“It makes sense, you know?” I say. The sun is setting and it’s sort of beautiful, the way it makes the sky and trees and ground flush a reflective pink. And I actually think Sasha would like it too. That she and I share an appreciation for nature and unstoppable love and excellent books and long pauses and deep thoughts.
“What makes sense? Nothing makes sense,” Sasha Cotton says. She is wiping away tears that won’t stop coming out. Her hair has the perfect wave-to-curl-to-frizz ratio, and she looks like a painting of a girl in France in, like, the 1800s or something. Her sadness is rooted in history and seriousness, while the rest of us are products of, like, reality TV and Us Weekly and that trend where you wear feathers in your hair so everyone knows you’re unique.
Sasha Cotton will never have to wear feathers in her hair. Everyone knows she is special already.
Joe knows she is special.
“It makes sense that we both . . . that we loved the same person. That we joined the same group. I mean, your book. Your notes in the book. They were . . . I’ve never had that much in common with anyone, ever.” I almost touch her shoulder, but I decide not to.
“What do you mean you loved him?” She is literally leaking. The girl has sprung a leak. The tears will not stop coming.
“I mean, I thought I did. Or whatever. I got swept up. You saw. On LBC. You read what I wrote, so you know.”
“You don’t even know him. I’ve been with him for over a year. We tell secrets on the phone all night long. We talk about going to the same college. He gave me a promise ring. He made me lasagna. He warmed up bread and put garlic on it, and he comes over whenever I’m really upset. He sings along with my favorite songs to cheer me up. He has a terrible voice, did you know that?”
“I didn’t know that,” I say. I didn’t know anything, I guess. I didn’t know Joe.
“You should go,” she says.
“Are you going to do it?” I say. I can’t take my eyes off her computer screen.
“It’s an Assignment,” Sasha Cotton says, before getting up and going back inside her house.
I stay out there for a while. Long enough that Sasha could call the police. It’s not like the police in town are real anyway. Our D.A.R.E. officer, Officer Mayo, would show up like he did when I crashed my car into a tree when I lost control of it on the ice that day. We chatted about how much I’d grown up, and he told Paul and Cate what a good kid I was.
I’m not afraid of Officer Mayo. I’m afraid of Zed and the secrets Sasha knows and loneliness.
I am really, really afraid of how alone I am.
When I finally get home, I sign on to LBC. Agnes’s secret and Assignment load immediately, and I consider writing a pleading message to Zed, asking him to retract Sasha’s Assignment.
STAR: This needs to stop.
ZED: Things have a way of working out.
STAR: I’m leaving.
ZED: You’re not safe, without us.
STAR: Did you know about Agnes and Bitty?
ZED: No. But I’ve never seen something so beautiful.
ROXIE: How’d the rest of us find our way here?
ZED: Don’t. It’s anonymous.
@SSHOLE: Did other people find the website in a book? Or online? On another website?
ZED: Those aren’t the questions that matter.
I wonder if no one’s ever asked before. I wonder if that’s even possible, but I know that it is, because it had never occurred to me to ask. When you are involved in something kind of magical, you don’t necessarily want to know how the magic works. You don’t want to prove it wrong.
ELFBOY: Our secrets really aren’t safe, huh?
ZED: We hold one another accountable. This is something unexpected and perfect. This is why we do what we do. It’s in the rules. You knew.
My image of Zed shifts. Like he was this beautiful silhouette of a person. Long lines. Floppy hair. The outline of a cool, holy, unreachable being who knows things. Except now, he’s not behind the veil anymore. He’s a whole person. Not an outline. Not a shadow. He’s a sad guy who is desperate for us to stay. He maybe doesn’t have friends. He loves someone who doesn’t love him. I flip through his secrets over the last few years since the site began, and they are all about unrequited feelings, and not wanting to weigh more than 150 pounds, and how sure he is that he can remain in control.
He never says whether he’s completed his Assignments. I hadn’t noticed. I assumed that he was being one of us.
I close my eyes, and I can’t get the new Zed out of my head. Too skinny, ribs poking out under an ugly, worn-through, colorless T-shirt. A dirty smell of someone who spends too much time on the computer and not enough time in the shower. Crumbs in his lap. Crumbs of bran and kale and celery and other sad, calorieless foods. A lamp that barely works. A pile of laundry and a pile of dishes and an inability to take care of either.
“Tabby?” Cate and Paul come into Cate’s office, holding hands. “What’s going on?”