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PUBLISHER'S NOTE
To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device.
This book is dedicated to the far-too-many young people who ended their lives because they couldn’t see beyond the pain of the present to the joy waiting for them in the future.
Also to those who loved them then, and still love them now.
Acknowledgments
As always, I must thank my family for putting up with my author quirkiness, absences, and sequestrations; my posse for supporting me in times of doubt; my editor, Emma Dryden, for her insight, talent, and friendship; my agent, Laura Rennert, for fielding questions and concerns, sometimes at odd times of the day; and my team at Simon & Schuster, who, start to finish, help me create the very best books possible and put them into my readers’ hands.
With special thanks to those who were willing to share their thoughts about God, science, belief, nonbelief, and possibilities—most memorably, Susan Patron and Topher King, whose insights were especially valuable.
In the Narrow Pewter Space
Between the gray of consciousness
and the obsidian where dreams
ebb and flow, there is a wishbone
window. And trapped in its glass,
a single silver shard of enlightenment.
It is this mystics search for. The truth
of the Holy Grail. It is this believers
pray for. The spark, alpha and omega.
It is this the gilded claim to hold
in the cups of their hands. But what
of those who plunge into slumber,
who snap from sleep’s embrace?
What of those who measure their
tomorrows with finite numbers, cross
them off their calendars one by
one? Some say death is a doorway,
belief the key. Others claim you only
have to stumble across the threshold
to glimpse a hundred billion universes
in the blink of single silver shard.
Have Faith
That’s what people keep telling me.
Faith that things will get better. Faith
that bad things happen for a reason.
Implicit in that ridiculous statement
is the hand of some extraterrestrial
magician. Some all-powerful creator,
which, if his faithful want to be totally
frank about it, would also make him/her/it
an omnipotent destroyer. Because if
some God carefully sows each seed
of life, he is also flint for the relentless
sun beating down upon his crops until
they wither into dust. Zygotes to ashes
or some other poignant phrase. And why
would any of that make someone feel
better about snuffing out? The end
result is the same. You get a few
years on this sad, devolving planet.
If you’re lucky, you experience love,
someone or two or three to gentle
your time, fill the hollow spaces.
If you’re really fortunate, the good
outweighs the bad. In my eighteen years
all I’ve seen is shit tipping the scales.
Case in Point
I’ve been abruptly summoned to
the front of the classroom at the urgent
request of my English teacher, the oh-so-
disturbed, Savannah-belle-wannabe
Ms. Hannity, emphasis on the Mizz.
She pretends sympathy, for what,
I’ve no clue, and like she gives half
a damn about anything but clinging,
ironfisted, to her job. Mr. Turnahhhh.
Fake “South” taints her voice and
her eyes—no doubt she’d describe
them as “cornflower”—are wide
with mock concern. Would you
please come he-ah for a minute?
I think she thinks she’s whispering,
but twenty-seven pairs of eyes home
in on me. I straight-on laser every one
until they drop like dead fly duos.
“Yes, ma’am?” The feigned respect
isn’t lost on her, and she doesn’t bother
to lower her voice. Mistah Carpentah
wishes a word with you. Please see
him now. And the rest of y’all, get back
to work. This doesn’t concern you.
Why, Then
Did she make it exactly everyone’s
concern? The ends of my fingers tingle
and my jaw keeps working itself
forward. Backward. Forward. I force
it sideways and audibly, painfully, it pops.
For some messed-up reason she smiles
at that. I really want to slap that stinking
grin off her face. But then I’d get expelled,
and that would humiliate my father,
everyone’s favorite science teacher, not to
mention the coach of the best basketball
team this school has seen in a dozen years.
Then Mom would bitch at him for not kicking
my ass and at me for turning him into such a wuss,
until I had no choice but to flee from our miserable
termite-ridden shack. And I’d have to live in
my fume-sucking truck, eating pilfered ramen,
drinking Mosby Creek water until I got the runs
so bad I’d wind up in the ER, hoping Dad
hadn’t had time to dump me from his insurance.
And, despite all that, Mizz nose-up-my-ass
Hannity would still be a rip-roaring bitch.
As I Wind Up
That extended interior monologue,
I notice everyone is once again staring at me,
waiting for some overt exterior reaction.
Expecting, I’m sure, one of my infamous
blowups. More fun to keep ’em guessing.
“Can you tell me why he wants to see me?
Have I done something I’m not aware of?”
I’m pulling off As in every class. Maintaining
the pretense that all is well, despite everything
being completely messed up. It would be nice
to have some idea of what I’m walking into.
But Hannity gives nothing away. Just go.
Don’t flip her off. Don’t flip her off. Don’t . . .
I flip her off mentally, sharp turn on one heel,
head toward the door. Laser. Laser. Laser.
Pairs of dead flies drop as I pass, anger obviously
obvious in the death beam of my eyes. What now?
All I want is to be left alone. All I want
is to cruise in radar-free space. Scratch that.
What I really want is to disappear. Except,
if this in-your-face place is all I’ll ever
get to experience, I’m not quite finished
here. “Live large, go out with a huge bang,”
that’s my motto. Too bad so many minuscule
moments make up the biggest part of every
day. Moments like these. A familiar curtain
of fury threatens to drop and smother me
.
I push it away with a smile, hope no one
takes a candid photo right now, because
I’m as certain as I can be that I resemble
some serial killer. Tall. Good-looking.
The boy next door, with near-zero affect.
Totally fine by me. Keep ’em guessing.
I swear, I can hear the collective breath-
holding, all those goddamn flies hovering
silently at my back. I plaster a grin. Spin.
“Boo!” Audible gasps. Yes! Okay, screw it.
I flip off the lot of them, dig down deep
for something resembling courage, and skip
from the room, a not-close-to-good-enough
tribute to my little brother, Luke, deceased
now one hundred sixty-eight days. Exactly.
A Tribute
So why do I stop just beyond
the door, assess the scene . . .
what am I waiting for? A sign?
The hallway is vacant. Silent.
No one to bear witness to . . .
what? Some ill-conceived
testimony? “Fuck you, Luke.”
Another pointless statement,
echoing. Echoing. Echoing
down the corridor. Luke. Luke.
Luke. You selfish little prick.
My eyes burn. No, damn it!
If the vultures see me cry,
they’ll swoop in, try to finish
me off. And I’m just so tired
of fighting, they might actually
manage it this time. Screw that.
They already got my brother.
It will be a cold day in hell
before I give up, give in, allow
them to claim another victory.
I’m Not Quite
To Mr. Carpenter’s office when the bell
rings. Okay, technically it’s a blare, not
a bell. Some new-wave administrator
decided to replace the old buuurrrriing
with a blast of music so we don’t feel
so much like we’re in school, despite
the off-white cement walls and even
offer-white linoleum, lined with
not-quite-khaki lockers. Doors slam
open and out spills noise. Lots of it.
Laughter and curses and screeches
echoing down the corridor. I scan
the crowd, as I always do, hoping
for even just a glimpse of her. There,
on the far side of the counselors’ offices.
She’s hard to miss, my amazing girl—
a whole head taller than her pack
of loser friends, with perfect slender curves
and thick ropes of honey-colored hair.
“Hayden!” I yell, though it’s impossible
to hear in this obnoxious swell. Yet
she turns, and when those suede chocolate
eyes settle on me, her diamond smile lifts
my mood. She gestures for me to come there.
I shake my head, tip it in the direction
of the counseling offices. Even from here,
I can see the way concern crinkles her eyes
at the edges. I shrug a silent, “No worries.”
That’s one thing I love about Hayden—how
we can communicate without words. It’s not
the only thing I love about her, or even close
to the most important. But it’s really special,
sort of like Heath bar sprinkles over the vanilla
cream cheese frosting on top of the very rich
red velvet cupcake. Ultra extra deliciousness.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s mine.
But knowing that—trusting it—helps
me tilt my chin upward, straighten
my shoulders, and put one foot in front
of the other, toward Mr. Carpenter’s lair.
As Is Usual
Whenever you’re called, posthaste,
to the counselor’s office, it becomes
a game of Hurry Up and Wait. I sit
on a hard plastic chair, pretty much
the color of a rotting pumpkin, just
outside the inner sanctum. Not a whole
lot to do but try and discern words
in the muffled exchange behind
the closed fiberglass door. This
school is barely ten years old and
the builders had some new tricks
up their sleeves—things that might
thwart punches, kicks, and other
assaults that damage painted wood.
Eventually, the door clicks open,
and Alexa Clarke emerges, thin
tracks of mascara trailing down her
cheeks. Guess it didn’t go so well.
Hayden and Alexa used to be best
friends, until Alexa veered off
the straight and narrow, or whatever.
Personally, I have no problem with
detours. “Hey, Lex.” I grin. “Thanks
for warming Carpenter up for me.”
The Defiance
So obvious only seconds ago melts
from her eyes, and she manages a smile.
Warm. Yeah, right. But it’s all good.
He’s only on you ’cause he cares.
“I’ll remember that.” I’ve barely spit
the words from my mouth when
Mr. Carpenter’s hulking form appears
in the doorway. Come on in, Mr. Turner.
“So formal? I thought we were on
a first-name basis.” I pretend hurt,
and he pretends to be hard of hearing.
Please go on back to class, Miss Clarke.
Alexa and I do a mutual eye roll
thing and as she leaves I call, “Always
important to understand motives.
Thanks for letting me know he cares.”
Without turning around, she flips a hand
up over her shoulder. To slaughter I will go.
Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O
That’s what I’m humming as I take
the seat on the far side of Carpenter’s
desk. He looks at me like I’ve lost
my mind, or lost it even worse than
he figured I’d lost it, or whatever.
I could ask what’s up, I guess. But this
is his party. It’s up to him to kick it off.
I suppose you’re wondering why
you’re here. He looks at me like
I really should know. But I seriously
don’t. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I hear I have
a twin, and people see him smoking
sometimes. Personally, cancer scares
the crap out of me, and—”
His head rocks side to side. Don’t mess
with me, Mr. Turner. This isn’t funny.
Damn. He really looks concerned.
“Mr. Carpenter, my grades are jake,
I’m not abusing drugs, I don’t beat
my girlfriend. I have absolutely no
idea why I’m here. Please enlighten me.”
The Weight of His Sigh
Could crush an elephant.
I mean, really, what could
I have done to rate that?
He moves a folder from atop
a stack of papers, pushes a thin
sheaf across his desk. Oh. Duh.
Ms. Hannity thought maybe this
was worthy of some discussion.
It’s my senior essay: Take
Your God and Shove It.
I thought the title was a nice
play on words. “I’m sorry, but
what, exactly, is the problem?
Looks like she gave me an A.”
It’s not the grade, obviously. But
the content raises a red flag or two.
My first reaction is a wholly
>
inappropriate snort, courtesy
of the picture that popped up
in my head—paragraph two,
page four, hit the last word and
“Taps” plays as a scarlet banner
lifts off the page. But as that vision
fades, and I consider why I wrote
what I did, every crumb of humor
disappears, smashed into powder
by a huge fist of anger. Adrenaline
thumps in the veins at my temples.
I summon every ounce of will.
Detonating will accomplish
exactly nothing. “I’m afraid
you’ll have to be a little more
specific, Mr. [Carpentah] uh,
Carpenter. What worries you?”
He clears his throat. Let’s start
with your thesis statement. . . .
Which Would Be
There is no God, no benevolent ruler of the earth, no omnipotent Grand Poobah of countless universes. Because if there was, there would be no warring or genocide in his name; those created “in his image” would be born enlightened, no genuflecting or tithing required; and my little brother would still be fishing or playing basketball instead of fertilizing cemetery vegetation. And since there is no God, this nonentity has no place in government or education and certainly not in constitutional law. The separation of church and state must remain sacrosanct.
No bonus points for using the word
sacrosanct? “I’m sorry, but was I not
clear enough? Or was it the ‘Grand Poobah’
thing? Because if that’s offensive,
I don’t mind changing it. Although—”
That’s enough. You know, Matthew,
some people might find your biting
sarcasm humorous. But I have to
wonder what lies beneath it. Tell me.
Just what are you trying to hide?
Fucking Great
The last thing I need is more therapy
courtesy of some armchair shrink.
“Surely the school district isn’t paying
you to attempt psychoanalysis?”
I summon my best pretend smile.
His shoulders stiffen like drying
concrete. Ahem. See . . . uh . . .
Ms. Hannity thinks I should
mention our concerns to your par—
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