Invincible (27 page)

But I can't think about that. If I imagine what he must be doing right now—alone, all dressed up and nowhere to go, still loving me even though all I do is reject him and lie to his face—a tsunami of feelings threatens to drown me. It hurts too much to imagine how I've hurt him. And now that I've quit the pills, I am no longer immune to pain. It is always there, storming around me like a hurricane, threatening to wipe me out entirely.

I pull Jenica's old dress over my head. I lace up my black winter boots, the only things beside tennis shoes I can wear with my bad leg. I run some pomade through my hair and sculpt my baby-bird fluff into a kind of faux hawk. I line my eyes with thick black eyeliner and paint my lips blood-red. I walk through the living room where the rest of my family is acting so normal. I feel the mood sour as soon as I enter.

“Are you leaving now?” Mom says as I take her car keys from the hook by the door.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Have a great time, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Don't do anything stupid,” Dad says, not ready to pretend everything's okay like Mom is. “I'm serious, Evie. I'm still not okay with you taking your mom's car.”

“I'm meeting Kasey and Will for dinner. They're good chaperones. You trust them, don't you?”

“Trusting
them
is not the issue and you know it.”

“Oh, come here,” Mom interrupts. “Let me take your picture.”

“No, it's okay, Mom.”

“No really, come on. I want one of you and Jenica together.”

Jenica rolls her eyes as I make my way over. Her dopey boyfriend gets out of the way and I take his place next to my sister.

“You look nice,” I say.

“Thanks.” Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the compliment. She probably thinks I want something.

“Okay,” Mom says. “Say cheese.”

As hard as Mom tries, her forced cheer can't make up for our lack of enthusiasm. We mutter the most pathetic “Cheese” in history. Dad waits this picture out and sits on the couch with his camera in his lap. He has no desire to remember this moment. He doesn't want the night marred by any photographic evidence that I was here to ruin it.

I'm struck by the sudden urge to cry. For a moment, I wish Will was here with his arm around me. I wish Kasey was here taking way too many selfies with her phone and posting them to every social media outlet in existence. I wish I was wearing heels instead of these big black boots. I wish my hair was long and curled. I wish my makeup was subtle and pretty. I wish Dad was smiling and proud of his two girls, dressed up like princesses, on their way to a magical evening.

“I have to go,” I choke. “I'm going to be late.” I grab my purse and get out of the house as fast as I can. Only when I shut the front door behind me can I remember who I am now. I am someone who does not want those things. I am someone whose heart is not breaking.

I get in Mom's car, take Stella's mix out of my purse, and turn it up so loud that it drowns out any feelings of sadness I have left. I text Marcus to see if he wants to get together before I have to meet Will and Kasey, but he texts back that he's out with a friend. A surge of jealousy rips through me—he is having fun without me. He is with someone else. Is it a girl? I know these thoughts are ridiculous, but still I can't imagine him with a life outside of ours together. Maybe because mine is so empty without him.

I drive fast up winding roads into the hills of Berkeley, music blaring, until I find the spot Stella and Cole took me to the night that changed everything. I remember the feeling of being suspended in the back of the van, being completely powerless and at their mercy, and how liberating that seemed. I remember the van doors opening and for a moment feeling like I was flying. I was on top of the world that night. Life opened up in a way I never imagined.

And then, just as quickly, it closed.

It seems perverse that I felt so much hope and possibility in this same spot a handful of weeks ago, that life brightened right as I was ready to say good-bye to it. And now that I've been given another chance at it, the possibilities are suddenly frightening. There is too much space around me, too much distance to cover, too many roads and paths and hills and mountains I have no idea how
to navigate. This is not why people survive. No one beats a terminal illness just to be terrified of everything.

I roll a joint and smoke the whole thing while I look over the sparkling bay. I blow my fear out with the smoke into the night. This will never be as good as the pills. Nothing will. But I inhale some stillness. Some relief.

The magic of the night with Stella is gone. This is only a hill with a nice view now. What would happen if I kept going, if I released the parking break and flew into empty space? Would I be weightless? Would I be lifted to somewhere better? Would I touch the freedom of that night, just for a second? Would I find Stella?

I sit for a long time, long enough to listen to most of the CD, long enough to finish an imaginary physical therapy appointment, long enough to finish a nice dinner on a nice date with a nice boyfriend, long enough to use up the time until I said I'd meet Will and Kasey. My head is pleasantly cloudy, but I'm afraid of it wearing off too soon, so I roll another joint to smoke on the drive back down the hill, to fortify me for the inevitable. Even as I'm doing it, I know it's a bad idea. But it's either that or risk sobering up too soon.

There are few streetlights up here and the roads are windy and steep. My vision is blurry and my reflexes are slow. I am finding it hard to stay inside the lines of the road. One wrong turn and I would run right into one of the hillside mansions. I would make a garage out of their living room. I could keep going, straight through, and fly through their million-dollar view.

As I drive around a sharp turn, I barely avoid crashing head-on into another car. The sound of its horn in the quiet night jolts me awake. I am vaguely scared, but not enough to stop driving. I know I'm a menace. I could hurt someone. I could hurt myself. I should care, but I don't. I smoke through my fear and my shame until I make it to the bottom of the hill, still alive. Just barely.

I consider turning around when I see the crowd in front of the rented banquet hall where prom is being held, all the clumps of bare-shouldered girls with tiny purses, all the guys in matching black suits. But the night is just a cloud now, just a puff of smoke. I am not bothered by it. So I park and limp my way to the entrance, only half here. The other half of me is gone, sleeping.

“Evie!” Kasey's voice cuts through the manic chatter of my classmates. There she is near the door, flanked by vague girls I used to call my friends, and their wholesome athlete boyfriends. Will is off to the side, poking at his phone the way people do to avoid looking lonely. He looks up and smiles—hopefully, sadly—and shame tears through my haze of pot smoke.

I realize how stoned I am as I walk toward them. It takes extra concentration to coordinate my legs. I don't know if I should look people in the eye or not. My face feels like it's put on crooked. My stomach growls with hunger and I feel briefly nauseous. I can't remember the last time I ate.

“Hi,” Will says, leaning toward me out of habit, either for a kiss or a hug, neither of which he gets. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” I say. “So do you.” It's true, he does look nice. Will always looks nice. Everything about Will is always nice.

“I like the punk thing you're doing,” a girl I used to consider my friend says. “You look cool.”

“Oh,” I say. Is that what I'm doing? “Thanks.”

“Want some?” another someone says, discretely pulling a flask halfway out of her purse. I grab it and gulp down almost all of it.

“Jesus, Evie,” Kasey says, disgusted.

“I'm thirsty.”

“Shall we go in?” says Kasey's date, some guy from Skyline High she met at a party a month ago who I know nothing about.

In another life, I would have been squealing with the other girls about how beautiful the place looks. But in my condition, the fake Eiffel Tower and cardboard painted to look like old brick looks gaudy and cheap. The blaring hip-hop doesn't help the attempt at Parisian ambience.

“The lights are so pretty,” someone says, but they're nothing more than white Christmas lights.

“Are there snacks here?” I think I say, but no one answers, so I wonder if I actually said it out loud or if I just thought it.

Will's holding on to my waist like he's afraid I'm going to run off, and he's probably smart to do it. I want to find somewhere to hide. I don't want to dance. I don't want to wait in line to take overpriced pictures with multiple cheesy background selections. I don't want to stand around with these people I have nothing to say to.

Not to mention that I don't think I'm capable of standing much longer. My legs are wobbly. Every beat of the too-loud music threatens to tip me over.

“I'm going to sit down,” I manage to say out loud.

“Already?” Will says. “Don't you want to dance?”

“My leg hurts.” I know he can't argue with that.

So we sit. Will does what he does best and holds court, talking to everyone who comes by in his charming talk-show-host voice. I do my best to smile, but I'm not capable of much more than that.

I watch people dance, mostly badly. The good dancers are too aware that they're good, and are just as comical for taking themselves so seriously. I laugh to myself until Will looks at me weird and I shut up. I watch girls sizing each other up, shooting daggers at each other with their eyes. I watch guys checking out other guys' girlfriends. It's all so predictable, all this posturing. If it weren't for the different dresses, everyone would look exactly the same.

Will's voice chirps next to me but I have no idea what he's saying. I text Marcus
I miss you
and I don't care if Will sees.

“You look great,” everyone tells me.

“Are you sure you don't want to dance?” Will keeps asking me in between greeting the visitors to our receiving line.

People offer me their hidden flasks and I drink instead of talking.

My phone buzzes.
I miss you too
, it says, and now everything is all right with the world.

“Let's dance!” I say, suddenly sick of sitting. I stand up too fast and the room swirls around me. The Eiffel Tower turns to rubber and the strings of lights get tangled.

“Uh-oh,” Will says, catching me like a true gentleman. “Ha-ha,” he says, his straight white teeth sparkling in the low light. “Did someone have a little too much to drink?”

I choose to ignore his patronizing tone. “Come on,” I say, and pull him onto the dance floor next to where Kasey and her date are dancing. I see Jenica across the room and she actually looks happy. It's weird to see her out of the house, in a different context than our family. She actually has a life in the real world. She's someone besides my bitchy sister.

For a moment, I think maybe I can be happy tonight. I am drunk and stoned enough that it may be possible to salvage this night and have a little fun. So I dance as well as I can with a leg that only half works. Will seems satisfied enough with my performance. People dance around us like we're the centerpiece of this strange party, smiling at me like I'm making them proud. Look at Evie, she finally cheered up! She's one of us again! She finally pulled that ungrateful stick out of her ass and is having a little fun!

But then Kasey grabs me by the wrist. “Calm down,” she says. “You're making a fool out of yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're acting weird.”

“I'm dancing. Isn't that what I'm supposed to be doing?”

“Are you
on
something?”

“God, Kasey. Shut up.” I keep dancing. I dance away so I don't have to look at her pouty face.

“Are you okay?” Will says, so I dance away from him, too.

The sound changes. The music stops. Someone is talking and her voice is coming from everywhere. People clap. The room is not pulsing with movement. Everyone is facing the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe has been made into a stage. A giant projection of the smug, eyebrowless
Mona Lisa
stares down at us. A familiar-looking girl has a microphone and is saying something, beaming her college-interview smile. More clapping. More smiling. More talking. I lean on someone for balance, but I don't know who.

The student-body president, that's who she is. But what is her name? I know I should know her name. She says, “Drumroll, please,” and people make noises that sound nothing like drumrolls. She takes a piece of paper out of an envelope. She says, “Oh, what a surprise,” with a sickly sweet sarcasm and a look on her face the exact opposite of surprise. Then she says my name.

“I am proud to crown our new prom queen and king: Evie Whinsett and Will Johnson.”

The room erupts in applause. I feel Will's arm tight around my waist. “Come on,” he says, but I can't move.

“Evie and Will, come on up to the stage!”

The crowd starts chanting “Evie, Evie, Evie.” The floor vibrates with my name. I think I'm going to be sick.

Will pulls me and my legs manage to work well enough to get me onto the stage. I stare into a sea of faces, all these people I've known for years but who are now strangers. And they're saying my name, like it means so much to them that I'm standing up here, and I wonder,
What have I done
to deserve this? What have I done to earn their admiration? I survived when I should have died. I'm alive by mistake. I've turned into a monster, and this is what I get? A crown? A standing ovation? What is wrong with these people?

Everyone cheers. Their faces turn into black empty holes. I look at Will and he's got his big, proud grin, and his arm around my waist is the only thing keeping me up. I don't want to be here. I don't want all these people looking at me, wanting me to be someone different, someone I used to be, wanting me to be someone they can believe in, someone inspiring, someone who deserves to be crowned. But I'm nobody. I'm nothing. They're cheering for an imposter, a thief.