It was at an arena downtown. My boyfriend, Alexios, and I stood in a general admission pit instead of sitting in the assigned seats of the sections above us. Alexios had surprised me with tickets for my sixteenth birthday. It was my favorite band, so I wanted to be in front where I could reach out and touch the stage. Being in front meant people crowded around me, pressing in. Hip to hip. Shoulder to shoulder. Elbow to elbow. Like we were all part of one huge mass. Back then, I didn’t mind the crowds. Or the noise. Or the way the ground vibrated underneath me. I wasn’t afraid. But Alexios stood behind me anyway. Protective. He was a senior, but he didn’t seem too old or too hard to talk to like some senior boys can be. He was my first real boyfriend. And at the concert, his arms were wrapped around my waist. His mouth was behind my ear. He was so much taller than me that nobody dared invade our space. He pushed them off with a simple twist of his shoulder.
Onstage, there was a guy with a bass and a girl on the drums and another girl with a guitar and a microphone. I shouted out all the words because I knew them by heart. I bounced when the songs got faster, and Alexios bounced behind me, still holding on tight.
By the end of the night, we were hot and sweaty and almost in love. We were in love enough that when he told me his parents were out of town for the weekend, I texted my mom to say I was spending the night at Sage’s house. But I went home with him instead. We left our jeans and Tshirts in a tangled pile on the floor and climbed into his bed, where he gently pulled me to his mouth by my cheekbones.
We stayed together for six months.
We stayed together until we decided we liked other people. The breakup wasn’t ugly or tear-filled. It was simply how it was. It was high school. Alexios was my boyfriend for six months, and then he wasn’t.
And now he’s in college and I’m in an apartment.
*
I spend the rest of the morning watching video lectures for English and calculus, then e-mail in an assignment for US history. After that, I focus on small things. I make my bed and move to the other side of the room to make Ben’s bed. We share a room because we have to. We’ve always had to because we’ve lived in Paradise Manor since he was born. Ben’s bed is to the left of mine. If it weren’t, I’d never sleep. I clean the toilet and the mirrors in the bathroom. I pace. I watch. I sit and listen.
My mom and Ben are more than halfway through their days. Evan is, too. I don’t know why I think of him, but I do.
I listen to the silence. Then I turn on the TV.
There are news people reporting live from my old high school. I feel my stomach cramp. I might have instant diarrhea.
A pretty news reporter wears a flippy dress and stands by the front office where big chunky metal letters spell out PACIFIC PALMS HIGH SCHOOL on the wall behind her. The reporter talks into a microphone as her hair blows around her face and gets stuck in the hot-pink lipstick on her mouth. She explains that my school is still closed but determined to reopen in the fall. I can hear the wind swish through the microphone. She pulls her hair back and talks about the new language arts building going up on campus. It will be called Finnegan Hall after my English teacher who died there. The building will go where the old one used to be. In between the math building and the auditorium. And the courtyard where Brianna, Chelsea, Sage, and I used to eat lunch will still be right in the middle. The reporter talks about the memorial wall that will be there, too. I fumble for the remote.
Before I can stop it they switch to footage from October fifteenth. They show a line of police cars twisting around the block. They show my classmates filtering out of the school, single file, hands on top of their heads, daring glances over their shoulders at the chaos behind them. My insides clench when I see Chelsea. It’s the way I remember her. The news people always show the footage with her in it because she’s screaming and crying and looks the most panicked out of everyone.
I can’t catch my breath. I feel like Ben is sitting on my chest—the way he does when we are pretending to wrestle. I finally get the remote straight between my fingers. I shut off the TV. I run to the medicine cabinet for my emergency pills. They are there, like a rope tethering me to the world. I need one. For the first time in almost eight weeks, I have to go there.
Twist, thwap, gulp.
I wait.
It’s not what I want it to be.
It’s not instant.
The zingy electricity is too much. I pace the living room. Back and forth. In front of the window. With the blinds closed. I might be dying.
I’m pretty sure I’m dying.
I don’t know what to do, so I call Brenda. She picks up on the second ring. I tell her about what I saw on the news. Chelsea. My school. I tell her how it made me remember. I tell her the building is gone but the memories aren’t.
“Seeing it like that is too real,” I say. “It makes it all come back.”
She tells me to breathe. She tells me I’m okay. She tells me I’m not dying. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She tells me to picture myself in my favorite place, which I say is on a beach towel underneath the hot sun. I miss it. She talks about that place and how I can go there, in my head, on days like this. Her voice is soft, like fuzzy slippers. And when she’s done, I can think again.