We All Looked Up

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “You ever heard someone talk about having greatness thrust upon them?” Andy shook his head. “Fucking Shakespeare wrote that.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Exactly. As soon as I heard about that asteroid, Andy, I made a decision. This was my chance to be great. Ardor is thrusting greatness upon me. Maybe upon you, too.”

  “Okay.”

  Golden lifted his glass. “To greatness.”

  A shot materialized in Andy’s hand. He downed it—vodka, maybe?—and then, for all intents and purposes, he ceased to exist. He didn’t remember sitting down at the other end of the table and talking with Anita. He didn’t remember leaving a few minutes later, or vomiting out the passenger-side window of her Escalade. He didn’t remember telling her where he lived. He definitely didn’t remember using his phone to visit Eliza’s Facebook page (and had she always had 4,254 friends?) in order to get her phone number so that he could leave a five-minute message on her voice mail. In fact, pretty much everything that occurred after he’d climbed down off the stage at the Crocodile was gone the next morning, as if someone had taken the mad pencil sketch of those few hours and rubbed at it with a big pink eraser.

  He woke up with a hangover so pure and perfect that it awed him. He groaned one long wordless groan—the sound of absolute suffering.

  “Good,” a voice said, “you’re finally awake.”

  “Eliza?” Andy sat up in bed like a shot. Sitting on his futon, a book open on her lap, was Anita Graves.

  “No,” she said, stating the very obvious, “I am not Eliza.”

  Peter

  HE STOOD TRANSFIXED FOR A good thirty seconds after she walked away, his arm up like some cardboard cutout of a guy waving. It was the Sunday after the announcement, and the first time Eliza had acknowledged Peter’s existence since they’d made out in the photography studio a year earlier. She was wearing a chunky pair of headphones and carry­ing some kind of antique camera, its big black eye replacing her brown ones as she raised it to take his photo. A little kaleidoscopic spin as the iris opened, a brief wave, and then she was gone.

  Felipe saw the whole thing happen.

  “That a friend of yours?”

  Peter finally dropped his hand. “Sorta. Do you mind if I say hi?”

  “Go get her, champ.”

  But by the time he untied the tight knot of his apron and went outside, Eliza was gone. He felt a stab of anxiety on her behalf, then felt stupid for worrying. What was she to him, or he to her? Nothing at all.

  Peter volunteered at Friendly Forks every night that week. It wasn’t just that he hoped Eliza would come back and find him; he liked the camaraderie in the kitchen, the satisfaction that came from accomplishing something practical. Many of Seattle’s restaurants had already closed their doors, so Friendly Forks had more customers than ever. Peter’s presence had only been tolerated at first, but now the guys in the kitchen were getting used to having him around, and they’d come to treat him like an annoying but ultimately lovable little brother. They’d even taught him a few words of Spanish, just enough so that he could understand the full extent of their vulgarity when they made fun of him for being, as Felipe put it, “El lavaplatos mas gringo en todo el continente americano,” which translated roughly to “The whitest dishwasher in all of the Americas.”

  Peter wasn’t just doing it out of the goodness of his heart; he was desperate for distraction. The whole “two-thirds chance of everything he knew and loved disappearing just a few weeks from now” was really getting to him. He couldn’t sleep more than a few hours a night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the asteroid looming just above the house, his sister framed in her bedroom window, eyes wide, as the light grew brighter and brighter and then everything went white. He would wake from these half dreams and run to his own window, finding nothing but the usual stars, distant and disinterested as ever (Ardor had lost its telltale blue tint, and now it was well hidden in some innocuous constellation, like a sleeper agent). Peter would then return to his regularly scheduled tossing and turning. The only effective sedative was sunrise; somehow, seeing the world spinning its way back into day temporarily interrupted the dark thoughts. As the sky colorized, Peter would finally pass out, only to wake up a couple of hours later to the shrill cry of his alarm. There was no way he was going to skip out on school, no matter how much his mom hinted that she wished he’d stay at home. What would he do all day? Sit around comforting her? Wait for his dad to get back from work, later and later every night, as fewer and fewer people came into the office to share the load?

  No, the key was to make sure there was a never a free moment in which to think. That first weekend after the announcement, Peter spent Friday and Saturday with his family, and on Sunday he took Stacy out for a nice brunch. He apologized for forcing Friendly Forks on her, and she forgave him. With everything else that was going on in the world, the last thing he needed was a lot of arguing or a messy breakup (however happy it might make his sister). He’d even managed to get Stacy’s endorsement of his own volunteer work (“I don’t get it, like, at all, but I think it’s pretty amazing that you’re willing to do it”), which had become his favorite part of the day. At the restaurant, there wasn’t time to ponder the ephemeral nature of life or imagine your loved ones melting into puddles. From the moment the first guest sat down until the moment Felipe judged the kitchen “fucking spotless,” there was only the work.

  On Valentine’s Day they closed up shop a little after midnight, gracefully escorting the last tipsy couple out the door. So many people were out on the streets that it looked like some kind of citywide block party. Peter was standing on his own outside the restaurant, taking it all in, when someone punched him on the shoulder.

  “What’s up, Whitey?”

  It was Felipe, and behind him, Gabriel, his sous chef. Peter had yet to actually speak with Gabriel, who was one of those “all business, all the time” kind of dudes. Word was he’d been offered a job as a chef at Starfish, an upscale seafood restaurant on the Sound, just before Ardor showed up and shut the place down. It was an impressive accomplishment, considering that he was a black ex-con with a long, Bond-villain scar stretching across his face from cheekbone to chin.

  “You heading home?” Felipe asked.

  “I’m supposed to see my girlfriend. Valentine’s Day, you know? I promised we’d do a late-night dessert thing.”

  “Come get a drink with us first.”

  The truth was, he did have a better time with Stacy when he was a little buzzed. “You sure it’s cool?” He looked to Gabriel, for some reason, who nodded. “All right. One drink.”

  Unlike Gabriel, Felipe was the kind of guy who could just talk, on and on, and didn’t even seem to care whether anyone was listening—the perfect thing for keeping your mind occupied. He told some crazy story about a rich girl he’d dated in high school, and it lasted them all the way to their destination. Down a narrow alley, a red light was set into a wooden palisade illuminating a small wrought-iron sign: THE CAGE.

  The patio was clouded over with more smoke than the stage at a heavy metal concert, produced by a crowd of grizzled bikers in studded leather and beefy, tattooed Hispanic dudes fresh off the late shift somewhere. There were maybe a dozen women there, and most of them could’ve passed for men in a pinch.

  “Find a seat,” Felipe said. “I got the first round.”

  Peter was left alone with Gabriel. “So, you guys come here often?”

  “Sure.”

  “Seems like a cool place.”

  “It’s okay.”

  A raucous explosion of laughter from a group of punkers nearby. Peter recognized a couple of them: Golden, the thug he’d met at Beth’s Cafe, and Bobo, his sister’s slacker boyfriend. Thankfully, Misery wasn’t with them.

  “You know those guys?” Gabriel asked.

  “A little bit.??
?

  “Those guys aren’t good guys.” He pulled a joint from his back pocket and lit up. “You want a hit?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Six bucks for three Buds,” Felipe said, back from the bar. “Best deal in town.”

  The bubbly coolness trickled down Peter’s throat and into his stomach, loosening up everything along the way. It was probably the best beer he’d had since his very first, enjoyed at the end of a dock on Lake Washington. He and Cartier had tossed back a whole lukewarm six-pack (secured by Cartier’s older brother) and talked shit until dawn.

  The possibility of actual relaxation was just coming into focus when a hand landed heavy on the table, rattling their glasses.

  “Big man slumming it in the city,” Bobo said. His voice was an alcoholic slurry. Golden stood a few feet behind him.

  “Just having a few with my friends,” Peter said.

  “Why didn’t you come to my fucking show tonight, yo?”

  Peter vaguely recalled seeing some flyers around school, but he didn’t really go in for punk rock. “Didn’t know you had one.”

  “Well, I did. And I kicked ass. Misery was there. Your sister. My girlfriend. But she already went home. Said you were all up her ass about not staying out late. And now here you are. What’s that about?”

  “She’s younger than we are. Anyway, I’m glad to hear she actually listened.”

  “Eh, maybe you’re right.” Bobo squinted up at Ardor. “You can feel it up there, can’t you? It’s coming for us. It wants blood.”

  “You trying to kill our buzz, ese?” Felipe asked, just friendly enough to break the tension. “We’re trying to forget about that shit.”

  Bobo smiled. “Sorry. It’s my fucked-up head, I guess. Good to see you, big man.”

  Golden stepped closer as the others were walking away. He put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “We miss you round the Independent, G. You ever wanna get back in the game, you let me know.”

  Gabriel’s answer was a long, cool plume of smoke.

  “Drug dealers,” Felipe said, after they were gone. “They’re always assholes. It’s because they got no friends. Everybody wants something from them. Turns ’em mean.”

  “You and Golden known each other a long time?” Peter asked Gabriel.

  Gabriel shook his head. “He doesn’t know me. He knew a guy who looked like me. I got the next round.”

  He stood up and went to the bar.

  “Man’s got stories,” Felipe said. “Took him a long time to straighten out.”

  Peter would have liked to hear some of those stories, only just then there was an eruption of shouting on the other side of the palisade. A few of the guys on the patio looked up from their drinks, but nobody actually moved. Even Felipe only paused for a moment, bottle of beer halfway to his lips, before knocking it back.

  A girl screamed.

  Peter stood up, but Felipe grabbed him by the wrist. “Nah, man,” he said. “It’s not our business.”

  Peter shook him off. In the alley just outside the Cage, Golden’s crew was clustered around something. Peter pushed through them to find Golden with his hand around the neck of some street girl, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes sunk deep as land mines in her head.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Peter said.

  Golden was momentarily distracted, and the girl took advantage, scratching at his arm with a wicked claw of sparkly painted nails. He dropped her, and straightaway she was up and running, throwing bony elbows in every direction. Bobo got knocked back on his ass and came up with a gushing nosebleed. I should be running too, Peter thought, but too late. The circle had re-formed, and he was at the center this time.

  Golden stepped deeply into his personal space. “Are you stupid?” His irises were huge and black, with only a thin rim of gray around the edges, like two eclipsing suns. “Don’t answer that,” he said. “Just from looking at you, I can tell you haven’t worked a day in your life, so maybe you don’t understand the concept of making a living. That girl owed me money.”

  “That’s not a reason to get violent with her.”

  Golden smiled. “You think that was violent?” He reached up and unclasped his necklace. It unspooled, sinuous and shiny, long as a magician’s handkerchief. “I bet you’ve never seen violence outside of movies—that’s why you can’t recognize it. What you just saw wasn’t violence. It was intimidation.” Golden began to wrap the chain around the fingers of his right hand, covering up the LIVE tattooed on his knuckles. “Intimidation is a threat of violence. Good intimidation is like torture; it can go on for years. But violence is different. Violence is like lightning. It’s over as soon as it starts.”

  Peter wasn’t used to being afraid—a six-foot-tall athlete seldom is. But then Golden squeezed his fist, now fully encased in the chain, and the muscles in his wiry forearms shifted and rippled, veins rising like some secret maze that had been hidden beneath the surface of his skin. Peter understood that a blow from that fist would be grievous. It would be meant to crush his nose and break his jaw and shatter his teeth. It would be meant to annihilate him.

  And the one crazy thought in his head was that Eliza would never kiss him again if he lost all his teeth.

  “Where would you like me to hit you?” Golden asked.

  Before Peter could answer, there was a single, simple click from somewhere close by. Everyone turned to see Gabriel and Felipe standing by the door of the Cage. Felipe was red-faced with anger, but it was the tranquil-looking Gabriel who held the gun. Such a strange thing, Peter thought, a gun. It was a toy he’d been playing with for most of his life. And when it wasn’t a toy, it was a prop, popping up in TV shows and movies about cops and robbers and heroes saving the day. It was easy to forget that guns existed in real life, too.

  Golden looked straight down the barrel. “Only a pussy brings a piece to a fistfight,” he said. Still staring directly at the weapon, he lashed out and caught Peter in the cheek with the back of his hand. The chain bit hard, but Peter knew it was only a gesture. Golden wanted to give up the field without giving up his dignity. Peter’s greatest fear at that moment was that Gabriel would shoot anyway, and then all hell would break loose.

  But there was no gunshot. Golden uncoiled the necklace from his fist and wrapped it around his neck again, taking his time. Without another word, he walked off, holding tight to the wall of the alley.

  “There’s more coming for you than an asteroid now,” Bobo said. The blood was already drying to a crust around his nose, and it crackled when he smiled, fell away like flakes of crimson snow.

  What was it Mr. McArthur had called it?

  A Pyrrhic victory.

  Three days later Peter stood waiting outside the Hamilton refectory, shaking with fear. But it wasn’t Golden he was afraid of, and it definitely wasn’t Bobo. It was a slight brunette girl in a pale-green tank top. She waved at him from across the quad, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and smiled—totally oblivious.

  Could love really disappear so quickly? Or did that mean it had never been there in the first place?

  There was no safety left in the world. If Peter hadn’t known it before his run-in with Golden, he definitely knew it now. And after another weekend of sleepless nights spent imagining his last few moments on Earth, he realized that when he looked up at Ardor as it came streaking down through the atmosphere, turning scarlet with the heat of entry, it wasn’t Stacy’s hand he wanted to be holding. Whether the asteroid blazed past them like a bad overhead pass, or landed like a huge fist wrapped in chains of fire, Ardor had already delivered its stale but necessary message: Life was just too goddamn short.

  “Hey, baby,” Stacy said, then noticed the lattice of scabs on his face. She reached up to touch his cheek. It was the very same spot she would soon slap with all her strength, reopening most of the tiny wounds, leaving a checkerboard of blo
od on her palm. “Is this why you haven’t been answering your phone? What happened?”

  He took hold of her hand for what would turn out to be the last time. A few days later, she and her parents would decide to leave Seattle for their family cabin on Lake Chelan. She wouldn’t even bother to call him to say good-bye.

  “A lot,” he said. “And we need to talk about it.”

  Anita

  “ELIZA?”

  Anita looked up from her book—Immanuel Kant’s The Critique of Pure Reason.

  “No, I am not Eliza.”

  Andy blinked like a baby bear coming out of hibernation. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn at the concert, and his hair was an avant-garde sculpture, all curves and sudden outcroppings. “You’re Anita,” he said.

  “Well done. Now get out of bed and take a shower before you kill somebody.”

  Andy sniffed at his armpit and grimaced. “Good call.”

  Anita retreated into the living room, where she’d spent the night on a couch that sagged so deeply it might as well have been a hammock. A couple of times in the middle of the night, her hand had fallen into crevices that somehow managed to be both sandy and moist at once. Now, in the cold light of day, she removed the cushions, fluffed them, and swept away the dust, pennies, and crushed Skittles that had collected underneath.

  After ten minutes or so (oh, to be a boy!), Andy emerged from the bedroom in a pair of jeans scribbled all over with colored marker and a T-shirt bearing a portrait of George W. Bush above the words The Decider.

  “My head feels like a My Bloody Valentine song,” he said. “Coffee time.”

  They drove to a nearby Denny’s and were seated in a booth with a panoramic view of the parking lot.

  “So that was something else last night,” Anita said.

  Andy ran his hands through his hair, transforming the sculpture (which had survived his two-minute shower practically unscathed). “I really left Eliza a message?”