Everneath

by Ashton, Brodi

  My brain was spinning as I drove home. I tried to make sense of it all, but there were still so many questions, and I didn’t know if anything I’d learned could help me, but what had I expected when I followed Cole? That he would lead me to a magic key that would unlock my salvation?

  I wished I knew exactly what I was looking for.

  One thing I did know—Cole didn’t want the queen to find out about me. I tucked this piece of information in my back pocket. Maybe it would come in handy.

  SEVEN

  NOW

  School. Four months, one week left.

  An entire week passed and I still couldn’t get the Shop-n-Go out of my head, so I was a little flustered when Mrs. Stone asked about my paper in her room after school.

  “Do you have the theme of your thesis picked out, Miss Beckett?” she said as she took the seat in front of me.

  Jack leaned closer. It was crazy how any movement from him sent shivers down my spine.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What have you decided on? Modern-day parable, or modern-day myth?”

  “I decided to write a myth.”

  “Have you figured out a topic? A moral conundrum?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  I heard Jack’s chair creak.

  “It’s about how there’s no such thing as redemption,” I whispered. “How you deserve what you get, and no higher power can save you.”

  Mrs. Stone didn’t answer immediately. The only sound in the room came from my own breathing. “What about heroes?”

  I hunched over and scribbled a few lines on my notebook. “There are no heroes.” Sure, it wasn’t an optimistic paper, but it was the only thing I could write passionately about.

  She was quiet for a moment again. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Okay. I’m excited to see what you put together.”

  I nodded.

  “And, Mr. Caputo? Everything going well with the personal essay?”

  I could only assume he nodded, because Mrs. Stone returned to the front of the classroom. My right hand started to tremble, and I clenched my pencil and began scribbling.

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Jack’s voice was soft.

  I lifted my head, allowing my eyes to meet his for the first time in weeks. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.” I looked down at my notebook.

  “Wait,” he said.

  I turned back. “What?”

  He shrugged, then spoke in a low murmur. “Just stop hiding behind your hair for a minute.”

  I closed my eyes, but I didn’t turn away. “You’re making things difficult, Jack Caputo,” I whispered.

  “At least you remember my name.”

  I remembered everything. The first time he called me his girlfriend. The first time he told me he loved me. The first time I started to question whether or not I’d be able to hold on to him. The first time I knew I had to come back to see him again, at whatever cost.

  LAST YEAR

  January. Two months before the Feed.

  I was Jack’s and he was mine. I was getting used to the idea.

  “Three whole months, Becks. You’ve been with Jack Caputo for three whole months,” Jules said to me in between bites of her turkey sandwich. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, tracing the wood grains of the cafeteria table with my finger. “I don’t think Jack’s the type who keeps track of anniversaries. Besides, three months isn’t exactly a long time.”

  Jules flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Are you kidding? He’s never admitted to having a girlfriend before you, so three months is like fifty years in Jack Caputo years.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So now we’re counting in dog years?”

  Jules gave me a knowing look, and we both giggled. “So, Becks, is tonight … the night?”

  She paused, and I caught her meaning. “No!” My cheeks flushed, and I lowered my voice. “No. No, nothing like that has … no.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t hold out on me. It’s Jack Caputo.”

  “Stop saying his first and last name, like he’s some sort of god.”

  “He is. At least in this school. And mythological beings like him need the physical pleasures of—”

  “Stop!” I said, cutting her off. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

  She gave me a disappointed look. “Fine. Just promise you’ll tell me everything.”

  “I promise.”

  After lunch, I took the route that would lead me past Jack’s locker. When I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Jack was leaning back against his locker, his head resting on the metal, his eyes squeezed shut. His face was tense. But that’s not the reason I stopped.

  Lacey Greene was standing right by him, close, leaning her shoulder against the locker next to his and talking animatedly. The way she was standing, she was almost forcing his arm to touch her chest. Even I wouldn’t have stood like that with Jack.

  Then again, maybe that was my problem. Whatever she was talking about, it was definitely not a good time for me to interrupt. But I was his girlfriend. If anybody could interrupt, wouldn’t it be me?

  I gripped the strap of my bag that was over my shoulder and walked toward them. The closer I got, the more I could hear Lacey.

  “… so then I suggested each spirit team member could be assigned two players, and that would cover every—” Her voice cut off when she saw me.

  At the silence, Jack opened his eyes. His gaze met mine, and his face broke into a wide grin, the tension that was there moments ago melting away.

  “Sounds great, Lace,” he said absentmindedly, keeping his eyes on me. “Do it.”

  He pushed off the locker and grabbed me in a tight embrace.

  “Hi, you,” he said. The words came out in a contented sigh. Lacey no longer existed for him, but I had a clear view of her behind Jack, scowling. I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling the clean, leathery scent of his jacket, mixed with something else that was … so Jack.

  “Hi,” I said back.

  He released me, but only a little, so he could see my face.

  “So, we celebrating tonight?” he said, the grin still in place.

  His hair flopped over his eyes, and he ran a hand through it so my heart flitted inside my chest.

  Celebrating. I narrowed my eyes. “Did Jules talk to you?”

  “She reminded me it’s our three-month anniversary, and girls like stuff like that, don’t they?”

  I remembered what Jules had said at lunch, and studied my hands, which were suddenly fidgeting. “No. Not me. I’m fine, um, not doing anything. At all.”

  He chuckled and put his arm around my neck, steering me down the hall. “That’s what I love about you. So easy to please.” His nose touched below my ear.

  I gave a nervous giggle and couldn’t get rid of the blush as he drove me home. When we reached my driveway, he squeezed my hand. “How about we go night skiing?”

  Huh. Boots, layers of clothes, awkward skis. Perfect. “That sounds great.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

  I climbed out of the car feeling slightly relieved. As I walked up the sidewalk to my front door, Jack rolled down his window. “Becks!”

  I turned around.

  “Bring a change of clothes tonight. My uncle has a lodge on the hill he said I could use anytime. We’ll stop there for hot chocolate afterward.”

  Crap. I forced a smile and waved as he took off. It was times like these I missed my mom the most. But even before the crash, would I have talked to her about this kind of stuff? She’d been open about most things, but loudly quiet when it came to sex. Maybe she had been waiting until I got older, and never got the chance.

  Later that evening, I’d skied the hill until I thought my ears would fall off from the cold. Jack kept suggesting we head in, but I insisted on skiing until every last light on t
he hill was out. By the time we made it to his uncle’s lodge, it felt like it was two o’clock in the morning. But it was only ten. My curfew wasn’t for three more hours.

  “You can go change in the bedroom, and I’ll try to start a fire,” Jack said as he rubbed his hands together and searched for the light switches.

  “Great,” I whispered. I clutched my bag of clothes and tiptoed across the orange shag carpet of the living room and through the bedroom door.

  Once I’d shut the door behind me, the trembling began, and not just from the cold. I dumped my clothes out on the bed. Pink yoga pants and a white sweatshirt.

  “Just breathe,” I whispered to myself.

  I peeled off my freezing ski suit and the layers of thermal cotton underneath, then rubbed my arms to get the circulation going. I was in my bra. And there was only one thin door between me and Jack.

  I hurried and pulled on my fluffy rabbit outfit. My feet were still cold from the mountain, so I kept my thick green wool socks on. Catching a peek at myself in the old mirror hanging on the wall, I nearly choked out a laugh. After hours stuck under a ski hat, my dark hair now looked like it had been sucked into the vortex of a tornado, and the clothes made me resemble a cotton-candy marshmallow. It made me relax enough to open the door.

  When I emerged from the bedroom, Jack was crouching next to the fire, his back to me and a mug of hot chocolate in his hand.

  “That looks cozy,” I said in a timid voice.

  He turned at the sound and—taking in my appearance— immediately spit hot chocolate all over.

  “What?” I demanded.

  With an obvious effort to compose himself, he forced his lips into a frown and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Breathtaking.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and his lips started to quiver, and then there was no stopping him. The laughter came in waves.

  “Well, that’s not exactly the reaction I was going for,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” he said, gasping for breath.

  I put my hand on my hip and tapped my foot as he inhaled deeply and rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. “Finished?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I love you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me.” He stood and walked toward me.

  I glanced down at my sweats, and then back at his face. “Did you not notice my getup?”

  He halved the distance between us. “Oh yeah. I noticed,” he said, like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. His lips curled up into a smile.

  “Okay, so that’s not the reaction I was going for either,” I said, taking a small step backward as he closed the gap between us.

  He grabbed my hands in his and his grin disappeared. “Becks. I think I know what you’re worried about, but I meant what I said. I love you. And I would never push you.”

  My entire body turned red. “But don’t you mythological higher beings”—I tried to remember how Jules had put it— “need … the … um…”

  Jack looked confused, and then he chuckled. “Please don’t even try to finish that sentence.”

  The nerves had taken over, and there seemed to be a short between my brain and my mouth. “But you’ve had … the… I mean, I know I’m not … the … first…”

  “Becks. Please.” He pulled me over onto the couch, in front of the fire. “Look, my history isn’t exactly a secret.” He shrugged. “I’d change it if I could.”

  I wrapped the drawstring of my sweats around my index finger. “Okay,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t hide your face from me.” He placed his fingers lightly under my chin and urged my gaze up. “It’s you. And I don’t want to screw it up.”

  Could he be serious? I didn’t know whether to believe him or to assume I really did look that undesirable. Jack had a rep for easy one-nighters. How long before he grew tired of waiting for me?

  It didn’t matter. Right at that moment, I knew my dad was right. I was totally overwhelmed by Jack Caputo. There would be no going back.

  I took his arm and put it around me so I could curl into his chest and hear his heartbeat, which despite his calm demeanor, was racing. He held me close and tight, as if he were tucking a football.

  He pressed his lips into my hair. “I love you, Becks. I’ve never felt like this.”

  I nodded against him, still unsure if I could believe him. I thought about Lacey and the way she was standing next to him. “You’ve never been in love?”

  He let out a quiet breath, and I felt him shake his head. “Easy to say. Harder to feel.” He ran his fingers through my hair and tucked a few strands behind my ear. With a lighter voice, he said, “Out of curiosity, what would you have said if I wanted to…”

  “I would’ve said no.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t, because that would have been awkward.”

  His chest shuddered with laughter.

  EIGHT

  NOW

  The soup kitchen. Four months left.

  My days on the Surface started to stack up and run together, so I wasn’t sure how many Saturdays had passed before I saw Mary at the soup kitchen again. I’d been looking for her as I ladled chili into soup bowls, because I wanted to ask her about that Priscilla’s daughter the braid girl was telling me about.

  My need to help her was stronger than I could explain. It’s not like she was the first senile person I’d ever met, but ever since she told me I’d broken a heart, I felt a sort of connection to her, as if her dementia gave her a unique insight into people’s souls.

  I knew that wasn’t possible.

  When I’d served about half the tub of soup, I saw her in the line. As she reached for a tray, an old silver bracelet slid down her arm and settled on her wrist. It was the only jewelry she wore and looked heavy on her frail wrist. It must’ve been an heirloom or something.

  “Hi, Nikki,” she said when she reached my station.

  I didn’t remember telling her my name. “Hi, Mary. How are you today?”

  “Can you eat with me?”

  “Um…” I glanced at Christopher right next to me, and he nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

  Maybe he considered this another aspect of service, beyond ladling soup. I dished myself a bowl and followed Mary to one of the long rectangular tables in the dining hall. We took the two seats on the end, facing each other.

  “I’m sorry about the other day,” she said. “The little scene I made.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I just … sometimes I get confused.” She broke her bread into tiny little pieces and placed them in her soup.

  “I understand.”

  She looked at me with strangely hopeful eyes. “Do you?”

  “Sure, Mary.” I considered telling her my great-aunt had Alzheimer’s, but decided not to. Maybe she’d be offended if I compared them.

  She waited for me to say something else, so I felt it was a good time to ask her. “Mary, one of the girls here told me you were looking for somebody’s daughter?”

  Her eyes darted back and forth, as if she were nervous about being overheard. I wondered if it was a secret.

  I lowered my voice. “Is that right?”

  She didn’t answer, so I pushed a little. “I could try to help you find what you’re looking for. Was it Penelope’s daughter?”

  Mary went from looking frightened to suddenly trying to stifle a laugh.

  I guess it did sound a little ridiculous. Once she’d regained composure, she said, “I don’t remember anything about that.”

  “Oh.” She was quiet again. Obviously if she knew something about it, she wasn’t going to offer it. I changed the subject. “So, where are you from?”

  “Here. Park City.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “Just my mom.”

  I tried not to look skeptical. She had to be at least eighty years old. Maybe she meant her mother was still here in spirit. Or that she’d been raised by a single mom. I chan
ged the subject again, because I didn’t want to be the one to break the news that her mother was probably dead.

  “That’s a pretty bracelet,” I said, pointing to her wrist. “Where did you get it?”

  She deftly moved her hands under the table, a reflex action. “It’s been passed down through my family for generations.” She took a bite of soup and roll. “To the women,” she added. “But you can’t have it.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s beautiful,” I said.

  The lunch line was starting to thin out. Mary swallowed, took a drink of her water, set the cup down, and leaned forward. Her hands started to shake. “Help me, Nikki.”

  The statement came out of nowhere. “Um, okay. What can I do?”

  “I’m confused. I was ready to go. And now I don’t know what to do.” Was she talking about dying? “What’s waiting for me?” she asked.

  I slowly shook my head. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “But what do you believe?”

  A year ago, my Christian upbringing would have told me the answer: paradise. When I used to ask my dad where he thought my mother was, he would tell me she was above, looking down on us. But now that sounded like another lie people tell themselves to feel better. I knew nothing of heaven.

  “I don’t know what’s waiting for you,” I said. Her face fell. “But it has to be better than this life,” I added. “It just has to be.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense she had been. “Thank you.”

  As we were cleaning up after the lunch rush, the braid girl came over to me. “Sorry you got stuck with Mary today.”

  I bent down with a dustpan to scoop up some crumbs. “It was fine. I feel sorry for her. I tried to ask her about Penelope’s daughter, but she just seemed confused.”

  “Persephone,” braid girl said.

  I popped up. “What did you say?”

  Braid girl shoved a bite of leftover roll into her mouth. “It was Persephone’s daughter,” she said with a full mouth. “I remembered. Only she said it all formal, like Daughters of Persephone.”