“Yeah, well, I mean, fuck her, but—”
“I’m sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to watch me these past weeks too. That must have sucked. My dad wasn’t really paying you, was he?”
“Micah, I need you to focus and tell me where the fuck you are, okay? Hey, just—”
“I figured he wasn’t. You’re an awesome guy, Dewey. Did you know that? You’re awesome.”
“Fuck it, I’ll come get you. Stay where you are—”
“I’ve finally figured it out, Dewey. I think I finally figured out all—oh. Oh shit. Oh god.”
“Micah—”
“Oh god, Dewey, oh god. Oh, god. It was me. I remember, I remember what I said to her. Dewey, oh fucking shit, fucking shit.”
“Micah, breathe—”
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck, oh god, oh my god, she didn’t fall, Dewey, she didn’t fall into the quarry, did she. Did she? Oh shit, oh shit, oh fucking shit—”
“Micah? Micah!”
But that is all I hear.
I stare and stare at the ice over the quarry and all I can see is her hair sinking
lower.
before
OCTOBER 16
The fire burns and burns.
It’s all very nice and all, but— Where’s Micah?
The police and the fire department come. People are screaming and running around, and if they’re getting burned, it’s because of the torches. Someone just fell down the hill and probably sprained an ankle. Some people keep getting their fingers trampled on because they’re drunk enough to think that stop, drop, and roll is a good idea while the sober ones run away.
I’m sitting on the curb and they don’t even notice, except to tell me to move aside. The house is almost gone.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring and staring down the street, waiting for him to come back.
It begins to rain.
The house is gone, and now the police are starting to dig around.
I take a deep breath and pull myself together long enough to get out of there.
I go to the barn first. I put my matches and stone and the ticket to Nepal with our alcohol behind the rusty tractor. I don’t feel right taking it. Maybe Micah can use the refund to pay off that speeding ticket. And I want him to have the rock.
Fear no more.
But I’m terrified. I sit on the floor of the barn and take little gulps of air but don’t let anything out. I need Micah. Micah was my alibi. Micah was going to be too drunk to remember I wasn’t with him all night.
My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket and I finally take it out. There’s five missed calls from probably the police and a few holy shit this is crazy are you okay where are you sorry about the house texts and one from Ander that’s just a picture of his middle finger.
It’s so ridiculous—so Ander—that I almost laugh before I realize.
His middle finger isn’t at the bonfire. He sent it a while ago, probably right after I ran after Micah, and he’s in a car and not at my house and definitely, definitely not setting it on fire.
Oh god. Oh god, oh god.
Fuck. Fuck.
It isn’t fair.
It’s not, it’s not fair, he’s going to walk away from this and I’m—I’m going to still be asphyxiating burning shaking paralyzed terrified terrified terrified. No. No. He’s going to get away with it, isn’t he, of course he is, of course of course of course. There’s a scream in my throat and too much air blocking it. It isn’t, it isn’t fair. How—how can the universe really not give a shit? How?
I try to take a breath but where the hell can I even let it out now? My stupid fucking house is gone and so is Micah. Micah. Oh, god, Micah. I try again but I’m shaking and my lungs have collapsed because it doesn’t fucking matter, the police are going to figure out that it wasn’t Ander at all, and it just isn’t fucking fair and I can’t do it anymore, I can’t, because what’s the point? Micah is gone, Micah isn’t going to defend me. Oh, god. Micah.
I stand up.
It’s very dark.
I push open the doors of the barn, and keep walking. I go to what’s left of the Metaphor. I sit down in the furious rain and pull handfuls of rocks into my lap. I uncap the Skarpie and begin to write on the impossibly smooth rocks.
Slut.
Whore.
Bitch.
Nice ass, though.
Asking for it.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Roses are red, violets are blue. You’re a piece of shit, a raging bitch too.
Janie Vivian is a bore, Janie Vivian is a whore, Janie Vivian has no friends, Janie Vivian needs to end.
Slut.
Slut.
Whore.
Slut.
Slut.
Bitch.
Someone fucked you over, huh?
How does that feel?
And when I’m done, when they’re in my pockets and sleeves and hood, I stare at the water and think about absence.
That’s the truth, I guess. We don’t catch moments in the passing. We don’t catch them at all. We just reach and scramble and wish for fairy godmothers and Prince Charmings. It’s too bad none of it is real. It really is too bad.
My name is Janie Vivian, and I don’t exist.
The water is cold and it is rising.
It is rising higher and higher and higher still.
The moment has passed.
The end.
after
DECEMBER 20