The plan is done. I’ve set some money aside (not enough, but it will help) for the funeral, so my mom won’t have to pay for all of it. I’d been saving for a year to pay for a trip to Paris, but since I won’t ever make it to Paris, I figured this is a good investment. I don’t deserve Paris, anyway. I’ve booked the cleaning crew for tomorrow morning, telling them it’s a surprise for my mom, who always does the cleaning. They even congratulated me on being a good daughter. I had to place that memory in a compartment to keep it from haunting me for the last twenty-four hours. The gun is in my closet. It only has one bullet in its chamber.
A sliver of dread burrows through me, a lost feeling, not unlike the one I had the day I decided this would be my last. It’s been happening ever since. The ebb and flow of the unknown variables in my plan. I’m waiting to feel numb. Jackson will hurt. We’ve been best friends since he climbed my tree and broke his leg in second grade. He’ll get over it. He’ll find another friend. Someone who deserves him more than me.
I make it home and run to my room, passing Mom in the kitchen cooking something that smells like a cross between cabbage and apple pie. I cringe as the odor wafts my way and speed up the stairs before she can pull me aside to eat whatever she’s killed in the kitchen. I never had the heart to tell her I’ve been a vegetarian for the last six months. Now she won’t have to know. She yells something up to me I don’t understand. I slip into my room and frantically gather the items I’d stored away in preparation. I toss clothes and books around the room, hoping it looks more lived in than it did before I packed it all up.
A hollow knock on my door makes me jump. “Honey? Jackson’s here. I’m sending him in. Are you decent?”
“No, I’m naked.”
I hear her tell Jackson I’m indisposed.
“I’m not naked, Mom. It’s fine. He can come in.”
“I knew that,” she says in a playful tone.
The door opens tentatively and Jackson’s tall frame enters the room. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s always been shaggy in that cool way, like he forgot he had it for about ten years. His shoes are dirt-stained, and the laces are always untied. His shirt is wrinkled above his muscled chest, fabric that bears some strange football saying I don’t get. He never changes. I think that’s what I like best about him—his predictability.
“All right, Jackson Gray. What’d you do this time?” I tease. I’m getting so good at faking.
He plops onto my bed and looks around the room, his eyes adjusting to the emptiness. “Are you moving?” His eyebrows crease in confusion and his posture changes to that of someone suspicious. “Where’s the Duran Duran poster I got you?”
I was born in the late nineties, and even though I love some good grunge, I am a child of the eighties. I love everything about that era. Jackson got me the Duran Duran poster for my birthday last year. It’s signed by all the members. Mom thinks it’s hilarious and “so me” that I love bands she loved when she was a kid.
I need to come up with a lie to keep Jackson clueless. I search my brain for a thought. He used to be able to tell when I lie, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it. “I’m going to paint my room,” I say, avoiding his eyes, hoping he buys it.
“Not pink, right?”
I smile. “Not pink.”
“Cool.” Jackson accepts things so simply. He never asks for an explanation. He’s kind of the Goldilocks of people, middle in almost everything. He’s average at football, but doesn’t strive to be better. He’s average at school, but doesn’t care to get past a 2.8 GPA. He’s not the captain of anything.
We have this in common. But that’s where our similarities end.
“You came for a reason, yes?” I ask, grabbing a book and placing it neatly on the empty shelf.
He looks around again and nerves perk in my chest. “Something’s seriously off, like . . .” he says, narrowing his eyes.
Perhaps I underestimated him. “Tell me about Jaclyn. She kissed Jeremy, right? That’s what this is about?”
He purses his lips. “How’d you hear?” he says, flipping a pen he found on the ground between his fingers. “Eh, that relationship is over anyway. Come on, you had to have money on it ending.” He makes a sound in his throat that’s half chuckle, half too-cool-to-laugh. “What’s up with you, anyway?”
My whole body freezes. I’m an iceberg about to crash the Titanic.
He doesn’t wait for me to lie to him again. “You’ve been acting strange for days. What the hell is up with you? You’re not . . .” he says, leading me to confess like he usually does.
You’re not . . . losing it like before. I finish the sentence for him in my head. Happy Ellery isn’t doing her job. Seething anger builds in me and threatens to burst. I can’t have anyone ruin my plans—months of preparation and deceit. I calm, and put on an unaffected face. “Jackson Gray, you and I both know I’m strange. That’s why you love me,” I joke, hoping it convinces him that nothing’s wrong.
“I do love ya.” His tone is deadly serious as his gaze follows me suspiciously around the room.
“Anyway. Since you’re clearly not here to listen to my sage advice on love, I must get with my first love—homework.” I hug my calculus book to my chest and nod toward the door.
He sits up from the bed and stands, placing his hands in his pockets. “Fine. I’m leaving. So should I break up with Jaclyn, then?”