Sometimes I wish you were dead too.
“Just look at me. Look at me,” not-Spider-Man says, but I can’t.
All I can think of is cells and blood and bodies and cancer and how nothing is okay, not really, how nothing will ever be okay again, how it’s never enough.
A loud moan escapes my lips, and at that second, the skunk puffs itself into a creature three sizes larger, its tail twitching.
I wonder fleetingly if it’s pregnant, its belly is so low to the ground, and I see froth on its mouth and realize I am going to get sprayed and mauled by a pregnant skunk with rabies.
And then a spray paint can comes hurling down from the cosmos, thunking into my shin, and I yell “Oww!” right as not-Spider-Man yelps, falling from his perch on the bridge and onto the hard ground.
I scream.
The boy lies there, eyes closed, and I run around the skunk, fall to my knees, kneel beside him, then suck in my breath with a jolt of recognition.
Not-Spider-Man is Finn Casper.
This is who’s leaving the messages?
His cheekbones look sharp enough to draw blood, everything about his face angles and hollows. Traces of the black eye remain, the skin around it mottled yellow and purple now, and there’s a smear of red paint alongside his nose, like he accidentally scratched it.
I wonder if I should call 911.
But then Finn opens his eyes, and everything about him that’s messy (his hair) or busted (the scabs on his knuckles) or crooked (his nose) or bruised (his left eye)—it all disappears in the dark gray looking back at me, still a storm growling heavy on the horizon, and I’m in first grade all over again.
The world tilts.
Finn slowly props himself up on an elbow, wincing, and I inadvertently scramble back.
He notices. “Did you get bit?”
“Bit?”
“The skunk?”
I scan the space behind me. No sign of the skunk.
“No. The can you dropped must have scared it off.”
“I didn’t drop it. I threw it.”
“On purpose?”
“I was worried the skunk was going to bite you.”
“Oh,” I say, and then it comes back to me, the freak-out I was having right before Finn fell. “Oh,” I repeat.
He studies me. “Help me up?”
“Yeah.” He entwines his fingers with mine as I pull him to his feet.
He stifles a groan. “That is going to hurt tomorrow.”
I look down at the discarded spray paint can, then the message written above us.
“So you’re the one painting these all over town?” I’m too nervous to ask if he remembers me from first grade. “Aren’t you worried about getting caught, you know, for defacing public property?”
He steps back, a dangerous flicker in his eyes before his expression hardens. “You won’t report me, will you?”
“No, no.” I shake my head hard. His gaze goes to my left hand, which is inadvertently circling my right wrist again. So quickly, I almost miss it, he winces.
I release my wrist. “Your secret is safe with me, Finn.”
“You remember my name.” He sounds surprised.
“I do. It’s just, the other day at the Float, I didn’t think you knew who I was. You didn’t say anything.”
He tightens his hands into fists. “You didn’t either.”
Now I’m flustered. “I’m sorry. I should have said hi.”
He uncurls his hands, stretches his palms out flat, like he’s steadying himself.
“You don’t have to explain. I understand. After my brother . . .”
I shake my head, not wanting him to say anything more.
Crickets and tree frogs are making their night noise, and the creek is babbling below us, and my heart is knocking around in my chest. Finn bends down to grab his backpack, shoving the errant spray paint can inside. He stands, studies me. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone?”
“I’m okay. The skunk didn’t bite me or anything, thanks to you.”
“I don’t mean the skunk,” he says.
My face goes hot. I can’t believe he saw me like that. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. I’m really sorry for all the trouble. Seriously.” I shift uncomfortably.
He looks doubtful but simply says, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
“Well, have a good night, then,” he offers.
“Yeah, you too.”
He slings his bag over a shoulder and starts to head to the bridge.
“Hey, Finn?” I call out.
He turns around.
“Thank you. For helping me.” I swallow, the words hard to say. “I needed it.”
He nods. “Anytime.”
I watch him leave, wondering what just happened to me under that bridge.
Fifteen
I WAKE UP TO the smell of cut grass and the rumble of our neighbor’s lawn mower, and squint at the clock.
8:04.
Mustard, wedged against the windowsill and the screen, stops licking his paw to study me, then stands, stretches, and pads his way over to my chest. He begins kneading it, happily drooling, a throaty purr.
I didn’t sleep much last night.
When I got home, Charlie’s door was half open, so I crept up, peeking in, making sure to angle myself to the side so he couldn’t see me. But he was sound asleep, sprawled out on his bed, still in the shirt and shorts he was wearing at the river, snoring.
Even though he was on his side, I was worried about him throwing up, so I eased down against the wall outside, pulling my knees up against my chest and resting my head there, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest from the hallway.
I startled awake a little before five, but Charlie was still safely on his side, so I got up, massaging the crick in my neck, and made my way to my own bed, half awake, half asleep, wondering if I was dreaming the whole thing.
But the spot on my leg that I banged against the bridge is throbbing slightly, which means none of it was a dream: Charlie’s behavior, Matty’s revelations, Finn Casper and the skunk, whatever it is that happened to me when I was standing under that bridge.
What if I have some weird heart condition?
I remind myself I’d had to get caught up on all my vaccinations and pass a physical to be eligible for the internship program. There was nothing wrong with me then.
But there is now.
I’m all wrong.
I close my eyes, trying to still my body, but my mind doesn’t quit, thoughts circling frantically like they’re on a kids’ race car track—no beginning, no end, just a frantic whizzing around and around.
Em’s leaving today.
I have to go back to the internship on Tuesday.
Charlie’s been smoking pot.
He tried mushrooms.
That second after the vine snapped, the water dark, my brother disappeared from the world.
(I don’t let myself think about the words he said.)
I sit up, displacing Mustard, and lean over, resting my head in my hands, my breath coming in deep sharp gasps.
It is ridiculous, this panic. I don’t even know what I’m panicked about.
But thinking that doesn’t help.
Instead it makes it worse, my breath moving even faster, and I wonder if you can get heart attacks at eighteen.
I force myself to go through the yoga breathing cues Em taught me before I took the SATs, but my heart and brain are having none of it—they hate yoga as much as I do.
I’m going to die.
I stand up.
Em.
My whole body points itself to her.
I look at the clock. She hasn’t left yet.
I could text her, but what would I say? “Em, I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. Text me back” doesn’t feel right.
Besides, if I don’t move my body soon, I feel like the panic may slip outside, swallow me whole.
I slide on a clean tee and my jean shorts and Converse from last night and slip downstairs. Luckily, Mom and Dad are reading the paper on the back deck and don’t see me, so I don’t have to explain to my poor parents that their daughter may be having a heart attack.