Spontaneous

by Aaron Starmer

  “So wait? You’ve been drinking toxic Russian river water? That’s your solution?”

  “That’s science,” she said firmly. “I’ve been very careful about my intake. It’s gross but it’s hardly a risk. Besides, it’s worth a risk. Because if I disable the tracking device, then I can leave. And if I leave, then maybe—”

  I cut her off because I wasn’t in the mood for maybe. “You wanna know something that isn’t science?”

  “What?”

  “Our friendship. There’s no logical reason we should be friends.”

  Tess paused, as if this were something she’d never considered. Then she said, “Freshman year.”

  “What?”

  “Freshman year,” she repeated. “You and I sat right here. Well, not right here, but close to here, in the bleachers somewhere. We watched a swim meet. Do you remember that?”

  “Vaguely,” I said, which had become my go-to answer regarding memories.

  “So you don’t remember what you said?”

  I shrugged. From over the dunes arose a gasp of pleasure. The lure of a shirtless boy had worked on someone.

  “We were watching the kids swim back and forth,” Tess went on. “And you said, ‘That isn’t a race down there. That’s timed survival.’”

  “So I was clever,” I said as I stood and stretched my legs.

  “Yes, you were, and you still are,” Tess replied, and she tugged on my skirt like she wanted me to sit back down. “High school is basically timed survival. But you know the reason it’s survival and not certain death? It’s because there are edges to the pool. There are ways out. You’ve been an edge to my pool for as long as I can remember. Since my dad. Since . . . everything that’s happened. With your humor, your devotion, your, well, just being you. You’ve been my way out. I hope I’ve been yours.”

  “You’re terrible at metaphors,” I said as I shook my leg to make her let go.

  She relented, burying her hands in the sand and saying, “I’m telling you that I love you, but there’s some stuff we really need to talk about. I hate to see you give up. You’re destined for great things.”

  Those words hit me hard, because I had seen who was actually destined for great things—the kids back in the bio lab. No matter what their AP results said, these were the kids who would succeed. People like me were just standing in their way. So it was best for everyone if I came clean. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that yet. Not in front of Tess.

  “My destiny is to have another drink,” I replied as I made a visor with my hand and scoped out the easiest route through the dunes to the exit.

  “Save the drink for prom,” she called out.

  I paused. “What?”

  “Next week. Saturday. It’s happening.”

  “So? You want me to help you pick out a dress or something?”

  “No, because I’m too busy and I’m not going. But you should. Find yourself a boy to ask. Ditch all the guilt surrounding Dylan. I know it probably feels like you could have done something to stop it, but believe me, you couldn’t. It’s time to move on.”

  I looked down, chuckled a little at how right and wrong she was, and said, “The only person’s fate I can control is my own, huh?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “So end the year on a high note. Go out and have a blast.”

  No pun intended, I assume, and I’m sure she didn’t realize how tragic her words could end up being.

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I told her as I set off into the dunes with the yearbook under my arm. “Maybe I’ll try to be there, at least for a little while.”

  pregame

  Yes, there was going to be a prom. Kids were going to shake their butts to Beyoncé and convince themselves it was the highlight of the year. Perhaps they’d even believe it.

  The planning had gone on exactly like it had with the yearbook. Behind closed doors. Or at least behind doors that I didn’t open. I was coming to realize that if you don’t look for something, then you rarely find it.

  The chosen venue was the Hotel Covington. Skye Sanchez’s parents ran the place, and while it wasn’t exactly one of those grand hotels of yesteryear, it was rather nice—a white pillared behemoth perched along the edge of the Patchcong River Gorge. It was ideal for a prom, and considering that the only people staying in it were a handful of reporters and weirdos still fascinated by the carnage, there was room to spare.

  “As far as my parents are concerned, money is money, and thanks to crowdfunding we have enough cash in the kitty to cover even the most exorbitant cleaning expenses,” Skye told me when I asked her what they might do about a bit of blood in the ballroom. “Besides, I’ll be wearing washable shoes and bringing at least two backup dresses. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I know I’m late to the game,” I said. “But can I pitch in somehow? Make sure the night is special for everyone?”

  “Bring a bunch of Oinkers and I’ll fix it so that you’re prom queen,” Skye said. “Bring a bunch of Oinkers and a date? I’ll make sure he’s king. Unless you’re going with Tess, that is.”

  I shook my head. “I think our Tessy is sitting this one out. I’m flying solo.”

  That’s right. I wasn’t taking Tess’s advice about finding some new boy—I didn’t want some new boy—but I was still taking her advice. I was going to prom. I had given this plenty of thought. Every time I had kept things to myself, it had ended badly. If not for me, then for the people around me. And I didn’t have many people left around me. So it was time to confess. In front of the people I had terrorized. Once and for all. In formal attire. And whatever the consequences of that confession were, I was sure I deserved them.

  When the evening finally came, I put on a simple green sundress, the type of thing that always inspired unsolicited compliments, which seemed preferable to rolling the dice and setting Mom and Dad back a few hundred on a frilly nightmare that would make people grimace and say “you look amaaaaazing,” through tightly clenched teeth. I wanted to look good, but if I was going to lay myself bare, then I also wanted to look like me.

  “You are so goddamn pretty,” Mom said as she held her phone up and I rocked from one foot to the other on our front steps. She was taking the standard prom shots, the ones that usually feature a tuxedoed fella, or at least a squad of chicks squealing and shouting to celebrate their singleness. But not this time.

  “I’m only being myself,” I replied, my eyes on the dandelions that had started their yearly invasion on our lawn.

  “We’re glad you . . . that you have your wits about you right now,” Dad said.

  Translation: We’re glad you’re not totally obliterated at this moment. Which I wasn’t.

  I looked up and told him, “I want to be sure I make the right decisions tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” Mom said.

  “We’re sorry Dylan can’t be here to share this special evening with you,” Dad said.

  Special evening? That would be a word for it. “Trust me,” I said. “Dylan would not have been into this scene.”

  “Well, he was into you,” Mom said. “And who could blame him?”

  I didn’t want to talk about Dylan anymore, for obvious reasons. So I kissed both of my parents on their cheeks, and said, “You know that none of this was ever your fault, right? None of this will ever be your fault. I love both of you so much, and you’ve got so much to look forward to in life.”

  Which made them cry, of course, but I wasn’t going to stay around to watch that, because that’s when my ride showed up. I left to go do what I had to do.

  oh, what a night

  Who was my ride? Obviously, no limo companies would agree to chauffeur us, and even though the police offered shuttles, it was hardly the arrangement anyone wanted for their prom. Luckily, when word got out, Google dispatched a fleet of those self-driving Priuses decorated
with sparkly lights on the inside. It was clearly a promotional stunt to prove that these technical marvels were safe even when kids were exploding inside of them. We didn’t care. All that mattered was that we could arrive in some semblance of style. Nerdy style, but style nevertheless.

  Like I said, there was a lot of money to spend, but the idea was to keep things authentic and simple. There was talk of periscoping the proceedings, but the kids who did the planning decided on the opposite. If anyone so much as raised a phone, it would be confiscated. This would be an exclusive event. Seniors only. Music would be provided by Tick, Tick, Tick . . . , a band consisting entirely of members of our class. Dougie O’Shea—under the ridiculous moniker of ShamRockz—would DJ, but only when the band was taking a break. There would be a fully stocked bar and plenty of Covington Kitchen–cooked appetizers to go along with a mountain of Oinkers. No chaperones. No rules other than “have a kick-ass time.” It was basically the prom all high school students wish they could have. Except, well, for the strong possibility of blood, blood, and more blood.

  When I arrived, my classmates were already hopping, spinning, and acting like fabulous fools under paper streamers and stars made from aluminum foil. Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was not a particularly good band, but they were enthusiastic, and that counts for a lot. The drummer, Rosie Drew, was kicking the shit out of the bass drum, which was shaking the hell out of the place.

  I walked across the quaking dance floor and over to the bar, where I poured soda into a champagne flute. Skye was standing there and she clinked my glass with hers, which was full of the real stuff.

  “That outfit,” I said. “Damn. Supercute.”

  She was wearing patent leather heels and a silver-sequined mini, which was a bit short for my taste, but what the hell, right? It seemed like the sort of thing you could easily wipe blood from, and Skye was so pretty that most people would ignore the obvious Christmasiness of it.

  “Thanks,” Skye told me. “You’re wearing the hell out of that dress too.”

  Truth is, she’d hardly given me a glance; her eyes were locked on some sweaty dude on the dance floor—Jackson, Jayson, something like that. Still, I said, “Very nice of you to notice.”

  She sipped her drink and replied, “I wish Katelyn had lived to see this. She loved it when everyone got together.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “Thanks for setting it all up. This is really nice. The perfect way for things to come to a close.”

  “Fully catered rites of passage. It’s what we Sanchezes do best.”

  I nodded, motioned to our dancing classmates, and asked, “So, what do you think they’ll do?”

  “Get drunk, dance, hook up. Standard stuff.”

  “No. I mean, after graduation.”

  Skye sipped her drink and said, “College, I hope. Did you hear? I got a scholarship to Smith.”

  “Really? Hell yeah for you. How’d you manage that?”

  “ACLU is putting the pressure on. Deadlines are being extended. Exceptions are being made. Maybe the world is coming around to us freaks.”

  “And maybe the powers-that-be will finally let us freaks run free?” I asked with my eyebrows at full mast.

  Skye clinked my flute again and gulped down the rest of her champagne. “Supreme Court will never let this situation stand. Might as well get on with things. Like you so elegantly once said, ‘Let’s fucking live again,’ right? You should apply to Harvard, you know? You’re smart. Creative. Harvard could use a badass feminist like you.”

  “I don’t know. After tonight, I doubt I’ll be considered Harvard material.”

  “Plan on making a scene, are you?” Skye said with a wink.

  “Something like that.”

  “Have fun with it. All my parents ask is that you keep any monkey business out of the lobby,” she said, then tossed her flute over her shoulder.

  I flinched, but the flute didn’t break when it hit the floor.

  “Plastic,” she told me with a wink. “Nice plastic, but still plastic. Come on. This isn’t our first rodeo.” Then she sauntered onto the dance floor, waving her arms above her head as she went.

  Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was still giving it their best even though their best was a bit off-tempo and off-key. The room was full, the crowd alert. Now was the moment. Now was my chance. I needed to act while I still had the courage and conviction. The booze was curling a finger at me, promising even more courage, but I knew if I started to sip, I’d eventually gulp and I’d lose that essential conviction and join the dancing throng.

  So I stepped away from the bar and climbed onstage. The singer, Benji Goldsmith, thought I was looking to duet, so he was happy to slide over and make room at the microphone. But rather than belt out the chorus to “Firework” I hollered, “Cut the music!”

  They may not have been talented, but they were obedient. The musicians hit it and quit it. Except, that is, for Rosie, who, head down, kept assaulting the drums. It was like gunfire and it drew every eye to the stage. When she finally looked up, she realized that now was not the time for a bitchin’ solo and she set her sticks in her lap.

  “Thank you,” I told her with a little bow, and then I turned to the crowd. “Apologies for the interruption.”

  My classmates seemed peeved, but not particularly hostile. Some asshat did shout, “Show us your tits!” but I couldn’t waste any anger (or nipples) on him. Because I could see myself getting worked into a frenzy and wishing people dead and pushing bodies to their breaking points, then—splat, splat, splat—the dance floor might end up like act 5 of Hamlet. When, really, the only person who deserved my anger was myself.

  “I have something to say, something to confess,” I announced. “Then I’ll be out of your hair. Or in your hair, possibly.”

  Puzzled looks confronted me. There was no patience for cryptic shit.

  My voice slipped into a whisper. “What I’m trying to tell you is . . .”

  Then I froze, because goddamnit if Tess wasn’t at the entrance of the ballroom. Now I’m not exaggerating when I tell you she was stinkin’ gorgeous standing there in a red satin mermaid dress. Not that she usually dressed like a bag lady, but this was by far the most elegant I’d ever seen her. She was downright sexy, far hotter than Skye. She pushed back her bangs and smiled at me.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  Up until that moment, my intention was to lay it out there, to prove to my classmates that I was the cause of all this horror, and then await sentencing. Maybe they’d descend upon me like jackals and tear me apart. Maybe they’d grab my hair and plunge my head in the punch bowl and make me literally drown in booze. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t have to do anything at all. Maybe my confession would be the final straw, the last bit of self-hate that would turn my own powers against me. Maybe I’d blow up right then and there and provide a warm and splashy end to the shitshow.

  Spoiler alert: None of those things happened.

  The sight of Tess in the ballroom delivered an existential jolt to my body. I hadn’t spoken to her since that afternoon in the sand. I was fortunate enough to have a moment with my parents before I left for prom, to tell them I loved them and assure them they were innocent. But what was the last thing I’d said to Tess? Basically, “Screw you for believing in me.”

  The shock of seeing her now—she wasn’t supposed to be here!—combined with what I was about to do was so overwhelming that I didn’t realize it when someone wrenched the microphone from my hand.

  “Worst. Confession. Ever!” boomed from the amplifiers.

  livin’ on a prayer

  What the, what the . . . ?” I whispered to myself as I turned to find a wobbly Claire Hanlon standing next to me, all but gnawing the microphone like a turkey drumstick.

  “I’m sorry, Mara,” she slurred as she rubbed the felt against her cheek. “Confessions gotta have some oomph to ’em.” />
  Oh, Claire. The debauchery had taken an especially firm grip on that girl. Like me, she had spent the last month or so in a drunken stupor. Only this way of life was new to her and she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of controlling her impulses.

  “I wasn’t finished,” I whispered to her.

  “Oh, you’re finished all right,” she bellowed, and then she turned to everyone. “All of you are soooo finished. Just think of standing in my way and you’re done. Capital D-O-N-E done. Know why? Because I say so!”

  There was silence, for probably only a second or two, but enough to send the appropriate chill through the room.

  “That’s right,” Claire went on, pointing a thumb at her own chest, “I am the Covington Curse. Everyone who died, died because of me. Me! Because I deserve to be valedictorian. And these losers and their bloated GPAs stood in my way. I’ve got a spreadsheet, ya know? Paid that Pressman kid to hack the system and get all your grades.”

  “Seriously,” I whispered.

  Claire turned, threw me some major shade, and said, “You should shut your mouth, Mara. Main reason you’re still standin’ is ’cause you tanked chem sophomore year. But don’t you dare test me, girl. I’ve taken down others for less and might still need to take down one or two more of you losers. Doesn’t matter what your grades are. If you challenge me, you won’t survive. So there you have it. That’s a confession for ya!”

  Then . . . Pow!

  It was the amplifiers again. Claire had literally dropped the mike, a punch to all of our guts. No one had been expecting this, least of all me. Claire thinks she’s the curse? Getting a B in chem is considered tanking? Do people who drop microphones know how expensive those things are? I bent over to pick it up, but Clint Jessup, who was standing at the edge of the stage, beat me to the punch.

  He pulled the microphone into his grasp and announced, “Actually, I’m the Curse.”