There was a pause; she must have looked at a clock. “Happy sixteenth birthday in six hours!”
Chloe smiled despite herself. Amy must not have told her anything. “Thanks, Mrs. Scotkin. Is Amy around?”
“No—I think she’s working on the Am civ project with her group tonight. Try her cell.”
I did, thanks. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Mrs. Scotkin.”
Chloe frowned. She went to the computer and checked all of Amy’s aliases, but none of them were on. Maybe she really was doing homework? Nah. Paul was on but afk—Chloe didn’t really feel like talking to him anyway. She needed Amy. She had almost died. It would be her birthday in four hours. Her mom was crazy. And she was All Alone.
She wandered around her room, picking up little things—pieces of bric-a-brac, stuffed animals—and putting them back down again. Her gloom gave way to restlessness; the room suddenly seemed very small. Too small for good brooding. She moved up and down on her toes like a ballerina.
Chloe stood for a moment, indecisive, then grabbed her jacket and banged down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” her mother demanded, like someone on a TV show.
“Out,” Chloe responded, just as predictably. She even slammed the door behind her, just for good measure.
Three
The night was chillier than Chloe expected. She stood for a moment in just her T-shirt, letting the moist air brush against her skin and lift the hair on her arms. It smelled surprisingly good; clean and wet as a cloud. Then the wind changed direction and she could hear and smell traffic at the same time: exhaust, acrid and dry even in the dampness, bit at her nose. Chloe sighed and put on her jacket.
Okay, Spontaneous One. Where to now?
She had set herself up for a really spectacular punishment later (though she hoped her nea
r-death experience might help cut her some slack), so the night was not to be wasted. Then it came to her: The Bank.
Normally she would never, ever consider trying to get into the club without spending several hours dressing and redressing with Amy, going through everything in both their closets and sometimes even Paul’s. Jeans and a tee were just embarrassing.
Chloe didn’t care; she was going to do it. She was going to get into the club, by herself, dressed like the Creature from the Gap Lagoon. She just needed to dance right now.
It was a Tuesday, so there wasn’t much of a line outside the club; its Christmas-from-hell orange and black fairy lights barely illuminated the otherwise empty street. One bored bouncer half sat on his stool, wearing tiny round black sunglasses that didn’t reflect anything.
Chloe swaggered up to the velvet rope, unsure of what she was going to do. Everyone else in line was dressed in something sparkly, revealing, or all black—and was at least half a decade older.
Before she could think about it, Chloe sashayed past them and was asking the bouncer directly: “Hey, can I get in?” Just like that.
The giant man looked up at her and down, pausing at her scuffed black Converses. He cracked the barest hint of a smile. “I like your shoes. Those are old school, baby,” he said, and unhooked the rope for Chloe.
“Thanks, man,” she said in what she hoped was an equally cool voice. It was just like she’d passed a level in one of Paul’s video games. Charon of Inner Sunset had just let her into the Dancing Afterworld.
The floor wasn’t large, but it was surrounded by black mirrors that made it look twice as big and crowded. Clinging to the far wall and snaking around to the door was the enormous bar for which the place was famous: its surface was covered in thousands and thousands of shiny copper pennies, shellacked into permanently flowing streams that ran all the way from a vault in the wall down to the floor.