“Normal life?” Mom repeats.
“Yep. Starting now. I’m going upstairs because the sun is coming up and going to bed at sunrise is so not normal.”
Mom seems to realize, for the first time, that dawn has filtered in through the half-drawn venetian blinds, illuminating the Mexican-knickknack-filled living room with soft pink light.
“I guess,” she says, and we all push to our feet.
Paige lets herself out, and Mom concedes to let me guide her upstairs.
Even though I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours, I didn’t once feel tired. How could I? But now, with Mom safe and asleep in the next room, I fall into a coma as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I wake up, I’m sure of at least two things. One is that the sun has already set. The other is that I’ve slept way, way too long, and now will suffer all night with a massive sleep headache. My phone beeps, reminding me of a third thing—that I’ve missed about forty calls. Half from Devon, and about as many from Paige. And that brings up a big, huge thing that I’m not sure of: what the hell happened last night.
There was something in there about witches and sorcerers and Devon screwing my best friend and people wanting to kill me. And Bishop. But none of that seems real now; it's like some nightmare that will fade away once I’m fully awake.
I open my first text message. It’s from Devon: plz answer, u have to hear me out.
So I guess that part was real. My stomach clenches. I vaguely remember not caring about it all last night when I was with Bishop, but Bishop’s not here now. In fact, he never will be again, if I can believe anything he’s said. Tears blur my vision. As if on cue, my cell phone starts buzzing in my hand, and a picture of Devon—my favorite picture of him, sweaty and smiling in his football jersey after the game against Beverly Hills High—flashes onto the screen. My chest contracts painfully, and my thumb hovers over the keypad before I finally press Ignore.
There’s a knock on my door. Mom pokes her head inside without waiting for a response.
“Just wanted to let you know I put leftovers from the barbecue in the fridge,” she says.
Barbecue? Shit—the barbecue Paige invited me to. The one I promised I’d attend. I cross to my window and crack the blinds. It’s dark, the barbecue cover is on, and her backyard is conspicuously devoid of party guests. Shit, shit, shit.
So, Paige sticks by my side even after I’ve treated her like complete crap, conceding to be dragged along on one suicide mission after the next, and I can’t even bother to amble next door for a stupid sloppy joe? I suck. Big-time.
I want to climb back into my warm bed, hide under my duvet, and cry until the world becomes a less cruel place to live, or until high school graduation. Whichever comes first.
So that’s what I do.
14
Mom has to literally drag me out of bed on Monday morning. She shovels Cocoa Puffs into my mouth and even goes so far as to try to dress me in this hideous last-season tracksuit she dug out of the dregs of my closet. I snap out of it long enough to throw on jeans and a tank top instead.
I’m almost out the door when I decide that a little makeup wouldn’t hurt. And what the hell, why not wear some cute sunglasses and those wedge sandals I bought last week? I mean, just because my boyfriend cheated on me, my best friend betrayed me, Bishop deserted me, I might be a witch, and evil sorcerers could try to kill me with the Bible they stole from my family doesn’t mean I can’t look good, right?
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and venture outside for the first time in days.
It should be raining. That’s how it works, right? Bad day / rain? Well, I guess L.A. didn’t get the memo, because the sun sits high in a cloudless blue sky. A warm breeze flutters the fronds of the palm trees along Melrose Avenue, and at a stoplight I swear I hear birds (birds in L.A.!) chirping a tune eerily similar to “Walking on Sunshine.” And it’s just so, I don’t know, uplifting, that I get to thinking that today might not be as bad as I thought.