Lua adjusted his seat belt and angled to face me. “Say you’ll come. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Someone old,” I muttered. “Besides, that new bouncer wouldn’t let me in last time, and I don’t want to wind up sitting in the parking lot waiting for your show to let out. Again.”
Lua pressed his palms together. His short platinum-blond hair made his forehead wide and his brown eyes needy. “Please? You’ll get in, even if I have to fold you up and stuff you in my guitar case.”
I pulled into Cloud Lake High’s student parking lot, which was already packed, and searched for a spot. “Fine. But I don’t need to meet anyone.”
“You do,” Lua said. “If you don’t get laid soon, your dick’s going to shrivel up and fall off. It’s a fact. I read it on the Internet.”
“I have a boyfriend. Just because no one remembers him doesn’t mean he isn’t real.” I couldn’t find an empty space and had no choice but to park in the overflow field, which frequently flooded. Still, better muddy shoes later than a detention now. I grabbed my backpack from the trunk, and we trudged toward campus.
CLH was built like a penitentiary. The various buildings formed a ring around a large open space furnished with benches and palm trees, with gates that shut and locked while school was in session. Once inside, we could only escape through the administration building or fire exits.
Lua and I merged with the hordes of students wandering the quad. When I’d returned to school after Flight 1184, the other kids had treated me like a quasicelebrity. They’d wanted to know what it was like or why I’d gotten off the plane or whether Death was stalking me like in that terrible, not-at-all-scary movie Final Destination. But, like with most instances of dumb-luck fame, they eventually forgot about the crash and remembered I was a nobody, which was how I liked it.
We stopped by Lua’s locker for homework he’d forgotten to complete. He glanced at me while he dialed in his combination. “Look, Ozzie, even if Tommy is real, and I’m not saying he is, he’s been gone five months. It’s time to move on.”
“Like you and Jaime are moving on?”
“That’s different.”
“If the rumors are true and he hooked up with Birdie Johnson,” I said, “then he’s definitely moved on.”
“My relationship with Jaime is complicated,” Lua said. “But at least he’s here. Where’s Tommy, Oz?”
The first warning bell rang. I shook my head. “Whatever. I’ve got to get to class.” I left Lua standing at his locker and headed across campus to the English building.
Lua should have been the one person who believed in me unconditionally. That he didn’t made me question everything.
13,025,000,000 LY
I LOOKED FORWARD TO PHYSICS for two reasons: It was my last class before lunch, and it was the only class I shared with my other best friend, Dustin Smeltzer.
Dustin sat at our lab table near the door, resting his arms and head on top of his backpack. He was a study in contradictions. Southern first name, Jewish last name, Chinese features—epicanthic folds over his eyes, straight black hair. The Smeltzers had adopted him as a baby, and as far as I knew, he’d never tried to locate his birth parents.
“What’s up, Pinks?” He flashed me his stoner grin, which always brightened my day. It seemed impossible that someone who spent as much time high as Dustin could have earned the grades to be class valedictorian, but he’d held the position since freshman year.
“Same old,” I said.
“Yeah.” He slapped his thick textbook and spiral notepad on the desk and stuffed his backpack underneath. “My parents are out of town this weekend, so I’ve got Casa de Smeltzer to myself. You up for some pizza and Battle Gore: Coliseum?”
“Maybe.” I slumped onto my stool next to Dustin.
“Don’t ‘maybe’ me. You’ve been a ghost for months.”
I dug my notebook and a pencil out of my bag and flipped through the pages until I found a blank one. “Been busy working. And I haven’t been in the mood to butcher cyborg goblins.”
“We don’t have to game. We can chill. Me, you, Lua. You can’t say no to pizza; it’ll be like old times.”
“Right,” I said. “Like old times.” Only, Dustin didn’t remember that our “old times” used to include Tommy, and they couldn’t exist without him.
The final bell rang, and Ms. Fuentes clapped her hands to calm us down. She was tall and bulky—thick arms, thick neck, chipmunk cheeks—but graceful. She was by far my toughest teacher, but she never pushed us harder than she thought we could handle.
“I know you’re all eager to begin the chapter on particle-wave duality, but I thought we’d take a break to discuss your end-of-the-year projects.”
The awake half of the class groaned. We’d heard horror stories about Fuentes’s final projects. Not only would it account for a quarter of our grades, but past students had referred to it as “the GPA slayer.”
Dustin kicked me under the table and then rolled his eyes. He probably figured he could complete the project blindfolded, stoned, and with one hand tied behind his back. I lacked his confidence and his perfect test scores.
“Enough griping,” Fuentes said. “You’re going to enjoy this. Not only is it an opportunity for some of you to improve your grades, it’s a chance for you to apply the theories we’ve learned this semester.” She paused and looked around the room, her hawkish eyes seeming to say she’d rip anyone to shreds who disagreed.
“This year,” she said, “you’re going to work in teams of two to build working model roller coasters.”
I perked up. A roller coaster didn’t sound terrible, and teams were even better. Dustin and I could definitely build a sick ride.
“You’ll have until May first to complete your projects, but I’ll expect you to bring them in throughout the semester for me to evaluate your progress.”
Tameka Lourdes raised her hand. Her wriggling fingers danced like surfacing earthworms. “How are you going to grade us?” she asked when Fuentes called on her.
Ms. Fuentes smiled, though it looked painful, like she’d expected the question. “I’ll evaluate your roller coasters based on multiple criteria: the maximum speed your cars achieve, the audacity of your designs, and survivability. I want you to be daring, but to do so without killing your imaginary passengers.”
Ignoring the part where the project could potentially destroy my hard-earned B-plus, it sounded fun.
Tameka raised her hand again, but didn’t wait for Fuentes to call on her before saying, “Can we choose our own partners?”
Ms. Fuentes shook her head. “No.”
It took a moment for her answer to register. Others were already complaining, and Fuentes let them continue a moment before waving us quiet.
“This year, I’m pairing you up based on your test score averages. The highest with the lowest, second highest with second lowest, and so forth.”