Epilogue
The fire begins in the basement.
Does it hurt?
Yes and no. This is, after all, what I wanted.
And I’m beyond hurting now.
The fire grows quickly. Trenton, good Trenton, gave me the chance I needed. A single spark was all it took: a memory of a high yellow sun, of a first kiss, of spinning around in a circle with my sisters, believing that we would always be happy.
The smoke is thick as a dream. In the smoke, they return to me: Maggie and Thomas; Ed; little Penelope and her small, cold hands. Out of the darkness, they come: chanting silently, eyes like holes.
They’ve returned to take me.
And I return now to the great open jaw of the sky.
From the kitchen, to the pantry, to the dining room and the hall; up the stairs, a choking smoke, darkness, soot, and stifling heat.
From the attic to the roof, from the roof to the basement.
Smoke becomes wind becomes sky. Somewhere, the crickets sing of joy.
Excerpt from Vanishing Girls
Read an excerpt from Lauren Oliver’s next young adult novel,
Vanishing Girls
BEFORE
MARCH 27
Nick
“Want to play?”
These are the three words I’ve heard most often in my life. Want to play? As four-year-old Dara bursts through the screen door, arms extended, flying into the green of our front yard without waiting for me to answer. Want to play? As six-year-old Dara slips into my bed in the middle of the night, her eyes wide and touched with moonlight, her damp hair smelling like strawberry shampoo. Want to play? Eight-year-old Dara chiming the bell on her bike; ten-year-old Dara fanning cards across the damp pool deck; twelve-year-old Dara spinning an empty soda bottle by the neck.
Sixteen-year-old Dara doesn’t wait for me to answer, either. “Scoot over,” she says, bumping her best friend Ariana’s thigh with her knee. “My sister wants to play.”
“There’s no room,” Ariana says, squealing when Dara leans into her. “Sorry, Nick.” They’re crammed with a half-dozen other people into an unused stall in Ariana’s parents’ barn, which smells like sawdust and, faintly, manure. There’s a bottle of vodka, half-empty, on the hard-packed ground, as well as a few six-packs of beer and a small pile of miscellaneous items of clothing: a scarf, two mismatched mittens, a puffy jacket, and Dara’s tight pink sweatshirt with Queen B*tch emblazoned across the back in rhinestones. It all looks like some bizarre ritual sacrifice laid out to the gods of strip poker.
“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I don’t need to play. I just came to say hi, anyway.”
Dara makes a face. “You just got here.”
Ariana smacks her cards facedown on the ground. “Three of a kind, kings.” She cracks a beer open, and foam bubbles up around her knuckles. “Matt, take off your shirt.”
Matt is a skinny kid with a slightly-too-big nose and the filmy expression of someone who is already on his way to being very drunk. Since he’s already in his T-shirt—black, with a mysterious graphic of a one-eyed beaver on the front—I can only assume the puffy jacket belongs to him. “I’m cold,” he whines.
“It’s either your shirt or your pants. You choose.”
Matt sighs and begins wriggling out of his T-shirt, showing off a thin back, constellated with acne.
“Where’s Parker?” I ask, trying to sound casual, then hating myself for having to try. But ever since Dara started . . . whatever she’s doing with him, it has become impossible to talk about my former best friend without feeling like a Christmas tree ornament has landed in the back of my throat.
Dara freezes in the act of redistributing the cards. But only for a second. She tosses a final card in Ariana’s direction and sweeps up a hand. “No idea.”