“Oh,” Harry said, popping a grape into his mouth and storing it in his cheek like a hamster, “he wants a revisionist’s history.”
“All history is revisionist,” Graham said contemptuously, “but what I have in mind is more of a fact-and-fiction sandwich. The pieces are here”—his hands circled the air—“right in front of us. We just need to put them together as the story of our history.”
“Stories are meant to be told. We aren’t telling anyone about the Order,” I said, mouthing the last, sensitive word.
“Do you know the difference between a meteor, a meteorite, and a meteoroid?” Graham asked. I swiveled my head, not committing to a nod or a shake—I wasn’t sure what I knew.
“Communism,” I said, flapping my hand for Harry to give me a cluster of grapes. It had been our language for share that or give me some since we’d all gone through a Russia phase sophomore year. The month had involved faux fur hats and Russian plays for Viv, long Russian novels for me, vodka and rants for Graham, and ruminating over revolutions for Harry.
Harry closed the lid of his laptop and answered Graham. “A meteoroid is a small particle from an asteroid orbiting the sun. It becomes a meteor if you can spot its flash from Earth. A meteor that enters Earth’s atmosphere and hits Earth’s surface is a meteorite.”
“Our rock is a meteorite,” Graham said, nodding. “It made contact. It’s here. Permanent. A meteor’s light is beautiful but doesn’t last. That’s what our Order is now: a flash of light, a pretty miracle, sure, but one that ends unless we let it hit Earth. Just slam right into us.” He pounded a fist on the grass. “We have to give it a story so it has legs, so it can stomp. It needs a story and we need to believe in it.”
Harry flicked a potato chip crumb from his sleeve, offered me the bag, and looked dubiously at Graham. “I didn’t know USB had a major in poetic bullshit.”
Graham tented his hands and touched them to his lips. “I want to fool us into believing. It was a rush pulling off Bedford, but it felt crazier up on the rock afterward. It felt like we were tapping into something cosmic but fundamental. I want more of that.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead, then.”
“Fool away,” Harry chorused, but Graham’s attention had diverted to a couple of passing figures.
“Did you guys see that?” His eyes popped from his head. “Jess Clarkson just walked by and—”
“I know, you want to be balls deep in her,” I mimicked Graham’s deep tone.
Harry laughed with his head back and his mouth open.
Graham cracked a smile. “No, you little pervert. We shared this look.”
“Okay, now back to ritual altars and the kind of pretend we buy,” Harry said.
“I’m serious. Jess and I shared a moment.” He yanked a book out of his bag and hunched over it, muttering, “You skeptics are going to owe me an extra-large pizza once she asks me out.”
I craned past Harry and Graham. Jess and Rachel were taking a detour through the land of misfits. They usually ate by the flagpole with Amanda and the boy band.
Jess hung back as Rachel’s messy bun disappeared into the central corridor. Our eyes met. I didn’t smile, nor did I stick my tongue out like I would have at Amanda. Amanda’s campaign against Viv was usually a one-woman show; Jess was too wrapped up in appearing blasé about the world to participate; Rachel was too eager to be considered popular to go after Viv with much gusto. But Jess was paying attention now, looking curious. I wasn’t used to people appearing curious about us. I collapsed back to the grass and pretended to be asleep for the rest of lunch.
The uneasiness didn’t vanish until we were in the barn that evening and Viv performed her monologue for us. Graham pretended to be reading a book through her recitation. His eyes kept skipping up from the pages of Ritual Ecstasy as Viv squirmed on the ground, clawed at her wrists, and yanked on the pink wig she was wearing. Harry was on his feet giving her a standing ovation at her last line, “Good night, sweet ladies, good night!”
“Bravo,” Graham called, clapping a hand against the hardcover of his book.
I snapped a Polaroid and watched a shadow become Viv, frozen in curtsey, pink hair gleaming. I smiled from the likeness to the real thing still curtseying side to side.
The cushions gave as she nuzzled beside me with a dreamy sigh, her wig tickling my cheek. She twined her pinkie finger with mine. “I shouldn’t have sent the note in class.”
My finger tightened on hers. “I forgot to tell you good luck before your audition.”
Then she was up on her feet commanding our attention again. She pulled the Mistress of Rebellion and Secrets down from her pedestal atop the cupboard where we kept a mishmash of board games.
Viv tossed her pink wig away. It landed at the foot of a side table we’d found at a flea market in Los Angeles last summer. I’d loved it instantly. Its four legs were carved to look like those of a griffon. I didn’t have the hundred bucks it cost, though, so Viv snuck back that afternoon and traded the earrings she was wearing, which her grandmother had given her. She showed up with the table at the car. Viv was like that, full of surprises and sacrifices.
She said, “I’ve choreographed the ultimate ceremony for the blood moon. It’s going to be otherworldly.”
“Actually, the phenomenon is entirely terrestrial,” Graham said.
“He means that the full moon is going to be eclipsed by Earth’s shadow and that’s why the moon will appear to have a reddish hint,” I translated.
She play-pouted. “Har, promise you’re not going to get all science-y on me tomorrow night too.”
Harry paused texting on his cell to say, “Never.”
“What’s up with the ceremony?” Graham asked Viv.
But her attention was lingering on Harry. “I won’t say until Harry tells us who he’s texting. Do you have another secret girlfriend?”
Harry’s head snapped up, a lock of his hair doing a slow-motion lift from his forehead. My stomach did a flip. He has another secret girlfriend. “I’m texting with Simon,” he answered. “My mom’s having a ladies’ night.”
“Where’s your dad?” Viv asked.
“He’s home. But he can’t walk or stand much. Simon ordered pizza and they’re watching a show about robots.” Harry’s voice gave away nothing but his expression was weary.
“Oh,” Viv said, dismayed. “I thought your dad was better. Physical therapy and all.”
“It helps. It just takes time because the leg was—” Harry’s voice cracked.
“It was broken in more than one place, many fractures,” Graham continued for him. “There was nerve damage, too, and nerves don’t heal as easily as bones. The pain went away and then got worse a few weeks ago, which could be because the nerves healed with scar tissue.”
Harry’s features had gone runny. I felt a rush of affection for Graham. For all his bullshit and storytelling, he was capable of being kind in ways so subtle you might not notice him saving you.