This Is Where the World Ends (12 page)

“No, we always play Never Have I Ever,” I whine. My head is in Ander's lap and they're all here on the floor in the basement of the house I fucking hate but that's finally good for something, Piper and Wes and Jasper (who they all call Big Jizz because he spilled milk on his lap in, like, middle school) and Gonzalo and Jude. Happy happy happy birthday to me. “I'm out of Never Have I Evers.”

Ander's hands are wrist deep in my hair, and his fingers play with it like it's water. “What, then?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I say. “Something fun.”

“Never Have I Ever,” Piper insists, and we all ignore her.

“We could play beer pong again,” says Big Jizz.

“We're not playing beer pong again,” I say, and my tongue feels fuzzy. I am spectacularly bad at beer pong. “Oh, Flubber! Let's play Flubber! Wes, get the cards.”

“What the hell kind of a game is called Flubber?” asks Gonzalo.

“FUBAR,” Ander explains. “Janie doesn't like that, so she calls it Flubber.”

“Flubber is such a cute word,” I say, and giggle, and can't stop giggling. Flubber, flubber.

“It's a good thing you're pretty,” Wes says, coming back with another bottle of vodka and the deck of cards, which he rains down on my face. He drops down by Piper and takes a swig of Keystone Light, and I roll out of Ander's lap and pull the cards across the carpet to me as he explains: one shot for an ace, two for two. Pick three people to drink for three. Answer a question for four. Five for five. Six, everyone drinks. Seven, a round of Never Have I Ever. Eight, everyone drinks. Nine, rhyme, loser drinks. Ten, everyone drinks. Jack, guys drink; queen, girls drink. And king, what do we do for king?

“Waterfall,” I say. Trip, stumble, bubble, burp. “Dealer drinks and then the next person drinks and the next person drinks and you drink until you can't drink anymore. Like chicken but more fun.”

“It's a stupid game,” Jude says, but he takes the deck from me to deal. “All right, let's go. Jizz and I gotta head out after this. My parents are getting back from Des Moines tonight.”

“Why does Jizz have to go?” I ask.

“I'm his ride, remember? You're such a lightweight, Janie,” says Jude, and throws a card at my face.

“Am not,” I say. “You guys are cheaters. You never drink when I get the ball in your cup. At least I'm not Gonzalo.”

“Yeah, Gonz.” Ander laughs, leaning over to slap Gonzalo's shoulder. “Dude, he's out. Damn, he had like, what, seven shots?”

“Piece of shit,” Wes snorts. “I brought the hard lemonade for the asshole and he gets wasted on the good stuff. Typical. Jude, fucking deal.”

“Shove it,” Jude says, but he flips a card at him. Ace. Wes throws back the last shot of the old bottle and flicks the tiny bit of leftover vodka at Piper, who's sprawled on the ground in a crop top that barely covers her bra. I try to remember what Dad said about the carpets when we first moved, but I only remember that they were expensive. It doesn't matter anymore. We've spilled enough that it doesn't even pay to worry. I'm in one of Ander's shirts because I spilled beer on mine. It has his name across the back in big red letters:
C A M E R O N
.

Piper flips him off and Wes grins at her, a big blurry grin. Jude hands her a card. Seven.

“Ugh,” Piper says. “Okay, okay. Um. Never have I ever . . . never have I ever finished a large order of fries from McDonald's.”

“Bullshit,” says Wes. “Bull. Shit. Seriously? Girls, man.” All fingers down. Mine too. One large order of fries? Please. I've had five. Micah and I went through a phase where we'd go to McDonald's every Metaphor Day. We built Jenga towers out of fries and threw them at ducks.

“There you go, Janie,” Wes says appreciatively as my finger goes down. He snaps my bra strap and snaps it again, picking me like a guitar. “At least you know how to live.”

How to live. I am living, living, living.

Jude hands me a three. “Me,” I say, “Ander, Piper.”

We throw our heads back and the vodka rushes down my throat and drowns all of the butterflies. If it didn't taste like burning, it might have tasted like apples. Apple vodka, one of my dad's fancy bottles. Micah once told me that he thought that he hated vodka. I don't hate vodka. Vodka is easy. I don't even need a chaser for vodka, not for vodka.

They cheer me on.

Ander gets a ten. We all drink. Jizzy gets another seven. We all drink again. Jude pulls a nine. “Nine,” he says.

“Wine,” says Wes.

“Swine,” says Piper.

“Line,” says Ander.

“Vine,” says me.

Sign, dine, mine, incline, aine. “Aine?”

We all look at Ander, who's very, very blurry.

“What?” he says. “It's a word. Old English or some shit. It was in the Shakespeare we read in class. Right?”

“No, shithead,” says Wes. “This is America. We play American FUBAR. Drink.”

He drinks.

And we go and go and go. Queen, five, ace. Ace, three, nine.

“This game is too complicated,” Jizzy complains, probably because he only has two brain cells: one that's in charge of making sure his hair is perfect every morning and one that's a balloon in his head, pushing on the sides of his skull so he thinks he's smart. He grabs a bottle of vodka for the road and kicks Jude. “We should go.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Jude, and he leaves the deck while Wes calls them faggots.

“I don't like that word,” I tell him. I try to frown.
Come on, caterpillar eyebrows. Work with me.

“I don't like you,” he says, and it's true. Wes told Ander when we first started going out that he'd rather jump into the quarry than date me.

I don't mind him. Wes is the kind of person that isn't worth the effort of disliking.

“We're going,” says Jude. He tries to pick up Gonzalo, who wakes up long enough to shout “No homo!” and
stumble out. I wave at them, and it's exquisitely funny that Gonzy can't walk. He misses the door and hits a wall.

“Well, fuck them,” says Wes, and throws a two at Piper, who bats it away like her hand is heavier than gravity.

“I'm tired,” she mumbles, and curls up like a kitten. I pet her and laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Jesus, Janie, shut the hell up,” says Wes, and digs through the deck until he finds a ten. “Dude, you start,” he tells Ander, and Ander throws back the rest of his can.

I go. Wes goes. Piper raises her head long enough to lap at her cup.

Ander. Me. Wes. Piper. Ander. Me. Wes. Piper.

Ander.

Me.

Wes.

Piper.

Until the world is swimming in us and we're swimming in the world.

“Ugh, I'm done,” says Piper, curling back up.

Ander, me, Wes. Ander, me, Wes. Eye contact and middle fingers, until Ander lunges forward and knocks Wes's shot glass out of his hand and all over Piper. Piper squeals and her voice echoes in my brain. Wes tells Ander to fuck himself, but “Whatever,” he says, “I was done anyway, I'm not fucking insane.”

And then it's just Ander and me. The whole world is just Ander Cameron and Janie Vivian. Ander and Janie. Janie and Ander.

Wait, that's not right.

But I want to win.

Except the glass is spilling and spilling and spilling, and suddenly it's not in my hand anymore, and I try to catch it but Ander is cheating, somehow, and I can't move, I can't move right.

Wes shouts “Champion!” and slumps onto Piper, who rolls her eyes and starts getting to her feet, pulling Wes with her, heading for the door. I try to watch them go, but just then Ander's syrup eyes wrap around my wrists, “Sorry Janie I guess I'm just better sorry I'll make it up to you.”

And then he's kissing me, his hands in my hair and his lips on my lips and his breath hot and wet and too loud.

“No,” I say, but it gets lost on the way out of my mouth and Ander swallows what's left of it. He kisses me again and again, and his hand—where's his other hand? His other hand is in my shirt, his shirt, and crawling crawling crawling up.

Far, far away, Piper says they're leaving, and I don't,
I don't want her to leave.

Wait, wait, wait for me, Piper. “Piper, no, stay. Stay.”

I see her look back, her eyes my eyes and the moment is still, but—

But she turns.

She pulls Wes after her and they go up the stairs and they're gone.

And suddenly I'm freezing, frozen, and Ander is drawing slow circles like he's trying to warm me up with his ice fingers.

“Ander, Ander, stop.
No.
”

“It's fine,” he says. He's in my ear, kissing and licking, and then his hand is too high in my shirt and I try to tell him, I tell him I'm tired, I'm so tired.

“Okay,” he says softly, his breath is in my mouth, his arms are behind my head and knees, big strong wrestler arms, and the world is spinning. I blink and we're on the stairs, and then he's pushing the door to my room open and I'm on the bed. It's okay, I think, it's okay okay okay—

—but then—

It isn't, it's not at all, because Ander is there too,

and me not knowing, not knowing, but knowing
now
, knowing that I don't want to, I don't, I don't. He's on my bed over me and he's kissing, kissing, kissing. Touching, touching, touching.

“Ander,” I say. “No. Stop.”

“I have a condom,” he says, and kisses me again before I can say no again.

“Wait,” I say, and he says, “Don't worry, they're gone, it's just us, it's just you and me.”

Not you and me,
never
you and me, not Janie and Ander or Ander or Janie. Where's Piper? Piper has to come back soon, she will, she will. I want to be Janie, alone, just Janie—

But then he's pulling at my shirt, and I try to keep it on but he says it's his shirt, it's his. I try to get to my rocks, my Metaphor rock,
Fear no more,
but it isn't there, it's
his
. And the bra, the pretty pretty bra that gave me cleavage, real cleavage, is gone. And then the panties, matching and matchingly gone, and the world—

—it freezes, it stops turning and we are forever and infinitely trapped in this moment, this moment of Ander and Janie together and I fucking hate it, I fucking hate it,
I fucking hate it
.

“Just relax,” he tells me.

And I close my eyes and think,
Maybe it won't matter.
Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and I won't even remember this. Maybe it will never have happened.

THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN

Once upon a time, a princess took a few shots of apple vodka. She took a few more and fell asleep. A prince kissed her awake, but all she really wanted to do was sleep.

She told him that, but he didn't stop.

She did tell him. She told him
no
and
stop
, but did he listen?

Did anyone, ever?

Forgetting is the easy part. This should be unsurprising, but it surprises me. Forgetting was easy. Remembering is endless and it hurts, endlessly.

On the night of the bonfire, on the last night that anyone saw Janie Vivian, it was too cold to be outside. I was in bed with my laptop on my chest when Janie came up the stairs. She had been gone all day. She was gone most days, actually. I see less of her now that she's living in the basement than I did when she was at the new house.

She stood in the doorway, and I knew something was wrong.

Her eyes were almost colorless. Her hands were deep in her pockets and her pockets were full of stones. I could see them, knuckles and rocks.

“What's wrong?” I asked her. “Where have you been?”

She leaned her head against the doorframe. “What are you doing?”

“Senior thesis,” I said. “Have you heard of Thomas Müntzer? He said the world was going to end in 1525. Listen to this: he dies under torture and gets his head cut off, so I guess it was pretty damn apocalyptic for him.”

“Shouldn't you be getting ready for homecoming?”

I shrug. “I've got time.”

“Micah,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

I blinked up from my screen. Her hair was falling into her eyes and she didn't move it away. “What?”

She sighed. “Don't be that guy, Micah. I said I was sorry, okay?”

“I know, I just mean—” She always said that guilt lived in my side of the soul. Janie never had anything to apologize for. People forgave her without being asked. I squinted at her. “Is that my sweatshirt?”

She looked down. “Yeah, I guess. They don't make sweatshirts like this for girls, you know?”

“Uh, not really,” I said. I pushed my laptop aside and started to get up. She crossed her arms and curled over a little. She looked small. I wanted to shake her awake.

“Oh, you know,” she said, and I wondered why she kept crushing her chest, if it made her voice so shaky. “Girls' sweatshirts are too thin and don't do shit to keep you
warm. Girl things are just like that. They don't work right. They're just there to—you know. Look nice. And this. This is just nice, you know? This is a nice sweatshirt.”

“Janie,” I said.

“Don't,” she said, flinching. I wasn't anywhere near her; my hand twitched from across the room and she flinched away from it. I swallowed. My spit was cold.

She took a breath, and I heard it rasp into her lungs without filling them. “Sorry,” she said. Her voice was small. Her voice was microscopic. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Do you ever feel like you just can't win?”

Of course I did. I lived in fucking Waldo, Iowa. I went to Waldo High School and didn't play sports. I was not particularly rich in friends. I was poorly endowed in just about every possible area of life. Of course I fucking did.

“Oh, stop that,” said Janie, a little closer to normal, which meant that she was annoyed. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Stop what?”

“Your poor little white boy nice guy act. Don't be the cliché, Micah. You're better than that.”

“Janie,” I said. I took another step forward and she took another step back.

“Stop,” she said, and I did. She took another breath. “Don't. I'm fine.”

It was a lie.

“Tell me what's wrong,” I said, and she laughed, or she tried. It didn't matter how many breaths she took to steady herself. She tried to laugh and choked.

“Oh, please. You don't want to know what's wrong, Micah. If you wanted to know, you would have—” She stopped. She blinked, and tilted her head to the ceiling so the tears wouldn't fall out. “What isn't wrong? The world is ending. I'm not even being dramatic. The world is fucking ending. You know that, don't you? That's why you picked apocalypses, isn't it? The bees are dying. The ozone layer has more holes than I do. Some idiot could press the wrong button tomorrow and start a nuclear war. It's just—it's a lot of stuff, Micah. And we can't really change it. Isn't that the worst part? We can't really change any of the stuff that matters. Just think about how much sleep we lost trying to fix stuff no one can ever really fix.”

“Um,” I said. “I guess?”

Her voice is smaller than I've ever heard it when she says, “What are the odds that you'd ditch Maggie and the dance tonight and do something with me?”

“What?” I ask.

“Do you trust me?”

Of course I trusted her. And of course I would go with her—it wasn't a question. Maggie was cute, but she wasn't Janie.

“Just let me text Maggie,” I said. “And I have to change.”

She smiled. She crossed the room, finally, and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled like she was burning when I put my head on hers. Sometimes I forgot how small she really was. She barely reached my chin. She looked up and her lips were curved and her eyes were too bright and I—

I nearly kissed her, but didn't.

I nearly told her that it was okay, but didn't.

I nearly said scientists were working pretty hard on the bee problem, but didn't.

I did what I always did. I waited until she moved away, until her eyes were a normal brightness and her breath was regular again, and I waited for her to take my hand and pull me after her.

Her hand was cold and sweating.

“I'm having a bonfire,” she said. She reached up to push my glasses back up my nose, and kept her hand on my face. “I have marshmallows. Everyone's coming. You're coming, right?”

I hadn't really planned on it. Janie's “everyone” had little overlap with my “everyone.” But she didn't let go of my hand until we were in her car, until she stuck her key in the ignition and looked at me, hard. By then my fingers going white in her fist.

“More than anything,” she said.

“More than everything,” I replied.

On the night of the bonfire, the air was at odds with itself. The wind hurt and the smell of beer was heavy. The cold was sharp and the smoke kept growing.

People were shouting. People were chasing each other with shots and torches.

Janie was curled against me, and her hair kept making me sneeze. In the morning she would pretend this never happened and I would read too much into it, as always.

“Micah?” she said. Her voice was sudden, hitched, almost a gasp, almost a whisper. “Do you think there are things that can't be fixed?”

The fire was in her eyes. The fire. No one was paying attention to the fire. But it was growing in her eyes, and spitting.

“What do you mean? Do you mean us?”

All of a sudden she was upright. Her tailbone dug into my thigh; I winced and tried to move away, and she wouldn't let me go. “No. Not us. Not ever.”

On the night of the bonfire, it rained too late. The water pasted her hair to her neck and shoulders. It soaked through my sweatshirt.

She screamed my name.

She screamed, “Do you hear me? More than anything, Micah.
Anything.
”

On the night of the bonfire, there was a match between my fingers.

This I remember clearly: the match, burning toward my fingertips. I remember the heat on my nails, and then the burning. I remember the flame, teased high by the wind, made clear by the cold.

I remember letting go.

I remember the match falling.

“Everything,” I said as it hit the ground.

What a night to forget.

What a night to remember.

T
HE
J
OURNAL
O
F
J
ANIE
V
IVIAN

What do you think happened to Sleeping Beauty's bed?

No, really. I want you to answer.

Do you think she ever slept in it again?

She couldn't get up for a hundred years. She was stuck there, tangled in the covers, crushed into that fucking mattress for a
hundred fucking years
. She couldn't get up. She wanted to, she fought and kicked and clawed and couldn't get out of that hundred-year nightmare.

Do you really think she could ever fall asleep there again?