Everything We Lost

by Valerie Geary

  He checked again. If his casebook had been in his backpack earlier this afternoon—and he was certain it had been—it was gone now.

  The buzzer rang, signaling the start of halftime. Nolan jumped a little in his seat, and Celeste squeezed his hand, giving him that same look she’d been giving since they’d walked into the gymnasium. She wanted to know what was wrong, what he’d been searching for so frantically, what he hadn’t found. He couldn’t tell her. Not until he checked his locker and scoured his bedroom. Not until he confronted Wyatt, who knew about the casebook, who knew Nolan kept it close at hand, and who could have easily driven back to Gabriella’s, broken into the pickup, and taken it, all while Nolan was inside the house with Celeste.

  He told her it was nothing, a missing assignment. He didn’t want her to panic. He’d used a code name whenever he wrote about her, but there were enough details in there, enough clues that her identity would be obvious to anyone who had two eyes and half a brain. If she knew such a sensitive document was floating around, if she knew what this mistake might cost them . . . he didn’t want to think about the consequences.

  The first half of the game lasted almost forty-five minutes, though it felt like a thousand more than that to Nolan. Bishop Union was up by ten points, a small enough spread to make the crowd twitch nervously. People were standing, stretching, wandering down to the concession stand set up across the hallway from the gym. Every time someone bumped against Nolan accidentally, he flinched. His head ached, and not just his head, his whole body too. Every muscle a stiff knot. His breathing was shallow, panicked, he couldn’t get enough air, there was never enough air.

  A girl holding a clarinet brushed against his knees. He leaped to his feet, startling her.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled and kept walking.

  “I’m going to the concession stand,” he said to Celeste before she could ask him for the millionth time what was wrong. “Want anything?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Skittles. If they have any.”

  He left her and scrambled down the bleachers to the exit. As he went, kids he recognized, but had never been friends with, reached out and slapped his back or offered high fives. Since his arrest, this had been going on. Kids at school treating him differently, high-fiving him in the halls, saving seats for him at lunch, inviting him to parties he had no interest in attending. He’d gone from loser to legend in the space of twenty-four hours, and for something so stupid, a crime he didn’t even commit. He ignored them, walking with his head down, scowling at scuff marks streaked across the linoleum floor.

  The line for the concession stand stretched halfway down the hall. Nolan joined at the end and stood waiting. The line crept forward, stopped again. People were staring at him. Not in the same way as earlier, with admiration and a touch of envy, not even the same way as before his arrest, with disdain and disinterest. This was different, something was happening. He felt the shift in the air, heard paper rustling, the sound of a many-winged monster taking flight.

  A girl, the same one who had bumped into him with the clarinet, pointed in his direction, and then leaned in to whisper to her friends. They clutched something in their hands. Papers. A book, maybe. Not a book. Individual sheets that they passed around to one another. The girl grabbed a boy in passing and shoved a stack of pages into his hands. He stopped to read them, and then he laughed, and then he turned, found Nolan standing in line, and laughed again. He ran off with the papers, flagging down another boy farther down the hallway.

  The pages were passed along like this, from hand to hand, and as they spread, Nolan heard his name repeated, a murmur beneath the loud chatter coming from the gymnasium, the flutter and snap of so many crisp edges. It seemed everyone was holding a small stack of papers now. Everyone was reading.

  Nolan gave up his place in line. He approached the girl with the clarinet and snatched the papers from her hands.

  “Hey!” But she didn’t try to grab them back.

  He turned his back to her, and everyone else who was staring, turned instead to face one of the many lockers stretching the length of the hallway. Before he even started reading, he knew. He recognized his handwriting. His stomach went cold and then hot again. The whispers turned to a roar. Paper whispers, human whispers, susurrations, the sound of his own panic—all of it getting louder and louder until his head felt like it was going to explode. He swallowed hard. Swallowed again.

  He flipped through each page, not really reading, not needing to, but growing sick even so at the sight of too many familiar words. Words not meant for public consumption. Words he’d written thinking no one but him would ever read. Things that had no place in a serious scientific endeavor, but that he’d written down anyway because they had been burning hot in his brain and the only way to be rid of them was to put them on paper. Things he should have kept to himself.

  Where is she from? Andromeda?

  Is she a shape-shifter? Or is it a space suit made to look like a human body? Perhaps she is manipulating our perception of her through telepathy.

  Sexual intercourse—is this even a possibility? Does she even have sex organs? The right kind of genitalia? Would our two species find pleasure together? Would it be like slipping into another dimension? I want to find out; I am too afraid to ask.

  The crowd in the hallway was growing, getting louder as they combed through his private thoughts. Their minds were too simple, closed to the possibility that any of this could be real. Even if he tried to explain it, they would never understand, never see beyond their own dull, snub noses. He knew what they were thinking, what they would say later: a boy lost in his weird obsessions, caught up in his own fucked-up imagination, couldn’t tell real from pretend. Crazy, they would say, the straitjacket kind of crazy. He wasn’t.

  He wasn’t.

  The last paper in his stack was an entry he’d written shortly after he met Celeste. Down to the very minutest of details, he had described her eyes, her hair, her clothes, the Saturn patch on her backpack. He’d transcribed as much of their conversation as he had remembered and, at the end, theorized that she was no ordinary girl, but an extraterrestrial, his Star Being, arrived here from outer space with a message for him and all of planet Earth. He never used her name, but it didn’t matter. He had drawn her on that white page in black letters as clearly as if he had taken her picture. He crumpled the paper into a ball, squeezing it in his fist as tight as he could, not tight enough to make it disappear. Then he turned and began snatching pages from people standing nearby.

  He didn’t bother to read any of it; he remembered very well what he’d written. Each entry a description of the fantastic things he’d witnessed, the Buttermilk Rock Lights, the craft that had touched down at the observatory, the stars dancing into a clear triangle formation before he blacked out high up in the Sierras. He grabbed handfuls of pages, grabbed and grabbed, but they only seemed to duplicate, another stack always just out of reach, spreading like an infection. His arms were full and still there were more. He couldn’t stop it; there were too many copies and too many people, and now those people were making their way back into the gymnasium, climbing into the bleachers, stretching white from one side to the other.

  Nolan followed the paper trail into the gymnasium, stopped just inside the doorway, and scanned the bleachers until he found his seat. Celeste was still there, and for a moment, he thought he could fix this. He would run to her, push people out of the way if he had to, take her by the hand and drag her away from all of this. They would get in his pickup and drive. It didn’t matter where. As far from here as they could get and then a thousand light-years more. They would go and just live and everything would be okay.

  Someone shoved a stack of papers into her hands. She looked around at everyone reading, at the people turning to stare at her now, too. She lowered her head over the paper, and Nolan’s whole body turned to stone and all he could do was watch as she read first one entry, then another and another, as her eyes grew wider, as her mouth fe
ll open and her cheeks flushed violet. She looked up, frantic, scanning the crowded bleachers.

  She was looking for him, he knew, and when her eyes found him there in the doorway, they flashed lightning hot and he could see everything she was thinking, her emotions moving like thunderclouds over her face: confusion, horror, betrayal. His thoughts and explanations, his intentions, his connection to her—all of it unspooling too quickly for him to gather it up again. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, crushing the pages against her chest like they were precious. The people sitting closest to her went silent, their eyes following her gaze and finding Nolan, settling on him like so many heavy stones around his neck. She raised her eyebrows, asking Nolan a silent question for which he had no answers. Then she opened her arms. The papers spilled and tumbled, drifting in white heaps, slipping through the cracks in the bleachers, disappearing. Then she turned and stumbled down the bleacher steps—shoving her way through the gawking freshmen and slack-jawed sophomores, the juniors who shook their heads, the seniors who thought they had seen everything, the parents who had no idea what was going on—shoving toward the opposite side of the gymnasium as him, toward a door that opened on to the parking lot. Only then did Nolan find his voice.

  “Celeste, wait!”

  Her name echoed through the gym, but she didn’t stop, or even slow down. She slammed through the door and stepped into the night. Nolan stood rooted, watching her go, wanting to move, to chase after her, but finding even the smallest step impossible, his breath hitching, his vision ringed and spotted with shadows. The buzzer sounded. The two teams sprang onto the court for the second time that night. Basketballs pounded the wood floor. The crowd began to clap and cheer. Upbeat pop music crackled through the loudspeaker. Above it all came a familiar laugh, like a slap. Nolan turned to look behind him.

  Patrick and his clones were clumped together in front of a vending machine opposite the gymnasium door. Adam leaned against a locker, one foot resting on the metal door, his arms crossed over his chest. He smirked at Nolan and shook his head. Grant leaned on the locker next to Adam. His teeth tore into a stick of red licorice. But it was Patrick who had Nolan’s full attention. Patrick who stood in the middle of the hallway with a grin on his face so wide Nolan could count all his perfect white, sparkling teeth. He lifted a black composition book over his head and waved it back and forth, saying, “Hey, Spaceman! Not so badass now, are you?”

  Nolan rushed him, grabbing for the casebook, but Patrick pulled it out of reach.

  “How did you get that?” Nolan demanded. “Where?”

  “Found it lying around.” Patrick thumbed through the pages, laughing and shaking his head. “You’ve got some really strange ideas about things, don’t you, buddy? Do you really still believe in all of this shit? I mean, I knew you were a little eccentric, but this . . .” He snapped the casebook closed again. “This is batshit certified.”

  Nolan clenched his fists at his side. He was struck with a sudden memory of the summer before eighth grade. Patrick’s twelfth birthday party. He’d invited a bunch of his friends, including Nolan, to spend the night at his family’s lake house. Despite the fact that Nolan had been too scared to swim with the other boys, he remembered it being a good weekend until Patrick pushed him off the dock into the glassy, black water.

  When the other boys had asked Nolan why he wasn’t swimming, he told them the stories his uncle used to tell about secret alien bases built underwater and flying saucers rising from the murky depths. Instead of making fun of him, the boys took it upon themselves to turn Nolan’s fear into a game. They pretended they were on a different planet and took turns diving as deep as they could into the middle of the lake, returning with ever more elaborate reports about their findings. Nolan was their team leader, coordinating the dives as he stood on the dock taking notes on an imaginary computer and reporting back to their ship’s commander. Patrick thought the game was stupid and juvenile and tried to get them to do something else. He brought out his sailboat, and some water guns, and when that didn’t work, he got into his father’s liquor cabinet and offered up shots of expensive scotch, but no one paid him any attention. They kept swimming, kept diving, kept bringing up new information for Nolan to interpret.

  Nolan didn’t see Patrick come up behind him. One second he was standing at the edge of the dock, dragging a branch through the water to make ripples, shouting at one of the boys to take a reading of the vibrations, and the next he felt a shove against his back and then he was tumbling headfirst into the black water, sinking deeper into the darkness, choking on something bright and cold. He might have drowned if someone hadn’t jumped in after him and pulled him ashore. Nolan remembered the horrified way the other boys had stared at him while he crouched in the sand crying and coughing, trying to catch his breath. He remembered how Patrick crouched beside him, patting his back, smiling, saying, “You okay, buddy? You almost died, you know. Lucky for you I was close by.” Water dripped from his hair. His clothes dripped too.

  No one else saw it happen. They thought Nolan was just clumsy and a bad swimmer. And when Patrick came in after Nolan and pulled him to safety, everyone called him a hero, so Nolan didn’t dispute it because maybe it was an accident, a mistimed nudge, nothing more sinister than a foot or an elbow in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were boys, things like this happened all the time. Up until this very moment, Nolan had gone on believing the push he’d felt was accidental. Patrick would have never done something like that intentionally. Yet here he was, with the very same smile on his face as he had that day, the smile of a kid with a secret. The kind of smile a winner bestows upon a loser not because he’s kind, but because he likes the way an ant feels crushed under his thumb.

  Nolan dropped the papers he was holding. They exploded in a flurry around his feet. He slammed Patrick against the lockers, pressing his forearm against his throat, forcing his chin and his head up. Patrick choked on a breath. His eyes were wide and wild with panic, but his fingers still gripped the casebook, refusing to let go.

  “Lighten up, Nolan.” Patrick somehow managing to push the words through his clenched teeth. “We’re just kidding around a little. It’s a joke. You know what a joke is, right? Come on, buddy.”

  Nolan hated when Patrick called him that. He pressed his arm harder against Patrick’s windpipe, forcing him silent. His face turned bright red, and he started to cough. Spit flew from his mouth and gathered in white clumps on his lips.

  A crowd of high schoolers gathered, circling like so many vultures, hissing them on. Most of the adults had returned to the gymnasium to watch the game. The noise from inside drowning out the scuffles in the hallway. Every other adult who passed hurried on without stopping, not wanting to get involved.

  Suddenly Nolan was wrenched backward. He fought against Grant and Adam, but their fingers clamped around his arms, two against one, and they were stronger, stretching him out like a rubber band until it felt like his shoulders were going to pop.

  Patrick brushed off the front of his shirt, taking his time. He smiled at Nolan, a closed-lipped impatient smile, and said, “When this is over, don’t forget, you started it.” Then he hammered his fist into Nolan’s chest. The force, and a crack of pain in his sternum, bent Nolan double. No air. No sound, no sight. He floated in a void, hearing only a distant buzzing sound. The sound grew louder, then a rush of exploding colors and noise and hurt.

  The black dots in his vision cleared just as Patrick lined up a punch to the face. Nolan ducked at the last second, but Patrick’s fist kept going and landed hard on Grant’s jaw. Grant cried out, releasing Nolan. He cradled his head and laid down a string of curses.

  “Shit!” Adam let go of Nolan’s other arm to check on his friend. “You all right?”

  Patrick shook his hand in the air, clenching and unclenching his fingers. All eyes were on Grant now, who was bent over, still holding his face and blubbering. Strings of thick, red drool dang
led from his lips. The crowd shifted their feet, murmuring, glancing over their shoulders to see if any adults would step in now that punches had been thrown, blood spilled. None did.

  In this quiet pause, Nolan gathered his breath. His ears rang. He tasted blood in his mouth, his own, very human blood. The pain in his chest flared hotter the longer he stood doing nothing. Patrick still gripped the casebook in one hand. The black and white blobs on the cover melted to a gray blur as Nolan replayed the horrified look on Celeste’s face as she read the photocopied pages, as she turned her back on him and fled. She was gone because of Patrick. Her true identity exposed because of Patrick. Ruined because of Patrick. All of this because of Patrick.

  In a single, swift motion, Nolan raised his fist and hammered it straight into Patrick’s nose. The bones beneath splintered. Patrick grunted and fell back against the lockers. He raised his hands to his face, dropping the casebook on the floor. Nolan swooped and grabbed it. Blood dripped through Patrick’s fingers, splashing bright red onto the beige linoleum.

  “Jesus fuck.” His voice muffled and strange. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Nolan slammed his fist into the locker near Patrick’s head, making him cower.

  “You piece of shit!” Nolan didn’t recognize his voice, the violence of it. “Do you know what you’ve done? Do you even fucking realize the magnitude of this situation? They’re going to make her disappear now. They’re going to make it seem like she never existed. Is this what you wanted? Is it?”

  He couldn’t get his rage under control. Some small whisper inside him knew it was useless, that he should be spending this energy tracking down Celeste instead, figuring out a way to get her out of Bishop alive, but that whisper was fast drowned out by a roaring sound coursing through his blood into his ears, taking over his brain. He was anger, he was vengeance, he was supernova. He slammed his fist into the locker a second time, hard enough to make a shallow dent. Patrick didn’t cower this time. He lowered his arms to his side and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin high. His eyes were already bruised a deep purple. Blood poured from his nose, but he didn’t wipe it away. He grinned, displaying sharp, glistening red teeth. Then he spat in Nolan’s face.