We All Looked Up (33 page)

“It's nice in here,” Andy said.

“Yeah. Totally.”

“You want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

There were a few bottles of water inside the dark, unpowered refrigerator. For just a second, Andy was gripped by the ridiculous fear that he wouldn't be able to twist off the cap. A drop of sweat dripped from his armpit down his belly. What if she hadn't even wanted to kiss him? What if she'd only let it happen because there hadn't been any way to stop him? He tried to remember if she'd really kissed him back, but it had all happened so fast. Maybe the best thing was just to forget about it. There were only a few hours left before the end of the world anyway. It was stupid to be worrying about love and sex at a time like this. He and Anita would just play their songs together and be friends and that would be enough—

“I don't want to die a virgin,” Anita said. She immediately covered her face with her hands. “I know it's crazy to say that right now, with everything that's happened, but it's the truth.” She straightened up, took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye. “I like you. If you're into it, then I'm into it.”

Andy was speechless. He'd forgotten that there was actually another person in the room—someone with her own needs and desires and shit to freak out about. But it was funny, or better than funny, that sometimes two people could be feeling the exact same thing at the exact same time. He burst out laughing. Anita's eyes went wide, haughty and hurt for the one second before Andy was there to kiss her.

“We have to warm up,” she said.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “We should definitely do that.”

A
nita

ANITA HAD ONCE READ THAT
all trivial questions had a single answer, but when it came to important questions, every answer was equally valid. Was life too short? Of course—there was never enough time to do all the things you wanted to do. And of course not—if it were any longer, you'd appreciate it even less than you already did. Was it better to live primarily for the good of yourself, or for the good of others? For yourself, of course—it was madness to take responsibility for other people's happiness. And for others, of course—selfishness was just another way to isolate yourself, when everyone knew that true happiness was all about friendship and love.

Did Anita feel any different after sleeping with Andy?

Of course she did—losing your virginity was always a big deal, and for her, it represented the end of a journey begun just six weeks ago (and how was it possible to fit so many lifetimes into six weeks?), when she left her parents' house with only a carry-on suitcase and a boatload of angst. More importantly, sex with Andy had brought her close to him in a way she hadn't even known was possible, a way that was grounded and wordless without being either mental (God knew she already spent more than enough time in her head) or spiritual (which she didn't really buy into). Their connection now was physical and human and earthly. It was the purest denial of death that there could be: the stubborn ecstasy of the body, the indefatigable heart. Anita felt like she finally understood why love was symbolized by that grotesque pumping organ, always threatening to clog, or break, or attack. Because the heart was the body's engine, and love was an act of the body. Your mind could tell you who to hate or respect or envy, but only your body—your nostrils and your mouth and the wide, blank canvas of your skin—could tell you who to love.

At the same time, it was silly to think of herself as totally transformed—she and Andy hadn't done anything that billions of other people hadn't done before them. It was just a few minutes on a plush purple couch. Only a hurried undressing and a bit of pain (less than she expected) and a bit of pleasure (less than she expected), some funny faces and some nervous laughter and then that sweet little shiver and something in his eyes that Anita imagined you only saw in boys' eyes at that exact moment, incredulous and vulnerable and masculine at once.

Did she love him?

Of course not—she barely knew him.

And of course—because her body told her so.

“Should I have been more careful?” he asked.

“I think the biggest morning-after pill in the universe is on its way. If we're still here the actual morning after, we can go find a real one.”

“Cool. I mean . . . cool.”

In spite of all the male bullshit she'd heard about “scoring” and “getting laid,” Anita felt more empowered now than she had in a long time. In fact, it was Andy who seemed the more fragile one; maybe that's why it was always “getting laid” instead of “laying.” In the end, girls had all the power, and boys were just lucky to receive some of it. Anita definitely understood Eliza a whole lot better now.

“Let's get dressed,” she said.

“Okay.”

Andy scrambled around the room like some gangly white spider, finding all her clothes before searching for his own. She helped him into his hoodie as if dressing him for the first day of school. The thought made her laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just, you're great.”

He smiled in an
I don't know what to do with my face
sort of way. “You wanna actually warm up?”

Anita shook her head. “I'm plenty warm.”

Holding hands, they left the office and walked back down the torch-lit path. The stage was equipped simply—a grand piano, an acoustic and an electric guitar, a couple of microphone stands. Andy switched on the amplifiers and tuned up. People were still coming down the path from the parking lot, and a few of them stopped to see what was happening.

Was she nervous? Of course. And of course not. She'd been born for this.

The electronic music began to fade out. From where she stood, Anita could see through to the other end of the hangar. Two fifty-foot projector screens switched from a screen-saver-style light show to a live video feed. The DJ stepped away from his station, and Eliza took his place. She adjusted the microphone to her height.

“Um, hey. I'm alive.” Applause built and crashed like a wave. Eliza spoke over it, clearly uncomfortable with all the attention. “I don't wanna keep you for long. I just thought I'd say a couple things. First, I wanted to thank my friends, Andy and Anita, who had the idea for this party. They're gonna be playing some music outside in a few minutes. So you should, you know, listen. Also, Chad, who made all this happen. Finally, to those of you who read my blog back when it started, thanks for that. All I ever wanted to do was show people some of what was going on where I was. I never expected it to turn into anything. But I guess the last couple months have been all about learning how to deal with the unexpected. I—” Eliza choked on the next word. She seemed about to cry, but then she smiled instead. “I fell in love,” she said. “Can you believe that shit?” The audience laughed a complicit sort of laugh, as if Eliza weren't the only one.

“But everything ends,” she said suddenly. “It does. And I don't want to bring you down or anything, because I know that's the last thing any of us need right now. But it's still the truth. There isn't very much I believe in. Not heaven, or hell, or that any part of us will survive if . . . if it happens. But I can say that, for me, it was still worth it. I mean, it was still worth being alive. I really do believe that. Thanks.”

Even from way out by the little stage, the applause sounded thunderous.

“Not bad,” Andy said.

Anita wiped at her eyes. “No. Not bad.”

The DJ started spinning again, but much more quietly now. The moment had come.

“Ready?” Andy asked. Anita nodded. It had been a long time since they'd practiced, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that they were here now, and together.

As Andy began to play the first few chords of “Save It,” Anita wrapped her fingers around the microphone stand and closed her eyes. The audience was still pretty small, so it was easy enough to place herself back in her bedroom closet, singing just for the joy of it. When she opened her eyes again a minute later, the crowd had already grown. A dozen more unfamiliar faces, all looking to her. Before long, there were hundreds. But they couldn't all be strangers, could they? No one could say who was standing out there in the darkness. Maybe that girl from Jamba Juice who'd claimed to be the best thing since sliced bread, or the other members of student council, or Luisa and her family. Anita tried to imagine the crowd was made up entirely of people she knew. And here were a few that she
did
recognize, coming to stand just at the lip of the stage—lovely Eliza, along with Chad and his beagle. And next to them, another man, gaunt and totally bald, with his arm wrapped around Eliza's shoulders. Her dad. Anita smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Andy's thin voice reached for the high falsetto harmonies, so tight it sometimes felt to Anita as if she were singing both parts. She didn't speak between songs, while Andy moved from piano to guitar and back again. Eliza had already said everything there was to say, and besides, Anita was seeking a communion beyond words.

It seemed to end as soon as it began. She and Andy played every song they'd written together—maybe half an hour of music altogether. A few days ago Anita would have seen that as the sum total of her short time on Earth, and she would have been proud of it. But now she had something more to be proud of. She and Andy stood at the front of the stage, looking out over the crowd, bowing and coming up again. He pulled her to his sweaty side, kissed her in front of everyone. What a marvel it was—the body and its puppy hungers. She looked up toward the sky, toward the implacable sparkle of good old Ardor, and saw that the two of them—she and the asteroid—were caught up in a battle of wills. In that moment, she stopped being afraid of it, even dared it to come, because she knew there was no way it could crave death as much as she craved life.

E
liza

IF ELIZA HAD SAT DOWN
to write a speech—like, if she'd actually planned it—it probably would have turned out the exact opposite of the one she ended up giving. Even as she was walking off the stage, applause like a wash of white noise in her ears, she wondered who the hell this girl was, waxing poetic about love. It definitely wasn't any Eliza Olivi she'd ever known.

After Andy and Anita had gone off together—already something strange brewing between them—she'd been left alone in the office with Chad and his inscrutable beagle. And though Eliza had only spent a couple of hours with the weird old hippie, and that was weeks ago now, somehow he felt familiar.

“What's happened?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Eliza considered dodging the question, or lying, but she was too exhausted to do either one. “Someone died. Someone I cared about.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“But you must know by now that the people you care about never really die.”

Internally, she rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

Chad watched her for a few seconds, waiting. When he spoke again, it was in the voice of a disappointed teacher. “Really? You're going to let me get away with that?”

“With what?”

“With that disgusting cliché.” He put on Disney-big doe eyes and a cloying, high-pitched voice. “The people you care about never really die.”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“The truth. That you don't believe that.”

“Fine. I don't believe it.”

“Say it again.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Again.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Louder!”

Eliza finally raised her voice, as much because Chad was needling her as anything else, “I don't believe that!”

“Tell me it's bullshit!” he shouted back.

“It's bullshit!”

“Tell me it's a load of goddamn fucking bullshit!”

“It is!” Eliza shouted. “People die! They die and they're gone forever!”

Somehow it felt totally natural that this last morbid statement made Chad laugh. “That's better,” he said. “Eliza, why would you lie to me? I'm nobody. I'm just a tiny little character in the big book of your life. And you're right. People do die. All of them. Bar none. So what does it even mean? I call someone crazy because not everybody is crazy. I call someone brilliant because not everybody is brilliant. But everybody dies. Squirrels die. Trees die. Skin cells die and your inner organs die and the person you were yesterday's dead too. So what does it mean to die? Not much.”

“That's a stupid argument,” Eliza said.

Chad gave her a little punch in the shoulder. “That's the spirit!”

Eliza couldn't help but smile, but as soon as she did, as soon as she let even an ounce of joy into her heart, she remembered Peter. “The boy who died,” she said. “I pretended to believe what he believed, at the very end.”

“What did he believe?”

Eliza blinked hard, struggled to keep her voice under control. “I don't know. Crazy shit. Jesus. Forgiveness. Sacrifice and mercy and stuff. Love.”

“You don't believe in any of that?”

“No.”

“You don't believe in sacrifice or love?”

Eliza wasn't sure what she believed anymore. Tears tickled her cheeks. Everything blurred as the world turned to liquid, and then she felt a warm, shifty weight settle on her lap.

Chad's beagle.

“Give Ardor a hug,” Chad said.

“I thought his name was Sid.”

“I renamed him. I wanted to associate the asteroid with something loving.”

Eliza petted Ardor, who wagged his tail once or twice, in recognition of her efforts, than resumed his usual calm beagality. She remembered what Peter had said in the park, about wanting to be like a dog. A happy memory—hers to keep.

“Feel better?” Chad asked.

And the weird thing was, she did.

Anita and Andy were only a couple of songs into their set when it happened. Gabriel, the guy who'd brought them up to see Chad, pushed his way through the crowd.

“Eliza?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“There's someone here to see you.” For a second, her heart leaped up into her throat, because she thought it might be Peter. But that was impossible.

“Who is it?”

“He's over there.”

She looked to where Gabriel was pointing. A ghostly white spot, like a halo—her father's pale, hairless head. He stood on his tiptoes, looking adorably old and out of his element. She ran into his arms.

“Hey, Lady Gaga.”

“You found me!”

“It wasn't that hard. You're a celebrity.”

“The apartment,” she said. “It burned down.”

“I wasn't there when it happened.”

“Well, I know that now!” she said, laughing and wiping at her eyes.

After all the terrible stuff that had happened in the past few days, any good news seemed like some kind of miracle. They watched the rest of the show together, side by side. When it was over, Andy and Anita kissed (and thank God for that—they'd been circling each other from the very beginning).

“Loved the set,” her dad told Anita. “It was dope.”

Eliza shook her head. “Please don't say that word.”

“Never?”

“Never ever.”

At some point during the performance, it had begun to rain. A typical Seattle drizzle, the drops like tiny puffs of cold air. Eliza realized she was holding hands with both her father and Andy, who in turn were holding hands with Anita and Chad. They were like Doro­thy and her friends in
The Wizard of Oz
, skipping down the Yellow Brick Road to the Emerald City, Toto (a.k.a. Sid, a.k.a. Ardor) at their heels. Only in this case, the Emerald City was a 66.6 percent chance of ceasing to exist.

Chad led them out behind the hangar, to where an enormous crowd of stargazers sat on colored squares of blankets and cushions, a sparse but somehow unified checkerboard. They found a spot near the edge of the tarmac, where you could hear the faraway music only as a heartbeat thrum of bass. Above it floated the susurration of many thousands of people quietly talking, like wind on an empty beach. Chad had brought a couple of thick white quilts with him, and with one underneath them and another over their legs, it was almost cozy. Eliza leaned her head against her father's shoulder. Ardor looked slightly different now—more twinkly than before. Time passed.

“I wish Mom were here,” she said.

“Me too. But we've got each other at least.”

“Yeah. We do.”

She considered telling him about Peter but decided against it. There would be time for grief later. If there were time for anything at all, there'd be time for that.

“Hey, Eliza,” Andy said. “Could I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.”

He walked away from the group. Eliza stood up and followed him.

“What's up?”

“Uh, sorry if this is weird, but I just wanted to say, well, I'm sorry.”

“About what?”

“I know I was the one who liked you, not really the other way around, but it still feels weird to suddenly be with Anita, after I was all in love with you.”

Eliza laughed. “That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.”

She worried her honesty lesson from Chad might have been a little too well learned, but Andy laughed along with her. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“What am I missing?” Anita asked, joining them out where the pavement surrendered to the dirt and the weeds and the shadows.

“Andy's being an idiot,” Eliza said.

“Sounds about right.” Anita looked upward, toward Ardor. “It's such a little thing from down here.”

“I bet it feels the same way about us,” Andy said.

“Seen from the right perspective, pretty much everything looks tiny,” Eliza said.

They were silent for a moment, then Andy sang a bit of some half-familiar song: “‘
Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all.
'”

Eliza thought about all the things she'd hoped to do in her life, all the lives she'd wanted to live. She could see them now, jagged paths cut into the shadowy future, lit up in small bursts of light: her first day at college, her reconciliation with her crazy mom, her first real boyfriend (something between Andy and Peter, maybe, or maybe something totally new), her first gallery show in New York (
Apocalypse Already: A Retrospective
), her wedding (if she wanted a wedding), her first child (if she wanted to have children), her divorce (because would she, of all people, really get it right the first time?). Magazine profiles. A professorship. Lovers. Living in Europe. A dinner table full of well-dressed friends. An affair. The Mediterranean. Grand­children. An ashram. Her own garden, somewhere in Europe with light the color of wheat. Illness. Death.

Were Andy and Anita having the same sort of thoughts right now? Was everyone? And if they all managed to make it out of this alive, would the world be different when they woke up tomorrow? Would it be better?

Andy leaned over to kiss Anita's cheek. Maybe they'd stay together for the rest of their lives. Maybe they'd break up in a week. Maybe they'd both be successful musicians. Maybe they'd become record producers, or sculptors, or plumbers. Who could say? And even if Peter had survived, that wouldn't have guaranteed anything; he and Eliza might have turned out to be totally incompatible. Or maybe she would have ended up dying of leukemia a year from now. Whether Ardor landed or not, there was no way to know what would become of any of them. Eliza felt all her guilt and regret disintegrate in the face of this colossal knowledge. It turned out they'd been right here all along, standing in the darkness, appealing to the stars for some sign of what was to come, and never getting anything back but the shifting constellations of a swiftly spinning, precariously tilted planet. She let herself fall against Andy's side and felt Anita's arm reach around and come to rest on her hip. They were interlocked now, like the links of a chain.

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Ardor right over,” Eliza said.

They laughed. The asteroid was a little bigger now, brighter, and still they went on laughing. Laughing in the face of what they couldn't predict or change or control. Would it be fire and brimstone? Would it be Armageddon? Or would it be a second chance? Eliza held tight to her friends, laughing, and felt a pair of hands land soft as feathers on her shoulders, like the hands of a ghost, laughing and laughing as Ardor swept along its fated course, laughing and through that laughter, praying. Praying for forgiveness. Praying for grace. Praying for mercy.