DEDICATION
For Chris, who is the real thing
And for Stephen and Alexandra,
who asked for longer stories
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
WE’RE RUNNING THROUGH the parking lot toward the smell of burning wood. I tighten my grip on Kris’s hand as we weave through rows of empty cars, but our palms start to pull away from each other, forcing our fingers to stretch and twist to stay together.
We keep going, toward the field full of black shadow-bodies and smoke curling into the sky above them, until we’re standing behind our old intermediate school, on the edge of dead grass, staring at the Thanksgiving bonfire.
Kris’s fingers slip out of mine. My hand drops to my side.
“So.” Kris crosses her arms and exhales through pursed lips. “Is it everything you imagined?”
“Are you going to be like this all night?” I search the faces in front of us. It’s hard to see in the dark, but every so often the crowd parts and the shadows shift. Flames sneak through, throwing an orange glow on a nose here, an eye there. The same noses and eyes and cheeks and mouths I’ve seen a million times since nursery school.
“Don’t act all surprised,” Kris says. “You know I didn’t want to come.” She slides a pack of Camels from her pocket, and I reach for my lighter. She brings the cigarette to her lips and cups her hands in front of it to block the wind. I flick open the cap of my Zippo to light her up, which is when I notice—she’s wearing lip gloss. A shade between brown and deep red, like her hair. Kris never wears makeup. Neither of us does. Then again, we don’t usually hang out with anyone but each other after school hours, either. At least, we haven’t for over a year.
I laugh, nodding at the heart-shaped stain on her filter.
“Yeah, sorry to drag you out of the house. Looks like you barely had time to change out of your pajamas.” I reach up and grab the cigarette, take a long drag, then hold it out to her, my lips forming a kiss.
“Shut up.” She snatches the cigarette back and tucks it into the curve of her smirk. “It’s tinted ChapStick.” She blows smoke out the side of her mouth.
“Then give me some,” I say.
Kris pulls a round, thin tin from her pocket and unscrews the cap. I swirl my finger around the mushy wax, smear it across my lips, and rub them together. Then I turn to her for an opinion, since she knows my face as well as I do, or she should, anyway. She’s been looking at it since the day Mrs. Singer assigned us seats at the same table in first grade. But suddenly she seems different—the light from the bonfire jumping over her face, lengthening her long red lashes, whipping up her thick, wild ponytail, highlighting her soft, round cheeks and freshly glossed lips.
I wonder if I look different, too, now that my smile is wet and low-lit. But if I do, Kris doesn’t mention it. After a careful survey of my face, she nods in approval and slips the tin back into her pocket.
“I don’t know what you’re expecting,” Kris says, waving her hand in a wide arc over the huddled groups that make up our high school. Our class alone is at least two hundred people, which is sort of like a small forest: just big enough to get lost in, just small enough for a single mistake to burn down the whole place. “Bonfire or not, somewhere in there is the same crowd we ditched last year.” She takes one last drag, then flicks the lip-printed cigarette a few feet away. “A flock of sheep that big can’t lead themselves, you know. Wish I could stick around to see what happens after June, when they try. Actually, no, I don’t.”
“Hey, Smoky, put out that fire.”
“Half the field is in flames, Mats; do you really think it matters?” But we watch the glowing ember anyway, until someone steps on it. “Problem solved.” Kris sighs. “So what’s the plan, now that we’re here?”
Here: Westfield, New Jersey. Division 18. Block 273. At least that’s where we are on my 1921 Sanborn—the coolest map in my collection. I pull myself out of the pepto-pink paper version and into the real thing: Black sky. Crisp night. Senior year.
“Don’t have one,” I tell her.
“You’ve been carrying a to-do list since second grade,” Kris reminds me. “You’re going to tell me you spent all that time convincing me to come, telling me we couldn’t possibly miss our last bonfire, and you don’t have a plan?” Kris asks, as if I’ll realize how weird the words sound when they’re coming from her mouth.
I shrug my shoulders inside my jacket. I did want to come. I wanted to do something. But I never thought Kris would agree. It’s the one thing I hadn’t planned on. Here’s the thing, though: plan or no plan, we’re sticking together. Not because we’re “best friends.” Kris and I are a lot of things—we’re sleepovers and secrets, mind readers and fortune-tellers; we’re unconditional—but we’re not “best friends.” We banned that phrase last year when we agreed: That’s just a label. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Okay,” she says, eyeing me. “Then follow me. I’m freezing, and I hear there’s a huge fire in Block two hundred.”
“Two seventy-three,” I correct her.
“That’s more like it.” Kris pulls me through the cold crush of arms and shoulders until we reach the center, where everybody glows. The charred pile of wood is twenty feet across and surrounded by a thick ring of blackened ground. We stare into the fire. Neither of us has been to a party in a while, and I’m not sure how to get started. I scan the crowd, but everyone keeps turning to talk, or lifting their chins to chug, or throwing up their hands to wave to someone; and when they turn or lift or throw, they lose the golden light, and I can only see half of them. One time I think I spot Jolene diagonally across from me. But then the girl turns, and I realize it’s not her.
The wind blows black smoke in our direction.
I’m about to ask Kris if she sees anyone interesting when Bella barrels into us, throwing her arms around us both like she meant to meet us here, when the truth is we haven’t hung out with her in over a year. But that’s Bella for you.
“Whoa, down, girl!” I shout, digging in my heels and using all my strength to stay upright. But she’s in full-on Bella mode, so there’s no stopping her.
“You gu-uys!” she squeals, giving our necks one last squeeze. “You’re totally here!” Bella’s lined lips stretch into a smile. Her big brown eyes go wide. “Wait”—she grabs our hands and pulls us through the tight-knit groups—“come this way. The light from that thing totally makes my bronzer look orange.” She’s walking backward into the cold darkness when she bumps into Scott Strickland.
“You know you want me, Bella!” he shouts. Doubtful. He’s put on at least twenty pounds since he graduated last year. He reaches for Bella but grabs my arm by mistake. I pull it away, and he squints at me, racking his brain for a name; but nothing comes, because I’m nobody, so he lets me go and turns around to find his friends.
“Eat it, Prickland!” Bella screams to the sky. A freshman girl whips her head around at the sound and falls into her friend. The two of them topple and crash-land, asses on the ground, heels in the air. Bella doubles over in laughter, crouching down as far as her black, patent knee-high boots will allow. “I swear to god, you guys,” she says, her voice a soprano shriek between fits of giggles, “I’m gonna pee my pants! The look on that girl’s face! I can’t take it.”
Kris’s smile bursts open and then mine does too, so that the three of us are standing in a small patch of dead grass behind Thomas Alva Edison Intermediate School, laughing about nothing. Because that’s what hanging out with Bella is like. I’d almost forgotten.
“Oh my god.” Bella sighs, gently blotting the tears beneath her eyes. “That was awesome!”
“Classic,” I say.
“Vintage,” Kris agrees.
Bella stands up. I forgot how short she is. Even with those killer heels, the tops of her curls barely hit my chin. She puts her hands on her hips and gets all fake-serious.
“So, what’s up, you guys? I mean, I just want to say that I totally called it. I knew you’d remember.”
What Bella remembers: freshman year. The four of us on the floor. Me, Kris, Bella, and Jolene, giving up our deepest wishes to the dark. It was Jolene’s idea. Most things were. She turned off the lights and tiptoed through the room to where we lay waiting. With bits of sleeping bag bunched in her fists, she asked us what we’d be if we could be anything. And with our wishes still fresh on our lips, she swore we’d make them real. Right before we all promised to meet here senior year.
What I remember: how Kris and Bella fell asleep in bags on the floor while Jolene wove braids into my wet hair and words into the pink underside of my skin.
“I told Jolene you’d be here and she didn’t believe me, obviously, but I was so right and you’re here and it’s awwwwesome.” Bella jumps up and down without leaving the ground, like the cheerleader she is, and grabs our arms again as if we’ll disappear if she’s not physically touching us. “So, you’re coming over after this, right?”
I can almost feel the lashes that landed on my cheeks that night; Jolene had dared me to swing the finished braids back and forth as fast as I could.
I bring my hand to my face, smooth the stray hairs.
“Of course we’re coming,” I tell Bella. I don’t have to look at Kris to know she’s clenching her jaw. Not only because I said we’d go to a party at Bella’s—something we swore we’d never do again—but because I didn’t check in with her first. “Everyone who’s anyone, right?” Our old motto. Which suddenly strikes me as hilarious, because me and Kris, we’re no one.
“Yaaaayyyy!” Bella sings, as if she might actually burst from excitement. And the way she’s jumping up and down in that deep-cut V neck, it certainly seems like a distinct possibility. Kris should be mad—I know she’s mad—but Bella’s energy is infectious. Soon we’re both smiling and nodding. Bella catches us in another double-hug-sleeper-hold before running back into the mass of shadow-bodies, shouting, “See you two la-ter!”
We watch her tall boots and teased curls disappear into the crowd.
“Did that just happen?” Kris asks.
“‘It’s all happening.’” I put my hands up in front of her eyes and fan them out around her face. It’s a line from our favorite movie, Almost Famous, and it gets her to smile.
“‘You cannot make friends with the rock stars,’” Kris quotes back—her favorite Lester Bangs line. “‘These people are not your friends.’” Then she leans her shoulder into mine. Not too hard, just enough to let me know she’s pissed.
“That wasn’t cool, though,” Kris says in her own voice again. “To make Bella think we’re coming. Now she’s all excited.” Kris digs around in her pocket for the half-empty pack of Camels.
“Bella is pretty much always excited,” I point out.
“True.” Kris slams the soft pack hard against the heel of her hand, then shakes out a cigarette and nips it between her lips. “Some things never change, huh?”
I light her up.
“Guess not.” The end of her Camel sparks red. I snap the Zippo shut with a flick of my wrist, tuck it back into my pocket, and slide my thumb over the smooth metal. “But I wasn’t kidding. I think we should go.”
The smoke catches in Kris’s throat. She’s coughing and shaking her head. When she finally catches her breath, I can tell she’s going to launch into the Are You Forgetting When speech; but she barely has time to open her mouth before Jim Maronack sneaks up behind her and snakes his arms around her waist.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he says, swaying her back and forth. “The elusive Kris McKittrick, showing up at Thanksgiving bonfire? I must be on stronger drugs than I thought.”
Kris rolls her eyes, wraps her shiny lips around her cig, and uses both hands to squirm out of his grip. Jim and Kris have been fooling around since fall of freshman year. He’s totally in love with her and she tolerates him. He’s not a bad guy, which makes it even worse. I mean, it’s not his fault Kris swore off serious relationships. She has one goal, and one goal only: to get the hell out of this town, no strings attached.
“Blame Mattie,” she says, tossing her head in my direction. “Totally her idea.”
“Well then, thanks, Mattie, for releasing the princess from the tower,” he says, holding his long arm out to me.
“My pleasure,” I say, shaking his hand and raising my eyebrows at Kris. She shrugs her shoulders at me, then leans back into Jim and pretends not to notice that his arms wrap back around her waist. As if she doesn’t love it. Anyway, that’s my cue, so I check my phone: it’s 9:05 p.m. and I need to be home by midnight, 12:30 a.m. latest, so we’re good.
“Meet you back here at nine thirty?” I ask Kris. Jim kisses her neck.
“Half hour?” Kris tips her head sideways to give him more skin. I nod. “Okay, don’t be late,” she warns. Not only because we haven’t finished talking about Bella’s, but because even though Kris likes Jim, she doesn’t like to be stuck with him. My job is to rescue her—eventually—but for now I leave Kris and Jim to their thing and make my way to the outer edge of the circle, where it’s not as crowded.
I flip my Zippo inside my pocket and run my thumb over it in small strokes. Jolene gave it to me in eighth grade. She had a habit of hoarding strange things: a blank check, a lighter, a bullet. She’d pluck something from her small, jeweled box and carry it in cupped hands across her room to me, where she’d pry her thumbs apart like she was holding a live butterfly. But I’d barely get a chance to peer in before she’d snap her hands shut again, telling me the same thing she always did: it wasn’t about the thing but what that thing wanted to be: A cashed check. A raging fire. A shot bullet.
What do you want to be, Mattie?
I pass the soccer team, zipping their Windbreakers up to the collars; student council members stretching their necks and swiveling their heads, pretending to be responsible; gamers and vloggers texting and taping the entire event; the drama crew—they’re singing, as usual—and, eventually, the staff of the school paper. We’re not really friends, but they know me. I spent a lot of time in the journalism room last fall. Even took it as an elective once upon a time. Plus, Kris is the editor-in-chief of the paper this year, and I’ve been known to hang around and help out, especially before big deadlines.
They nod in my direction. I nod back.
I’m on the other side now, opposite Kris. From here I can see the bonfire unobstructed. It looks so big. So out of control. Like any minute the breeze could blow my way and I’d be part of the flame.
I step toward it.
And there she is.
Jolene stands a few feet in front of me, tossing her long, dark hair. I can’t see the streak of auburn underneath, but I know it’s there.
I haven’t been this close to her in over a year.
I turn my cheek. Feel the heat. Her warm breath against my ear as she whispers:
What do you want to be?
But Jolene and I didn’t become anything. We were born one night.
There was blood: Jolene’s bootheel cracking glass; her fingers pressing the jagged halves of her mother’s necklace between our hot palms until our skin split; her hand squeezing tight—tighter when I gasped—so the blood wouldn’t spill.
There was a story: she said the first line, I said the next. The ending changed, but the beginning was always the same. It was our lullaby.
It was us: two little girls all alone in the world.
I make a sharp right and veer away from her, into another shade of darkness, and walk back and back and back until I can’t feel the heat anymore.
Then I stop and listen. Brittle leaves scrape the trees behind me. Fire crackles in front. Silhouettes swarm. The white noise of distant voices runs beneath everything. But there’s no trace of her words, not even a whisper.
CHAPTER 2
“DO YOU MIND?”
I whip my head around to see who’s talking, but after staring at the fire, I’m night-blind for a few seconds. So I follow my ears. The voice came from below and behind me.
“Do you?” I ask it. My eyes begin to adjust. I see a pair of unlaced sneakers emerging. Loose jeans. A flannel—cuffs unbuttoned at the wrists—and a thick silver ring gleaming in the darkness.
Hudson.
I should have known. He’s never that far from her.
“Yeah, actually. You’re blocking the view, not to mention blowing my cover.” His voice is low and raspy. It reminds me of an old recording. The hum it gives off. How he used to say my name.
I step to the side. He hasn’t said it that way since summer after sophomore year.
“Sorry,” I say. I stare up at the branches intersecting the night sky, because it’s easier than looking at him.
Underneath Everything Page 1
