Alive (11 page)

I want Levi so badly to like me. And I barely know him.

“Just friends,” I repeat.

He nods and then slides, without a word, out of his seat. I watch him—my mouth hanging open like a saltwater trout—as he crosses the short distance to my usual lunch table.
Henry’s got his earbuds in and he’s bobbing his head along to some music while jotting down notes in the margin of his textbook.

Levi sits down in an empty seat next to him and gently taps his shoulder. Henry’s shoulders jolt up toward his ears and he yanks the headphones down.

The cafeteria’s in full lunchtime roar and I can’t hear what they’re saying. Brynn looks over at me and I shrug.
No idea,
I say to her telepathically.

Levi’s gesticulating and Henry nods along, a blank expression on his face. I look on, contorted in my seat, elbow hiked over the back of my chair, unsure of what I’m watching, but
dying to know the outcome.

After a couple of minutes have passed, Levi reaches into his back pocket and digs out a black leather wallet. He thumps Henry on the back, shakes his hand, and makes his way back to where
I’m sitting, a huge grin on his face that makes me want to hold my arms open wide to welcome him back. My throat feels tight and there’s an unexpected aching in my chest, the way a
patient might feel sore after a particularly invasive surgery. I bury the idea, and besides, it starts to disintegrate with every step closer that Levi takes.

“You look pleased with yourself,” I say, eyeing him curiously.

The sleeves of his polo get tighter around his biceps as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Stella Cross.” His head tilts. “Would you like to go to Action Hero
Disco with me?”

“But…” I try to pluck the right words from the dozens rattling around inside my skull and finally settle on “But what about Henry?”

“You’re friends. Can’t you just hang out another night?” His voice prods and pokes at me. I want to go with Levi. I want to. I want to. I want to. The way I feel about
him is so different from the way I feel about Henry.

“Yeah,” I say, timid as a rabbit. I try to avoid the other lunch table, but I can’t help but notice Henry hunched over, more focused than usual on a textbook.

“Well”—he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest—“proper dates happen on proper date nights, Cross. And, here’s the thing…” He whispers
this, and I feel myself leaning closer. “I didn’t think I could wait any longer than Friday to take you out. Is that okay with you?”

My heart feels so full it might explode. A dozen helium balloons float up in my chest. “Of course it’s okay,” I respond. “I just—”

Levi jumps in before I can finish. “Besides, Henry was totally cool with it when he heard that I’m a huge fan too. You’re right. They’re not his favorite. He just wanted
to make sure you got to go. Great guy, by the way. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

He couldn’t wait any longer to take me out? He paid Henry just to be able to take me? Until now, I’d thought swooning was something only chicks in Jane Austen novels did when their
corsets were laced too tight. At least I hope that’s the reason I’m having trouble breathing. Because it’s either that or the fact that I just betrayed Henry.

I check my watch. One thirty-three.

Brynn texted me in class:
Meet me in the bathroom at 1:35
. I’d tried to slide out of my seat unnoticed so that I could quietly excuse myself to use the restroom, but on my way out,
my eyes locked with Levi’s. As soon as the door shut, my heart began to throb and hasn’t stopped. My standard meeting place with Brynn is the bathroom behind the portables, the ones
that nobody uses. Even the potheads gave up on it, since the school-assigned detective started doing random checks. It’s been a while since we had a class-time rendezvous, come to think of
it. Definitely pre-surgery.

I take quick strides across the soggy lawn over to the brown, freestanding buildings on the east side of campus and slip into the girls’ bathroom. I’m already eager to return to
Levi. At least to have eyes on him. Crazy, I know.

Brynn’s not here and the restroom’s filled with the kind of silence that buzzes in your ears. The air smells sickly sweet, like that of a well-kept Port-a-Potty with those little
blue discs that dissolve in the water and look perpetually slimy.

I lean over the sink to wash my hands, one of the many things I’m supposed to do countless times a day to keep my heart in working order. I pump the soap and lather when, without warning,
the lights flip off. A spark and then total darkness. Instinctively, I feel my eyes grow wider.

I turn off the faucet. “Hello?”

No answer. I hold one hand in front of my face and wave it around. Can’t see it in the mirror. Damn.

I hate the dark. I’ve always hated the dark. Even at seventeen, I sleep with a night-light. Embarrassing, but true.

Here, not even a sliver of outside light penetrates. Something about the inability to see makes me want to stay still. And so I do. Frozen in place, I listen to the sound of my own
breathing.

That’s when the scratching starts. It starts out small. As if a raccoon’s raking its claws against one of the corner floorboards. Quick, short scrapes, one after another.

I strain to listen. My eyeballs turn in the direction of the noise without the rest of my body moving. The sound grows. Only a little at first. Like another set of claws has joined the
first.

I feel a pinprick tingle slide from the small of my back clear up to the base of my skull.

More scratching. Clawing takes over an entire wall now. Long scores of nails against wood. A chorus.

I plug my ears.

Unmistakably, I can sense someone else in the space, as if the air in the bathroom has shrunk. Only I didn’t hear the door open.

More grazing, tearing, scrabbling.

Could someone have already been in here? I didn’t check but didn’t think so.

Amidst the scratching, a shuffle—faint.

Or I think I hear one.

The hairs on my arms defy gravity. My heart flops around, whacking my insides.

Another shuffle across the tile. Can’t tell from where.

“Who’s there?” My voice rasps.

I can’t get myself to turn around. To move. The scraping only escalates. From the floor up to the ceiling all around me. And I can feel someone there with me.

Unshakable.

The nerves in my legs beg me to run. Instead my feet are planted to the floor as if fear is a glue that has seeped into the very soles of my shoes. My heart beats faster and faster, the pace
hammering so that I think whoever’s out there must hear it knocking.

On three, I’ll run, I tell myself. My legs shake. I shut my eyes.

One. Breath rattles. Two.

All at once, the clawing stops. My eyelids fly open. Lights snap on. Eyelashes flutter to adjust.

Blood rushes against my eardrums. I catch myself in the mirror and scream. There’s a figure at my right shoulder, hovering behind me.

I whirl around, and it’s gone. Vanished.

Without a word, the door to the bathroom opens and closes. A whoosh and I wait, heaving.

Inhale, exhale, inhale.

Next there’s a loud bang that forces a squeal out of me and I spring to my feet.

“Stel?” I hear.

My muscles go rigid.
“Brynn?”

Thoughts swirl in my mind—what did I see? What was I doing? I wipe my hands on my jeans and spin to watch my best friend, hair in a messy bun, tuck her cell phone into her back pocket.
Never have I wanted to hug a person as badly as I do when I see her. She bends toward the mirror, picking at her eyebrows.

The scene’s so normal, I can hardly process it.

“Jesus, Stel.” She stops plucking and turns to look at me. “You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.” She’s right. I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I’m a tearstained mess. Streaks of mascara smudge my cheeks and my nose is bright red, as if I’ve just taken a short stroll through the Arctic.

I rub at my face with the sides of my fists. “I saw a rat—a huge one,” I offer. I’m losing it. The realization crashes over me and I’m worried that I might crack in
two. I’m losing it and no one can know. No one. I’d sooner throw myself off the Fremont Bridge than wind up back in the hospital. Paper gowns, IV tubes, nurses checking in at
twenty-minute intervals—I’m not doing it at any cost.

“Okay…well, get ahold of yourself, will you?”

“Yeah, sorry. I…I don’t know what got into me.” Truer words have never been spoken.

Brynn scoffs. “I’ll say.” There’s something hanging in the air between us. Something that she wants to say but doesn’t. “This place is a dump
anyway.”

I smile. Or at least my mouth does.

“Okay, so,” she continues, “what was
that
?”

“What was what?” I ask, seeking support for my wobbly legs by leaning up against the wall. “I already told you. It was a rat.”

“Don’t play dumb. The knight-in-shining-armor routine at lunch?”

“Oh, that.” Levi. Henry. The incident in the lunchroom feels worlds away.

Brynn’s eyebrows arch.

“I tried to cancel.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, then what happened?”

Pressing my wrists against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, I allow it to relax me and continue talking to Brynn. “He asked if Henry and I were dating. I said no. Next thing I knew, he
was over talking to Henry.”

Brynn frowns. “Wow. That kid must really like you. Those tickets were, like, three hundred bucks.”

“They were
what
?” Most of the fear I’d felt moments ago evaporates. “No way. But why would Henry—?”

“Stella.”

I shrink. “Has he said something?” It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve been back in school and even longer since Henry asked me out the first time. Truthfully, I
hadn’t known how I felt. Not really, anyway. And since then, I hadn’t exactly had time to figure it out. Until now, that is. Until Levi. I always thought Henry and I would have time to
sort out whatever we were supposed to be.

But things change. And what I feel for Levi is different from what I feel for Henry. Ten times bigger and nothing has even
happened
yet. It’s a bonfire compared with a candle
flame.

Brynn twists her mouth to the side. “No, but…”

My eyes flit up to the ceiling. “Then you’re just speculating. I’ve known Henry for a long time. He doesn’t, like, expect anything, I don’t think. Not really
anyway.” The words leave a sour taste in my mouth, a copper-plated tinge the second they’re off my tongue.

I know Brynn’s protecting Henry, but I’m her friend, too.

“He bought the tickets before your surgery, Stella. To celebrate with you. He’s been planning this thing for a while I think.”

“Before my surgery!” I throw my hands up. “Are you kidding me? He could have jinxed me!” But secretly, I know this the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Brynn rolls her eyes. “Well, he didn’t. I just feel bad, okay?”

“Look,” I say. “I know. I just I need this right now. I—I can’t explain it. Besides, it was done before I even knew what was happening. And Levi’s right.
Henry’s not, like, a huge Action Hero Disco fan, and Levi loves them. It’s not like I left Henry high and dry.” I’m shocked that I can say that statement without breaking
into hives.

Brynn thumbs at the tattooed script that reads
Breathe
inked into the underside of her wrist. “I want you to be happy, Stel. You know that. You deserve to be happy after…well,
you know. But…” She trails off.

I cross my arms, my nervous energy channeling itself into anger. “Do you have something else you want to say?” I ask pointedly.

She drops her wrist to her side. “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“A huge Action Hero Disco fan, Stella? Is he?”

I all but choke on a gob of spit as I sputter at her. “What, so you think he’s lying now? You don’t even know him.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my face
has contorted into something ugly.

She studies me. “Guys have done way more to get in a girl’s pants, dumbass.”

“Guys have done way less to get in yours.”

I hold my breath. I can’t believe I said that.

Brynn narrows her eyes to a squint. Only she’s not mad. I’ve known Brynn long enough to know that if she were mad, she’d probably slap me square in the face. Now pink shows
through her freckles and rims her eyes. “You know,” she says without emotion, “I’m not sure I like this new heart of yours.” We stare at each other. “Stop
scratching yourself.”

My hands clamp into fists. The long scrape burns on my forearm. I hate that she knows my nervous habit. I hate it even more that I actually listen to her.

She shudders as if trying to shake off an unpleasant thought. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re right. It’s up to you. I just—”

“Just what?”

A squiggly line forms on her forehead and she looks at me for several beats like she’s trying hard to make out letters on an eye exam. Whatever she was going to say, she doesn’t,
because instead, a faint ghost of a smile catches the corners of her lips and she simply says, “Nothing. You’re fine. I’ve got to get back to class.”

And then her footsteps are echoing against the bathroom walls and before the door closes behind her I get out, “Just what, Brynn?” She either doesn’t hear or chooses not to
respond.

I splash cold water on my face. The circles under my eyes are darker than concealer can mask. The whites of my eyes are bloodshot. Pale and sickly, I look like a girl haunted.