We All Looked Up (3 page)

But Madeline had gone off to college last September, and Eliza was left on her own again. The chemo did end up slowing the growth of her dad's tumors, but good news was a weird thing when you were dealing with a fatal illness. Instead of a few months, the doctors gave him a year. That was how you could be lucky without being lucky. That was how you could be a winner and still lose.

“Dinnertime,” a nurse said, balancing a tray in each hand, like a waitress.

They dug into their overcooked penne and overly sweetened pudding. Eliza realized that she now ate the vast majority of her meals off of cafeteria trays.

“Doc says the stent is good to go, so I'll probably be home tomorrow.”

“Great.”

“So what about you? Anything juicy happen at school today?”

“Not really. Well, sorta. Do you remember Peter?”

“You mean the Peter from last year?”

“Yeah. He tried to talk to me today. First time since . . . you know.”

Her dad shook his head. He knew the whole story. “That asshole. Didn't know a good thing.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait.” He poked her chin gently with his fork. “You're not interested in him, are you?”

“Are you kidding? He, like, wrecked my life.”

“I know. But your mom wrecked my life too, and you know my feelings about her.”

“I do.” Eliza knew them, she just didn't understand them. How could you keep loving someone who cheated on you and then ran away? “But the answer is no. I'm not interested. He can fuck off and die for all I care.”

“There's my sweet girl.”

After dinner, she gave her father a kiss and grabbed ten bucks from his wallet to pay for the hospital parking lot. She couldn't handle being alone at home right now, so she headed out to the Crocodile to have a drink and maybe dance a little.

The guy who chatted her up at the bar was probably twenty-two, with a nicely trimmed blond Afro and the easy confidence of the stupid. They danced. They made out. And all the time, Eliza was thinking about Peter. Peter who sometimes felt like a little boy in a red bow tie. Peter who'd let his girlfriend ruin Eliza's reputation. Peter who was still with that same girlfriend.

Screw him.

“So you wanna go back to my place?” the blond Afro guy asked.

“I don't go home with strangers,” Eliza said. “But you can come home with me.”

He said he'd be cool with that. They always did.

Outside the Crocodile, a group of punkers was standing around in a haze of warm breath and cigarette smoke. Eliza recognized one of them from Hamilton—Andy Rowen. He had long brown hair, down to his shoulders, and was finally beginning to triumph over the volcanic acne that had plagued him since puberty. She'd bought pot from him once, and he'd given her a discount.

“Eliza!” he said. “Holy shit!” His excitement at seeing her off campus was so sincere she was almost embarrassed for him.

“Hey, Andy.”

“Where you going? You guys should sit down and hang out.”

“Sorry, we were just leaving.”

Andy looked at her, then at her date, connecting dot A to dot B. She would have introduced them, but she couldn't remember the name of the guy she was about to take home. Something with a
J
?

“Hold up, though. You wanna see something amazing?”

“Sure.”

Andy pointed upward. She followed the line extending from his index finger out into the dark distance. A single spark of bright blue, like a puncture in the black skin of the sky. And hadn't Peter said something about a star?

“Wicked, right?” Andy asked.

Eliza knew what he meant by the word; it was one of a million different synonyms for “cool”: sweet, ill, rad, dope, sick. But for some reason, she felt like he had it wrong. The star seemed wicked in the original sense. Wicked like the Wicked Witch of the West. Wicked like something that wanted to hurt you.

Eliza had been labeled a slut by an entire high school. She wasn't speaking to her mom. Her dad was dying. But if she'd learned anything in the past year, it was that no amount of suffering could save you from more of it. And that star looked like a sure sign that more was coming.

Wicked indeed.

A
ndy

ON THE OTHER HAND, IT
was good to be out of class.

Andy threw down his deck and hopped on, letting the pavement carry him effortlessly down toward the other end of campus. If only everything in life could be like that—effortless. If only there weren't all this school to get through, and homework, and all these expectations. If only you could get up when you wanted and eat some Cinnamon Toast Crunch and play some music and smoke a bowl and drive to school whenever and maybe take a class if you felt like it, if you were actually
interested
in it, and then just chill with your friends the rest of the time. If only . . .

“Andy Rowen!”

Midge Brenner: freshman and sophomore English teacher, and one of Andy's many faculty nemeses. Clearly, she missed having him in class, where she'd reamed him out on the daily for his controversial stance on homework (namely, that it represented a blatant transgression of every man's God-given right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness). Now the only way she could get her authoritative jollies was by killing his buzz
outside
the classroom.

“Yeah?”

“As a senior, I would have expected you to know that skateboarding is not allowed on campus.”

“Totes forgot, Ms. Brenner. That's my bad.”

Andy did a little ollie in place before hopping off and kicking the board up into his hand, earning an extra-strength frown from Midge. Not that there was anything she could do about it. You couldn't get sent to the principal's office when you'd already
been
sent to the principal's office. That shit was called
double jeopardy
.

“Thank you, Andy.”

“Don't mention it.”

Actually, even though he'd been sent there, Andy wasn't going to the principal's office. Last year he and Mr. Jester had come to an agreement. Andy's infractions were frequent but minor, and the principal didn't have the time or energy to deal with every single one. Instead, whenever Andy got in trouble, he was to report to Suzie O, the student counselor.

In other words, he'd been outsourced.

Suzie O's office was located on the second floor of the library, far from the fascist administrators who worked out of Bliss Hall. It was quiet there, because nobody hung out in the library if they could help it. That is, no one other than the librarians, toddling about behind the desk and in the circulation room, begrudgingly lending out their precious books. They seemed to see students primarily as things to be shushed; you could have a whole conversation with one of them that consisted of nothing
but
shushing sounds. Andy gave a fancy salute to the librarian behind the front desk as he walked up the stairs and out of her jurisdiction.

As he reached the second floor, he saw Anita Graves come out of Suzie's office, wiping at her eyes. Anita was pretty much the most clean-cut, put-together girl in the whole school. Her family had crazy money, and she was crazy smart—word was she'd already received her early decision acceptance from Princeton. So what the hell was she doing crying at Suzie O?

The counselor gave Anita a quick hug. “You think about what I said, okay?”

“I will.” Anita sniffled, then shook her head with a single violent snap. Suddenly all the sadness was gone. She looked her usual self—sharp, focused, unflappable.

“Hey, Andy,” she said, even smiling as she passed.

“Hey.”

He turned to watch her go. Cute, in the way of certain high-strung girls, like a perfect pile of raked leaves you just wanted to dive into and scatter back over the lawn. He called out after her, “Yo, whatever it is, it's not worth it.”

She didn't look back, but she did break her stride for half a second, which was really the most you could hope for with a girl like that.

“Eyes over here, Rowen.” Suzie was leaning against the door frame. “I'm gonna guess you're not here in the middle of fourth period because you missed me.”

Andy grinned. “That doesn't mean I
didn't
miss you.”

“Come on in.”

Suzie's office was actually pretty sweet, for an office. There was a fluffy brown couch long enough to lie out on, a mini-fridge stocked with soda, and a big basket with a layer of fruit hiding a secret stash of real snacks—what Suzie called her “childhood obesity facilitators.” Best of all was the television in the corner, available for the occasional midday movie screening, if Suzie was in a good mood.

To say they were friends might have been a stretch, but they got along pretty well for a high school senior with “behavioral issues” and an overweight counselor in her forties. Andy could talk to her about anything: drinking, drugs, girls, his shit parents, whatever. It hadn't come straightaway, of course. The first few times he'd been forced to meet with her, he didn't say a word, just sat there staring at the wall until the bell rang. But Suzie was smart. One day, instead of trying to talk to him, she put on the first season of
Game of Thrones
. And as if that weren't enough right there, she'd started to recite the words along with the characters. It was too much. How could you hate someone who had memorized entire episodes of
Game of Thrones
?

“And to what do I owe the pleasure today, Mr. Rowen?”

“Same old. I was too funny for Ms. Holland. She got jealous.”

“I should've known. You want something to eat?”

“Oreo me, dawg.”

Suzie tossed him one of the blue packets of cookies. “So, only five months left. You psyched?”

“About getting out of this shithole? You know it.”

“And what's your plan after graduation?”

Andy didn't like talking about stuff like
plans
. Why were adults always so obsessed with the future? It was like the present wasn't even happening. “I don't know. Get a job. Move into an apartment with Bobo. Skate. Smoke. Enjoy life.”

“Sounds nice. Any thoughts about college?”

“You know, I totally forgot to apply. That's on me.”

“What about Seattle Central? You could take a few classes, see how you feel.” Andy made a face, and Suzie raised her hands, like a criminal caught in the act. “I'm just being real with you. A high school diploma used to be enough in this country. Now you'll be lucky to make minimum wage with it.”

“I don't care about money.”

“It's not about money. I'm glad you don't care about money. I'm talking about boredom. You think school is bad? A minimum-wage job makes school look like freaking Burning Man. Unless you have some kind of fetish for doing the same rote physical task eight million times a day.”

“Maybe I do.”

Suzie laughed. “Yeah, I know you probably get this all the time from your parents—”

“I don't,” Andy said. “They don't give half a shit.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

“Believe what you want, man.”

“What I believe is that you shouldn't waste your potential flipping burgers.”

Andy unscrewed an Oreo and licked the creamy center. “Suzie, no offense, but you are stressing my shit
out
today.”

“That's my job.”

“I thought your job was to help people deal with the stress they already have.”

“Strung-out people need to be chilled out. But chilled-out people maybe could use a good kick in the ass.” She mimed a kind of seated kung-fu ass kicking.

“Stressed people like Anita Graves? What was she doing here, anyway?”

“Everyone's got their troubles.”

“I'd trade mine for hers.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“Why don't you do me a real favor?” Andy said, popping the last Oreo into his mouth and talking while he chewed. “Teach me how to get laid. Bobo calls me Mary now, like the Virgin Mary. It's humiliating.”

“All right. Lesson one, don't talk with your mouth full. It's gross. Lesson two, go to college. Girls like guys with plans.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you've got a job and shit, and I don't see the dudes beating down your door, do I?”

He'd only meant it as an observation, but as soon as he said it, the vibe in the room turned cold. Suzie wasn't smiling anymore. “You're a good kid,” she said, “but you've got a mean streak in you.”

Andy wanted to apologize, but he didn't know how to put it into words. Just the thought of trying exhausted him. “Whatever,” he said, standing up. He pushed Suzie's door out of the way like it was somebody trying to hassle him.

After school, Andy found Bobo already waiting for him in the parking lot, flicking the top of his lighter open and shut. He was wearing tight black jeans and a black Operation Ivy hoodie—both of them studded with patches and rips and safety pins.

“Mary!” he said, pulling a pair of headphones as big as coconut halves off his ears. “You made it! I was afraid we'd lost you for good when you got kicked out of Holland's class.”

“I'm a survivor. So what's on tap today?”

“Same old. We hang out here till we get bored, then we leave. I told everybody we'd meet them at the Crocodile at seven. The Tuesdays are playing.” Bobo pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his hoodie, lit two, and handed one to Andy.

“You sure you don't wanna rehearse a little?” Andy asked.

“You know I don't believe in that shit. We gotta book a show first anyway.”

“Never hurts to be prepared.”

Bobo shook his head. “Don't be a bitch, yo. Let's just skate.”

Together, they prowled over the Hamilton campus, hopping up on rails and jumping benches and sideswiping trash cans, until the sun started to go down and Hamilton's athletes slumped sweaty and worn-out from the gym. Then they hopped into Andy's station wagon, picked up some McDonald's, and headed downtown.

The Crocodile was an all-ages club with a decent sound system and a delightfully scuzzy clientele. By seven, the heavy, distorted belch of the Bloody Tuesdays was already blasting out of the place like a weapon of mass destruction. Andy and Bobo ordered a couple of Cokes (improved immeasurably by the flask of rum Bobo kept in his back pocket) and sat down at a table. Halfway through the set, the rest of the crew showed up: Jess, Kevin, and Misery, Bobo's girlfriend. She'd dyed her hair green last week, and it looked good.

They buried themselves deep in the moshing crowd and danced, though for Bobo and Misery, that basically meant grinding and making out. Somehow Andy could hear the click of their tongue rings even over the music. He did his best to tune it out.

Andy had met Misery on the very first day of junior year and had a crush on her pretty much right away. She was a freshman, but already confident and cool and unapologetically punk rock. Unfortunately, before he could make a move, she met Bobo. Within hours, they were a couple. It had pissed Andy off at first, but what was he gonna do? Bobo had always been the alpha dog in their little pack—funnier, crazier, more willing to get in trouble. He'd been suspended from school twice already; it'd be a miracle if he made it to graduation.

The set ended and they all went back to their table, soaked in their own sweat and the sweat of strangers.

“So when is Perineum gonna play again?” Misery asked.

“When this dude writes some new songs,” Bobo said, punching Andy in the shoulder.

Perineum was their two-man punk rock/death metal band. They'd opened for the Bloody Tuesdays a couple of times over the summer but hadn't performed since. Andy had actually written a lot of songs in the past few months, but none of them were right for a lead singer who thought that music:eardrums = boxer:punching bag.

“Let's go outside,” Misery said. “I wanna smoke.”

The lead singer of the Tuesdays, a big ginger guy who called himself Bleeder, was already out there with his bassist. They were both staring up at the sky.