One thing I think I have, that my sister didn’t, is hope. Or at least, a belief that things will always get better. Iris believed the worst things would always happen. I choose to ignore such possibilities, probably to the point of being stupidly naïve. I believe that bad things always happen for a reason, and that everything works out in the end. But if I ever give up on hope, then I think I will be in trouble.
CHAPTER 3
Thirteen Days
The kitchen is empty. Mom has already left for work, but has faithfully left a plate of eggs and turkey bacon and whole wheat toast in the microwave for me. My pills are sitting out on the counter, next to a glass of orange juice. Craig has already left as well. My mom and stepfather both work for one of the biggest realty firms in the county, and today he and Mom are meeting with a subdivision developer.
I pour the juice down the sink, feed the eggs and bacon to the dog, and take my pills with a Diet Coke. I am wearing a flannel plaid jumper with a long-sleeved black T-shirt and my Doc Martens. I’m going for emo Laura Ingalls today. The brisk cold snap didn’t last long. The air outside is muggy and smells smoky. Someone is burning dead leaves. I take in a deep breath, trying to forget the nightmare I just had. Iris was trying to slap me, and I woke up still feeling the sting on my cheek.
In Advanced Algebra I have a surprise. Someone liked my poetry. Or at least they liked William Ernest Henley’s poetry. My lines are erased, but there are new lines scratched in tiny handwriting on the top of my desk:
Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.
That’s not from “Invictus.” But it sounds vaguely familiar. The teacher is passing out last week’s test on imaginary numbers, so I discreetly erase the poetry off my desk. I draw a smiley face out of the 68 on my test paper. Across the top of my desk, I write,
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade.
At lunchtime, Trista and Natalie corner me in the library. I am sitting at one of the computers, googling lines of poetry. Longfellow. That’s who my mysterious desk mate was quoting. “The Light of Stars.” My skin prickles, and I wonder if this mysterious algebra person loves to look at the night sky as much as I do.
Oh, fear not in a world like this,
and thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
to suffer and be strong.
I copy the lines into my notebook for later. How sublime to suffer and be strong. I wonder about the person who left these words on the desk. Do they suffer as much as me?
“What the hell are you reading?” Trista asks, peeking over my shoulder at the screen. “Honey, you need to get out and have fun. You need to get laid.”
“How was the movie?” I ask, sliding my notebook back into my messenger bag and closing the search engine window on the computer. I hope she ignores my blush. She knows I’m a virgin.
“Absolutely wicked. Do you want to hear what Natalie and Thomas did in the back row?”
Natalie says nothing, but gives me a wide-eyed, innocent-looking smile.
“Not now. What brought you guys in here? It must be the apocalypse if you stepped foot inside the library willingly.”
Trista glances at Natalie and grins. “We’re going on a mission. Should you wish to accompany us, you will be sworn to secrecy or possibly sold to Armenians.”
“Oh, let’s go ahead and tell her,” Natalie says. “She really should come with us!”
Trista shrugs and looks back at me. “There’s a new pub that opened over by the university. We’re going to check out the fried mozzarella sticks. Wanna come?”
I start to say no, just as I always do. They’ve been trying to include me in stuff ever since Iris’s death. As if they could fill the emptiness inside me with fried food and winter dances and hooking up with boys. Which makes me love them even more than I ever did before. Sometimes I feel bad, because I know they are hurting just like I’m hurting. But I can’t fix myself, not yet. Not even for them.
But today, I’m willing to at least fake it. For their sakes. “Okay.”
Natalie’s green eyes grow huge behind her glasses. “Really?”
I shrug. “I’m not in any hurry to go home.” Mom has been obsessing lately about her position on the homeowner’s association. And ranting about some new neighbors that have moved in nearby. I’d rather not listen to that any more than I have to.
“Wow. You actually want to hang out with us?” Trista says. I have stunned her. But she tugs on one of my black curls. “All right, then. We can walk there from school.”
Hours later, the three of us are standing outside the Indigo Dragon, a new café in Five Points, near the university. It’s snuggled in between an upscale salon and an uppity children’s clothing store. Outside, a carved mermaid with turquoise hair looms over the entrance. As Trista opens the front door, a waft of fresh baked bread hits us in the face. A very cute boy with close-cropped hair in a black T-shirt is leaning over the front counter, reading a magazine. I feel sick to my stomach as I recognize him.
“Oh my god, it’s Pluto Alex!” Trista exclaims in obviously fake surprise. “Hi, Alex!”
He looks up and grins at Trista and Natalie. “Ladies! How’s it going?”
The last time I saw Alex Hammond, he was strung out on heroin, just as high as my sister. That was the night Iris died. And I’d hoped I would never lay eyes on the bastard again.
Trista leans up against the counter. “When did you get back in town?”
No one had bothered to tell me he was back from rehab. Everyone calls him Pluto Alex because he’s always been way out there. Like effing Pluto.
“Last week,” Alex is saying. “I was back in class Monday. Where have you been?”
No one told me rehab made a boy grow muscles like that either. Alex was a scrawny rocker boy with scruffy long hair when he dated Iris. He still has the tattoos on his arms, but oh my god, those arms have gotten muscular.
I glare at him with all the hate my short frame can summon. If I had lasers for eyes, he’d be a puddle of goo. It’s a waste of emotion, though. He’s focusing on Trista.
As most boys do. Still, it’s been less than six months since my sister died. You’d think Iris’s boyfriend would still be mourning her.
No, I’m being a bitch. Trista is gorgeous. And even though she already has a boyfriend, she’s always had a thing for broken boys. Alex is about as broken as they come.
He comes closer to me. He smells like fresh-baked bread. His smile is gone, and he looks nervous. “How have you been?”
“How do you think?” I spit out. And immediately feel bad. I stare at the menu on the board behind him. I’m thinking I’ll get the fried dill pickles here, if they have good dipping sauce for them. My sister loved fried mushrooms. She would have loved this place with its quirky but oh-so-hipster vibe. “Rehab looks good on you,” I admit, grudgingly.
He exhales, reaching up to scrub his newly shorn head. “Adventure therapy. The parents found a holistic center up in the mountains where I kayaked and hiked through my addiction. Been clean since that night, Andria.”
And he’s cleaned up pretty well. His eyes are a clear blue. An irresistible blue. I can’t believe I just thought that. He was a junkie, just like my sister. And while it’s freaking wonderful he was able to turn his life around, I hate that my sister didn’t get the chance.
“See anything interesting?” he asks. He’s too close in my personal space. I feel like I can’t breathe around him. Alex Hammond, drummer of Calcifer, has always been a larger-than-life person to me. Just like Iris.
“Are the pickles good?” I ask, stepping back.
His smile is slow and wicked. “They’re so good they’ll make you—”
“Never mind,” I say, cutting him off before he says something gross. “I’ll just have the chicken Caesar salad.”<
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He shakes his head and his lips curl into a smirk that I want to slap. “I was just going to say they’ll make you order seconds.” He fills out the order slip and slides it back to the kitchen. “God, Andria. Do you have a perverted mind or something?”
I glare at him and his ridiculous grin while Trista positions herself closer. “I’ll take the pickles,” she says. “With extra dipping sauce.”
I follow Natalie and slide into the nearest booth after her. “This is a really cool place,” she says, looking at the decorations on the wall. “It must be fun working here.”
“My moms bought it. I’m just slave labor.” Alex has followed Trista to the booth, balancing a tray of drinks, a bowl of salsa, and a basket of chips.
“Moms?” Natalie asks.
I pull the tortilla chips toward me. I know from Iris that Alex has lesbian parents, but I also know he doesn’t volunteer that information freely. I guess Iris told Trista but not Natalie.
Trista slides into the seat across from us, and looks up at Alex. “Come sit with us and talk. There doesn’t seem to be much of a crowd yet.”
Alex stares at me, as if asking for permission. I concentrate on the salsa instead. “Thanks, but I have to get back to the counter,” he says. “Got a few carryout orders to bag and I don’t want you to wait too long for your food.”
“PLUTO!!!” Two mop-haired guys push the front door open and walk in. A frown passes across Alex’s face so swiftly I might have imagined it.
But then he grins and looks like Pluto Alex again. “Have a seat, guys. Be with you in a second.”
His bandmates. Iris used to call them Thing One and Thing Two. Trista and Thing One have been on-again, off-again since last summer. Today they’re off, judging by the frosty look Tris is giving him.
“Aww,” Natalie says, ignoring Trista. “But yeah, we’re really hungry, so go. Go get us nourishment.”
Alex’s gaze turns to me once more before he goes back to the counter. I’m glad if I make him uncomfortable. I hate that I’m going to have to see him in school again, but if we both put in some effort, I’m sure we can avoid each other just fine.
CHAPTER 4
Twelve Days
I answer my phone, and I know it’s Iris on the other end, trying to talk to me, but I can’t understand her. I beg her to speak louder, but her voice fades in and out. The only words I can hear are “don’t forget.” “What?” I shout. “Don’t forget what?”
I open my eyes to a dark room. Once again, my nightmares haven’t let me sleep more than a few hours. I glance at my clock and see my phone lying on the bedside stand, the screen lit from a recent text. A chill creeps over my damp skin. It’s only a little after four. Who is texting me at this hour?
I get up and go to the bathroom for a glass of water, avoiding the phone. I know it’s not really my sister, but as creepy as it sounds, I still want to entertain that possibility for just a moment longer, while I’m still half-asleep and dream-drunk.
I drink my water slowly, and hear the phone vibrate against my nightstand. With a sigh, I set the glass down and go back into the bedroom. I reach for my robe. I might as well go out and check the telescope. I slide the phone in my pocket and slip on some flip-flops.
My dog Sophie raises her head from the foot of my bed, and I bend down to scratch her behind her ears. Appeased, she goes back to sleep. I don’t need her to follow me everywhere, even though she used to go to school with me when I was younger, when my meds didn’t control my seizures very well. Officially, she’s “retired” from being a service dog, but she still sleeps in my room and snuggles against me when I have the rare seizure.
The phone vibrates again in my pocket, and Sophie’s ears prick back. I hold my breath and take it out to peek.
A text from AT&T with an offer for a new upgrade. Seriously? My heart is pounding for a spam text? “It’s okay,” I whisper to Sophie, and head downstairs. The house is silent except for the hum of Craig’s CPAP machine in the master bedroom. I slip out onto the back deck and look up, wondering where I should point the telescope.
It’s cold, but clear for once. The night sky is a perfect velvet black and the stars bright and glittering.
A dog barks down the street. Probably the terrier the Ellisons let stay outside all night. He barks at everything.
Gemini. The twins are certainly worth looking at this morning. But the house’s gabled roof blocks my view. Screw it. I pick up the telescope and carry it around the side to the front yard. Mom would have kittens if she caught me out here in the dark, but it’s not like there’s anyone else around. I set the telescope down in the driveway and start searching for the stars Castor and Pollux.
What I see through the lens is breathtaking: Castor a bright, white double star, and Pollux, its brighter orange sibling. Off to the right of the twins, I find Betelgeuse, the pinkish-red star from Orion.
A branch from the neighbor’s crêpe myrtle is blocking my view of the nebula in Orion. Frowning, I push the telescope farther down the driveway, until I’m close to the street. It’s an old neighborhood, full of historic houses, and we have far too many trees for my liking.
I take a chance and move the telescope out into the street. We live on a dead end, so I’m pretty sure no one is going to come blowing through here at four in the morning. Most of our neighbors are retired old couples anyway, who almost never leave their homes unless it’s to go play golf.
I’m adjusting the focus, when I get a strange feeling. I look up and down Azalea Cove, not seeing anyone. There’s no real breeze to speak of, and the subdivision is silent. Even the dog at the end of the block has grown quiet.
I’m getting chills up and down my arms. I’m scaring myself. There’s no one out here, I tell myself. Everyone is inside their houses, sleeping like normal people. I consider going back inside, but I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to see the nebula again. There hasn’t been a night this clear in weeks. I need one last look.
And then I hear the footsteps approaching. Too close. Too late to push my telescope out of the way, I stupidly stand by to defend it. And am run down by a jogger. Or possibly a serial killer.
“Son of a bitch!” I scream, just as the jogger mutters his own string of four-letter words. We tumble, tangling arms and legs and landing on the asphalt. I hear the telescope hit the ground, scraping metal and breaking glass.
“No!” I wail. My parents are going to kill me. My elbow is scraped, and my hip hurts from breaking my fall.
“What the hell?” A familiar voice demands above me. “Andria? What are you doing out here?”
Oh dear God. What is Alex Hammond doing lying on top of me?
“Get off!” I push at his chest. Of course he doesn’t budge. He laughs, and I can feel the rumble of his laughter under his rib cage. It makes my fingertips tingle.
A porch light comes on next door, and the Ellisons’ terrier starts barking again down the street. Alex shifts, and I’m finally able to get out from under him. I scramble on my hands and knees on the pavement, feeling for pieces of my telescope.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” he asks. “Do your parents know you’re out here?”
“Of course not,” I hiss, as I find a shard of glass. Perfect. I’m shaking, and I pray he can’t see it in the dark. It’s probably not a good idea to admit I’m out here all by myself. “What are you doing out here? Waiting for your dealer?”
I hear him let out a breath and stand up. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either,” I finally say, feeling like a bitch again. He brings out the worst in me.
Alex picks up my telescope and follows me up the driveway to the front porch. “Been having nightmares ever since I came home.”
I look up at him, now that I’m able to see his face. The neighbor’s floodlight is pointed straight at us. He looks tired. “Nightmares about what?” I ask.
Before he can answer, the neighbors’ front door opens. Alex pulls me back against the far side of our porch, where
we’re partially hidden by the shadows of Mom’s hanging ferns. Part of me wants to get away from him, to yell for help and run back into the light, where the neighbors can see. The other part doesn’t want to move.
“Are you bleeding?” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear. It sends shivers all the way down my neck.
“Shh,” I whisper back. I guess I’ve made my decision. I’d rather stay hidden in the shadows with the addict than risk a scolding from one of the neighbors.
We’re both silent, me with my hand throbbing in pain and my heart pounding from standing so close to this boy. His skin is damp with sweat, and I try to put a little distance between us. Unfortunately, he grabs my hand so he can look at it.
I can’t see from where we are who has come outside next door. Mrs. Dawes is partially deaf and legally blind, but her husband is the eyes and ears of the neighborhood. He was the one who told Mom that Iris was doing drugs. If only she’d bothered to listen to him.
I hold my breath and pray that Alex will keep his mouth shut.
It seems like forever until we hear an elderly man’s cough, and his front door opens and closes again.
I let my breath out and pull my hand away from Alex.
“Did you get glass in there?” he asks.
My palm stings when I move my fingers. “I think so. I’ll clean it off inside. Are you hurt?”
“Just banged up a little. Sorry I tripped over you.” He steps back, thankfully. Finally, he’s out of my bubble. “Why in the hell were you in the road?”
“Too many trees,” I say. I shiver, now that his warmth is gone.
“We can blame all of this on the trees, then,” he says, trying to make a joke. But I don’t smile. He notices. “Will your parents get mad about the telescope?”
Dreaming of Antigone Page 2
