by Patrick Ness
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Henna says to me, shaking her can of red paint.
I shrug, still pouty.
“I like Nathan,” she says.
“I know. I’ve heard all about your uncontrollable attraction.”
“And I like you, Mike, though not very much tonight, I have to say.”
“There’s something up with him. Where did he come from? Why does he always join us late? Why doesn’t he–?”
“Jealousy makes you ugly.”
“And assuming this is all about you makes you ugly,” I hiss.
She turns from me, furious, and leans over the bridge, can at the ready.
But she doesn’t spray anything.
“Look,” she says, stepping back.
It’s hard to see in the way the streetlight is angled at us, but there are markings along the top of the railing of the bridge. Words.
“Names,” Mel says, looking close.
“Finn,” Henna reads, “Kerouac, Joffrey, Earth.” She looks at Mel. “It’s the indie kids who died.”
“But why up here?” Jared says. “Where no one can see them?”
I look at Nathan. “Maybe it’s the killers,” I say, still annoyed. “Maybe they put the names up here as trophies. Maybe this is the most dangerous place we could have come tonight.”
“Would you stop it?” Henna says. She touches the names on the railing. The paint is black, simple. Just names.
“Look,” Nathan says, kneeling down. At our feet are small flowers, little more than tiny wild flowers, really, but different kinds, spread along the side of the rail tracks under the names of the dead indie kids.
Henna touches them, softly. “I’ll bet this is their way of remembering them. A kind of memorial.” She stands. “One that no one can see, but that they know is here.”
“No one’s painted over it,” Jared says.
“Or kicked away the flowers,” Mel says. “I wonder if everyone knows about this except us?”
“I don’t feel like painting anything any more,” Henna says, handing her can back to Nathan. “Feels like tagging inside a church.”
I’m still holding my can of yellow paint. “I didn’t want to come and now you’re telling me I can’t even make my own tag?”
Henna frowns. They all frown. I frown, too, what the hell. I’m having one of those days where I can’t seem to say anything right, so screw it.
“Fine,” I say, throwing the can at Nathan harder than really necessary. “Let’s just go home.”
“Oh, shit,” Henna says, looking past me. I turn, and we all look.
Down the train tracks, deep in the dark wooded area where they disappear, a whole crowd of glowing blue eyes is approaching.
Henna is already running, scrambling down the embankment, trying to keep her balance with one arm. I run after her, checking only to see that Mel and Jared are running, too. Nathan’s lagging behind, staring into the darkness at the eyes.
“What are they?” he says.
“Just run, you moron!” I shout, grabbing Henna as she stumbles and practically dragging her towards my car. I shove her in the passenger seat and open the back doors for Mel and Jared as I run around the car as fast as I can. I hop behind the wheel and start the engine. Jared and Mel get inside.
Nathan is only just coming down the embankment.
“Don’t leave him!” Henna says, alarmed, as I put the car in gear.
And for a moment there, just for a second, I almost do leave him. He’s running. He looks as frightened as any of us.
But.
“Whose idea was this?” I spit. “We would never have been here if it hadn’t been for him!”
“Mikey–” Jared starts.
“I’m going.” I take my foot off the brake, but Nathan runs right in front of the car. He jumps in beside Jared, who’s kept his door open.
“Go! Go! Go!” Nathan yells, and I step on the gas.
I shoot under the bridge, past the high school. There’s nothing much back here, but there’s a longer way home we can take. I speed there now, careening around a corner too fast. Everyone screams as we skid, but I correct it and we’re already sailing past the gym.
“I don’t think they’re coming after us,” Nathan says, looking out the back window.
“And how do you know that, Nathan?” I say.
He looks at me, confused. “What?”
“Why did you drag us all out to the bridge tonight? Were you going to feed us to them? Is that what happened to the indie kids?”
“Mike–” Henna says.
“Who are you?” I shout into the rear-view mirror, going way too fast down a darkened road. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“I told you,” Nathan said, still looking confused. “Tulsa and Portland and–”
I slam on the brakes, making everybody scream again. “Get the hell out of my car!”
“Mike!” Henna says, more strongly.
“WHAT?” I roar at her.
“It was my idea,” she says.
The car is quiet. The motor vibrating. That’s the only sound.
“What?” I say again.
“The bridge was my idea,” she says. “Nathan was feeling down and I told him about the tradition and that we should see if anyone wanted to do it.”
“She said you’d probably say no,” Nathan says, looking wounded. “So I offered to ask, because it’d be less embarrassing if you turned me down.”
“That’s what happened, Mikey,” Henna says. “Nathan didn’t lead us there. I even suggested we do it tonight, remember?” She hardens a little. “And you don’t believe I would have led us there, do you?”
No. No, I don’t. “Why didn’t you just say? I would have done anything for you.” I’m so mad I’m on the verge of tears. “Anything.”
“That’s exactly the reason. I wanted it to be a friends thing. Before we all go our separate ways. I didn’t want it to be a favour to me because my arm is broken or because of the car crash or because you’d ‘do anything’. It’s hard enough to be normal this month, isn’t it? For anything to just be easy?”
I look at her. I look back at Nathan, who’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Mel and Jared aren’t saying a word either.
I remember what Jared said about me at his house. In this moment, he’s never been more right.
I’m the one here who’s least wanted.
Without another word, I put the car in gear and drive off down the road.
A few miles later, Nathan breaks the silence. “Don’t I deserve an apology?”
I give him the finger and drive.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH, in which the Prince is tricked into turning Satchel and second indie kid Finn over to the Empress of the Immortals; he tries to save them, but is forced to sacrifice Finn to do so; Satchel refuses to accept this and, through only her own cunning and bravery, thwarts the Empress; she saves Finn and as they flee, she steals a glimpse at the Immortal Crux, the source of the Immortals’ power, through the Gateway; it is full of charms and jewels, with an empty space in exactly the shape of her amulet.
“So what were they, do you think?” Mel asks me, as she brushes our grandma’s hair.
“More cops?” I shrug from the chair next to Grandma’s bed. “More deer? I don’t know.”
“I wonder if we ever will.”
“And if we do, I wonder if we’ll regret it.”
Our grandma leans against Mel’s brush with her eyes closed, like Mary Magdalene when you scratch her between the ears. Mel’s the only person she’ll let do this. She never speaks while the brushing’s happening, never mentions it when it’s over, much less thanks her, but she’ll sit still the whole time, enjoying it, quiet as a cat.
“No one died, though,” I say. Mel shushes me and crooks her head to Mrs Richardson’s empty bed. Someone did die. No idea how or when, but it must have been really recent, because they don’t keep the beds empty here for long. Mrs Choi is still in the bed by the windo
w. She must be sad for Mrs Richardson, because she barely waved when we came in. I lower my voice. “But that could just be because we’re not indie kids. Or maybe it was just luck–”
“Do you really think Nathan has anything to do with it?” Mel asks. “Because I don’t. And I think I’m a pretty good judge of people.”
I sigh out through my nose. “Probably not.”
“How much of this is jealousy?”
“Probably all of it.”
Mel takes a final swipe with the brush. “You want me to plait it, Grandma?” Grandma says nothing, her head still back, her eyes still closed. Mel starts plaiting.
“So,” she says, innocent in a way that I know something’s coming. “You’re going to start seeing someone?”
“Mom told you.”
“Only to ask if I wanted to see someone, too. It was actually surprisingly supportive.”
“I know. She’s been different lately.”
“I’ll bet she feels like she’s graduating, just like us, so she’s finally noticing that the majority of her kids are leaving.”
“Isn’t it funny how we’re not even pretending Mr Shurin has a chance?”
“He doesn’t.” Mel folds up one large plait, isn’t happy with it, starts over. “Dr Luther again?”
Dr Luther was the psychiatrist I saw before, way back when. Mel saw her, too, and for those few times we went as a whole family, it was Dr Luther who tried to figure us out. This should be the place where I make fun of her, where I put her in my past as a goofy hippie-chick; a lonely lady, soft as a wild herb, looking at us poor, wounded kids with the eyes of a fawn.
Except she wasn’t. She gave off this air of, like, total competence. Like you didn’t have to worry she didn’t understand you or that she didn’t know what she was doing. Any idea how much of a relief that is?
“I think so,” I say. “Time is short, and it’s better than having to start from scratch.”
“Time is short,” Mel repeats. “It is, isn’t it?”
It is. The Bolts of Fire concert is tomorrow. The prom is next week, then we graduate. Time is short.
Mel folds our grandma’s hair between her hands in a twist I couldn’t even begin to replicate. “Could you hand me that?” Mel nods at a bottle of old-fashioned anti-tangle cream my grandma used to like. I hand it to her. She squirts a bunch into her hand and massages it into Grandma’s hair, filling the room with a really nice coconut smell.
Grandma suddenly laughs, the smell triggering something.
“What’s funny, Grandma?” Mel says, smiling.
But our grandma just smiles back at her and then at me. “You remember the islands, Phillip?”
“Which islands?” I say. She doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes, still smiling. “Was Grandma ever on islands?” I ask Mel.
“Vancouver Island, maybe,” Mel says. “But I don’t think Canada really grows coconuts.” She finishes up with Grandma’s hair, getting up from the bed and gently laying Grandma back down on her pillow. Grandma doesn’t open her eyes again and is asleep almost immediately. The usual ritual after Mel does her hair.
Mel watches her, hands on her hips, brush in her hand. “She won’t miss this when I leave. But that kind of makes me even sadder that I’ll have to stop.”
“I know,” I say, standing, getting ready to go.
“Not yet,” Mel says. I sit back down and she leans against the table by my grandma’s bed. For a few minutes, we just watch my grandma and Mrs Choi sleep, that empty bed in the middle seeming like a hole either of them could fall into at any moment.
Mel’s been spending a lot of time with Call Me Steve. She has also somehow managed not to tell our mother yet that Call Me Steve actually exists. She’s afraid he’ll become just another part of our mom’s schedule, an issue to be dealt with, a point on a memo for her advisors. She’s probably right. Mom’s victory seems so assured, though, she’s getting hardly any press coverage. They’re concentrating on a nasty Senate race instead. My mom says this is the best thing that could happen, but I can also tell that the biggest deal in her life not being the biggest deal for everyone else is a little disappointing.
Mel picks up her bag and takes out a plastic container. She opens it.
I frown. “Is that your lunch?” We didn’t eat together today. Mel was at the dentist getting a check-up on the enamel treatments she’s been having to repair her teeth. But it wasn’t a Novocaine-type thing and she could have eaten, should have eaten afterwards.
“Don’t freak out,” she says, but I’m already standing, already kind of freaking out.
“Mel–”
“Mikey, please–”
“You can’t start again. It’s bad enough me doing it. I couldn’t take losing you, Mel, I couldn’t–”
She puts her hand on my mouth, rolling her eyes to our grandma, still sleeping.
“Mel,” I whisper. And I’m nearly crying. I know what it’s like to lose her, even for three or four minutes. It makes you live afraid every minute of every day that it’s only a matter of time before it happens again. You can be happy. You can have fun. But it’s always there. Always.
“I have moments, Mikey,” she says. “You have ’em, too, I know, and mine aren’t as bad as yours. But with everything that’s been going on–”
“Is it Steve?” I say, suddenly ready to break him in half with my hands.
“No,” she says, firmly. “He’s nothing like that at all.” She sighs. “Though I did think about it. Like you would with anybody. Like you’d want to be sure you looked attractive enough for someone you really like, even if he doesn’t care about that stuff.”
“Mel–”
“Like your scar.”
This stops me. She puts her hand up to it like Henna did, tracing it with her fingers. She drops her hand. “This is my scar. I carry it around. Most of the time, I don’t even think about it.”
“But sometimes you do.”
“The world’s uncertain, Mikey,” she says, and then she repeats the words from earlier. “Time is short.”
We look down at her lunch. It’s a wrap, Japanese-style, salmon, shoots, rice. There’s a fork tucked in next to it. Mel takes it out.
She hands it to me.
I don’t say anything, just look at the fork, look at her, look at her eyes asking me a question.
“I’m going to be okay,” she says. “I really am. Just do this for me today, yeah? Like old times. Remind me that it’s possible to feel safe.”
She’s keeping her voice steady, but I can see the nervousness in her arms and shoulders. She didn’t eat her lunch, and it’s probably a bit more serious than she’s letting on, but it’s also probably a bit less serious than in my worst worries. None of which makes me feel any better.
“I would tell you if it was bad,” she says. “I wouldn’t tell Dad, I wouldn’t tell Mom, I wouldn’t tell Meredith. But I’d tell you. I promise.”
“You promise?”
She smiles, and it’s so true, my heart sort of hurts. “I really do, Mike. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live long enough so I can really live.” She shrugs, and it’s more relaxed, I can see. “Just a blip in the day. And I need a reminder.”
I believe her. I know what a blip is. I think I’d know the look of someone who was having more than a blip that freaked her out. They’d look like me.
I get some salmon and rice on the fork. I lift it up.
And I feed her. Mrs Choi and our grandmother sleep, the room is quiet, that middle bed between them empty, empty, empty, and I feed my sister her lunch. We share our craziness, our neuroses, our little bit of screwed-up-ness that comes from our family. We share it. And it feels like love.
“I’m still mad,” Henna says.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
“Did you hear me? I said I’m still mad.”
“Then you should be mad at yourself, because if you’d told me it was you who wanted to paint the bridge–”
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“And yes, I’m sure.”
She is still mad at me. I’m kind of mad at her, too. But she called asking me to drive her here tonight, not Mel or Jared or Nathan. Me. And I said yes.
“Henna Silven…” The tattoo artist gives up even trying to pronounce her name from the list and just looks at her.
“Silvennoinen,” Henna says. “It’s Finnish.”
“Sympathies,” the tattoo artist says. “My last name’s Thai. It’s seven syllables long. You ready?”
“Yep,” Henna says, standing.
She’s eighteen. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission for this, though she had to prove it to the tattoo parlour receptionist guy when we came in the door. I’m still only seventeen, but that’s okay, because I don’t want a tattoo. Like really, really not.
“You’re definitely sure about this?” I asked her a hundred times on the drive over. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“I never nearly died before,” is all she answered. She wouldn’t tell me what she was planning on getting either. Or how she found this place. Or why we were waiting for this one particular tattoo guy to finish putting a hummingbird on a lady’s upper boob. While we sat there, she did look through a catalogue of different types of lettering, so I’m guessing it must be words. She didn’t tell me what words, though, because she was too busy saying she was mad at me.
“Hold on a sec,” she says now, stopping me from following her in. I wait as she goes to the tattoo guy’s chair – he’s called Martin, which seems really old-fashioned for a cool Thai tattoo guy – and they have a quiet conversation about what she wants and where she wants it. It’s going to be on her side, by her stomach, the side away from where the cast is now. She shows the tattoo guy a piece of paper she didn’t show me. He nods, draws a few things on it, and I hear Henna say, “Exactly.”
