Riiiight.
Braden got sucked into the cool crowd the minute he started playing football in junior high and that was it for our crew. He and Kent hadn’t even hung out in years. So for Kent to think there was something he could have done? Like somehow the outcome would have been different if Kent had, I don’t know, followed him on Snapchat? I’m sure Braden would have been, “That Kent sure is a lifesaver.”
Don’t get me wrong, I feel terrible about Braden. What a fucking waste of talent and opportunity and, just, everything. My point is that Kent overestimates the impact he might have had.
Meanwhile, I’m right here, heartsick due to Simone’s rejection and out of my head about midterms, sweating bullets over my interview. But does he have a minute to spare for me? Does he have a supportive word for me? Is he even patient with me anymore?
No. Hell, no.
You know what? I’m blocking both their numbers right now. That way when I don’t hear from them I won’t be disappointed. That’s it. That’s my line in the sand.
I pull out my iPhone and make the changes.
Bye, Felicia.
There. Done. That’s better.
So why don’t I feel better?
You know what the bitch of it all is? The bitch of it is that if Braden was beloved before, now he’s practically canonized. He’s more popular in death than he even was in life. Girls are going around with the #31 from his football jersey drawn on their hands in ballpoint. All the guys on the team slapped roach stickers on their helmets. A huge group of kids did a flash mob in his honor at the pep rally today. Saint Braden’s gone but in no way forgotten. People are talking about him like he’s the second coming of Paul Walker and Jesus H. Christ combined.
And now I’m the lowest person on the face of the earth because I envy a dead guy.
How pathetic am I?
No wonder my friends don’t want to be around me.
I wouldn’t want to be around me.
So...that’s why when I heard the car coming up behind me, I didn’t rush to get out of the way. I could have easily moved onto the sidewalk, but I didn’t because for a split second, I thought, Why not? Why fucking not?
Suddenly, I understood what Paulie and Macey must have been feeling in their last moments. Like, they just didn’t want everything to be so hard anymore.
Wouldn’t that be the most fitting end to this night—a real car wreck to go with the proverbial car wreck that is my life.
21
OWEN
I don’t know how to live with myself.
I should have been faster.
I should have tried harder.
I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Can’t talk to my friends.
I can’t look at texts, or answer calls; everyone asking me if I’m okay, like I’m the victim, like this somehow happened to me.
Am I okay? No, I am not okay.
I am not okay.
I was on the cusp of everything and now I have nothing. Because I deserve nothing.
I should have been the hero but I was too weak.
Too slow.
Too worthless.
Too high.
I don’t deserve to keep living my life like nothing happened. I don’t deserve normal. I don’t deserve a future. I don’t deserve to wake up to music. I don’t deserve the right to pick up my camera, to play my guitar.
I don’t deserve to be happy.
I don’t deserve anything.
I failed.
I failed Braden. I failed myself.
I can’t.
Something has to change. I can’t go on like this.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I’m all alone and I can’t.
I can’t.
Kent
10:04 PM
u cool yet? yes? then get ur ass over here
10:46 PM
mean it bro, night wont be same w/out u
10:55 PM
now im txting u 2 say im calling u—pick up pick up pick up
11:11 PM
cant believe ur missing this
11:22 PM
well be out back—meet us here, pls?? u will thank me!
22
SIMONE
“Moon Girl!”
“Liam!” I squeal. In fact, I squeal so loudly that I practically slide off the back of the couch on which I’ve been perched, watching a bunch of Jaspers play ultimate Frisbee with a Die Hard boxed set.
I add, “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!”
Look at me, squealing and quoting Bruce Willis movies and speaking in exclamation points! I suspect I’m buzzed. Not my fault, really. The beer here’s so cold, so refreshing, not like those thick, tepid, metallic glasses of bread they serve at pubs at home. Whatever’s in my plastic cup is chilly and light and doesn’t make me feel like I’ve just swallowed fifteen slices of pumpernickel. That’d make anyone giddy, I recon.
“Never seen you at one of Jasper’s bashes before.”
“Never been invited before,” I reply.
“His house parties are the best.”
“Wait, are you saying this is Jasper’s actual home? He lives here? He didn’t rent out the Playboy mansion?” I glance around the sprawling room, shocked that it could be part of someone’s residence. I simply assumed we were someplace fancy that wouldn’t return Jasper’s security deposit.
“Nope, this is his place. He mostly has it to himself, though. His folks spend a shit-ton of time traveling.”
“That sounds so lonely,” I say. I can’t imagine being on my own that often. I’d desperately miss my family, but people up here seem used to it. I don’t know how it doesn’t bother Kent and Stephen that their dads are gone every week from Monday morning to Thursday night.
There’s not a second that goes by where I don’t need both my parents. I require my mum for a million different reasons every day. And I can’t imagine not endlessly talking with my dad. I believe we’re so close because we’ve always lived in such small spaces; we can’t help but be enmeshed in each other’s business. Even now in our big house (well, not big compared to this palace/chateau/castle here) we tend to cluster up, never leaving one another by ourselves for long. “That must be terribly sad for him.”
Liam thrusts his chin in Jasper’s direction, where he’s busy being dry-humped by two girls in tiny skirts, dancing on either side of him. “He looks pretty broken-up.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. Tell me, are we celebrating anything specific tonight? What made him throw this to-do?”
Liam gives me a sly grin that just reveals that bold incisor. “Other than ‘because he can’? He’s letting everyone blow off some steam before midterms. Also, Thursday’s our last game before regionals, so this week’s going to be intense.”
He takes a seat on the back of the couch next to me and sort of leans in so his shoulder is touching mine. I’m not sure how to interpret his body language. This feels like flirting, but he has a girlfriend, so I’m obviously wrong.
“Shall I wish you luck, or is that a bad omen? Do I say something like ‘break a leg’ instead?”