The Reverse of Everything

by Tara Brown

  The Reverse of Everything

  Tara Brown

  By Tara Brown

  Copyright 2019 Tara Brown

  This is a work of fiction.

  All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text Copyright © 2019 Tara Brown

  This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This work may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written consent of the publisher.

  Published by Tara Brown.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No alteration of content is permitted.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art by Dark Tree Designs

  Edited by Andrea Burns

  All rights reserved.

  ISB - 9781797918945

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  Contents

  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

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  The End

  Born

  Afterword

  Other YA Books by Tara Brown

  About the Author

  For Erralynn and Lucy

  Please forgive me for Leo

  Thank you T. S. Eliot for giving me the idea of a world ending with a whimper.

  1

  The Hundreds

  Celeste

  “I prefer a grisaille done in burnt umber, personally. I love the sepia the umber adds to the piece, almost aging it though it’s brand-new.” I gushed a little, accidentally letting my adoration of the Renaissance painting methods seep out. Something I didn’t like doing around new friends, since my sister Beth said it made me sound like a smart-ass. “Maybe I’m a romantic, but I love the way the masters painted, adding layers for light and effect. They built their canvas like a house. You see and feel the love in that kind of effort.” I tried to explain my reasoning but was pretty sure I did sound like a smart-ass.

  “Sure,” Darius, my classmate replied, distracted by his phone. It was the second time he had glanced at it in the last ten minutes. He’d gone from staring into my eyes and nearly holding my hands, to this.

  “What’s going on?” I leaned forward, peering at the screen that had him so consumed.

  “My friend Yolanda sent me this weird text. Her grandpa died like ten minutes ago. He just dropped dead, totally healthy and normal and then bam. Face-plant.” He scowled at his phone.

  “Oh my God, how awful.” I gasped, instinctively lifting and sipping the still hot Earl Grey latte, inhaling some of the bergamot that rose in the steam. As I placed my oversized mug down, a man outside hurried past the window in a way that made me wonder where he was rushing to. He was visibly panicked and others on the street stopped and noticed him as well.

  “Yeah, it’s not really weird that he died. He was hella old—like over a hundred. She went to his hundredth birthday not even two years ago.”

  “Wow, that is a long life. I suppose it doesn’t make a difference, watching him die would be so traumatizing,” I said, waiting for him to reply. The conversation was becoming one of those awkward table tennis-style discussions where you each took a turn and awkwardly waited for the next moment you had to speak.

  It wasn’t that Darius made me uncomfortable, but rather we weren’t close friends, not yet, and this was an intense moment to add to what I had hoped would turn into a first date. “Do you want to go to her?”

  “No.” He glanced back up at me. “Sorry, I was trying to get her to clarify something. Him dying out of the blue isn’t the weird part. Like I said, he was old. It’s just that two other old people died the exact same moment.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she’s there with her dad at the old folks’ home where the grandpa lives—lived.” His eyes were strangely wide. “And they were visiting in the common room and three old people died right in front of her, at the exact same moment.”

  “What time?” I asked, flicking my wrist a bit to make the clock on my Apple Watch come to life. It was 8:20.

  “At 8:00 on the dot. And there were two others who died in different sections but lived in the home, and now she’s being made to stay in some room. In a closed-off part of the home.”

  “Like a quarantine?” I was beginning to see why he’d been so fascinated and worried.

  “Right, totally like a quarantine.” He began texting again before pausing at whatever she replied. He lifted his eyes to mine, asking, “She wants to know what happens in quarantine.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” I gave it some thought. “I imagine she’ll be kept at the home until they can determine what happened. Someone from the CDC will probably be called in. The people over a hundred are sort of old and weak, maybe there’s a sickness—”

  “Five people dropped dead at 8 p.m., all of them, in one building.” He lifted an eyebrow, visibly dubious that sickness was the cause. I had to give him that one.

  “You’re right. It’s got to be aliens, I don’t know what else it could be,” I joked, attempting to lighten the conversation. What else was there to say? What did I add to this awkward conversation—or better yet, how did I get it to swing back to the chilled-out chat we were having before he became obsessed with his phone. Or was that an unfair expectation considering how the evening had played out?

  “So weird.” He lifted his mug and downed the coffee, though it had to be quite warm. “Lemme walk you home.” He stood and waited.

  “Home?” I eyed my half-full tea and sighed, knowing I shouldn’t have made the aliens joke. “Okay.”

  I stood and grabbed my small clutch and slid my hand into the firm vegan leather handle that made it sit snug in my grip. God love Matt and Nat for making such unique purses.

  He got the door for me leading to the large deck out front of the coffeehouse. The warm end-of-August breeze was welcoming after sitting in the cold air conditioning, but it smelled too much like city air. New York didn’t smell amazing in the summer. It had moments that reminded me of a busy street in Taipei I’d visited once. The smell would haunt my dreams forever. The sti
nky tofu and me gagging wasn’t a pleasant memory. I didn’t love getting the odd waft of it here when the sewage, people, and restaurants combined perfectly with the heat and exhaust to create a smell similar enough to turn my stomach.

  “Sorry to cut this short. I think maybe I should try to find her mom and make sure she’s okay.”

  “It’s fine, honestly. This is crazy. It’s probably safe to assume she and her dad are both there until the medical people let them go. She might even be there overnight.”

  “Yeah, I told her that. She’s upset, obviously, but she’s also worried.” His dark eyes drifted my way as a slight grin crept over his lips. “In case it isn’t aliens and she gets sick.”

  “Never bet against aliens.” I smiled, feeling marginally better about the insensitive comment. Not better, just not as guilty.

  “I never bet against aliens or the Five Families. It’s always either the rich elite or aliens,” he joked full on as we drifted back to the place we’d been earlier. Funny and flirty.

  We both smiled and I hoped the night wasn’t completely lost.

  Not only was he smart and funny, but he was also cute with his heavy-framed black glasses over sexy eyes with his hair grown out a little and natural, no dreads or rows. Just a shiny mini fro, soft-brown eyes, and a great smile.

  That was all I needed in a guy and Darius had it all. Even better, his teeth were perfect, obvious orthodontics. And he was a history major, making him loquacious in all the right subjects. Something my girl Hermione Granger taught me was important.

  “So you’re from Seattle?” he asked as the back of his hand brushed against mine, making butterflies take off in my stomach.

  “No, Spokane. It’s like the opposite end of the earth in Washington, from Seattle. My dad works in Seattle and LA a lot, but he’s super paranoid about earthquakes so he flies to work and we live inland.” I laughed at my dad’s weird quirks, something we all razzed him about endlessly.

  “What’s he do?”

  “He’s a contract project manager for huge companies, so he chooses his cities and jobs. Sometimes, when I lived at home, we’d go with him in the summers. We lived in Taiwan, Paris, Rome, London. It was pretty great.”

  “Damn, you lived in all those places?” He pushed his glasses up and my heart pitter-pattered, just a bit. “What’s your mom do?”

  “She’s a writer—sorry, novelist—so she’s worked from home my whole life. She writes action-adventure fiction with historical emphasis.”

  “Wait.” He stopped in his steps and gasped. “Wentworth. You’re Corinne Wentworth’s daughter? You’re that Celeste Wentworth?” His cheeks flushed.

  “Yeah.” I laughed harder, waiting for the moment he fangirled all over my mom. Everyone did. She was amazing.

  “No shit! She’s like my hero. Seriously. The whole reason I’m taking history is to be her when I grow up. This is insane. Are you messing with me?” He stepped in front of me, not menacingly but out-of-his-mind excited.

  “No, I swear to God.” I lifted my hands, including my clutch, and giggled. My words got lost in the sound of a siren. “I promise.”

  “Oh my God. I’m fangirling like my little sister. I’m so sorry. But this is amazing. I have”— he cringed, visibly not wanting to tell me but did anyway—“the biggest crush on your mom. She is hot.” He said it like hawt. “So hawwwwwwwt. How is it possible you’re her daughter?” He flinched when he saw me flinch. “I don’t mean like how could you be her daughter? I mean, you’re beautiful. Stunning. And smart. And—” He sunk into an obvious inward scream. “I’m cooler than this. I swear.”

  “It’s fine.” I couldn’t stop smiling at him, even with the slight.

  “I mean, how is it possible I’m here with you?”

  “Seriously, I get it. Which is your favorite book of hers?” That was my truest test. If he said Soul Searcher, her bestselling book ever, we could never date. I hated the book. It was dumbed down for the masses and not nearly as smart as she was. My mom was a genius and her writing showed it. She had regretted Soul Searcher the moment it published but it hit The New York Times Best Seller list.

  “The Reach.” He clapped his hands together, way too excited. “No offense to her, but I hated Soul Searcher. It was so commercial. She’s above that, ya know? But The Reach, oh man. Just saying the title gives me chills.” He actually shivered and then so did I. Because it was my favorite as well.

  “That’s my fave too.” I offered him a true grin and brushed off some of the nervousness. We were real friends now. Maybe we would be more than that.

  “Really?” he asked and stepped a little closer.

  “Yeah.” It was lost in the second set of sirens, followed by a third set right after.

  “Cool,” he said, but I couldn’t hear him.

  So instead of talking as the sirens overtook the city, we stared and grinned and entered the beginning stages of something resembling a crush.

  It was pretty awesome.

  My stomach danced with possibilities and butterflies. My cheeks were flushed with the forwardness of my staring and lip biting. And my eyes were locked on his, seeing my own reflection as he stared just as hard.

  He walked me home, our hands more than brushing against each other.

  He didn’t kiss me properly when we said goodnight; he bent and brushed his plump lips against my cheek, hovering and inhaling me. I shuddered with the warmth of his breathy words, “Goodnight.”

  He smiled and backed away, seemingly forcing himself to go.

  I stood on the stoop of the flat too long, staring and sighing.

  It was a perfect date. Even if it was cut short by him needing to get to Yolanda’s mom and most of our conversation taking place with the city’s version of an emergency services soundtrack playing in the background.

  2

  The Nineties

  Zoey

  I sat in my tree house, reading but distracted by the neighbors. The family behind us was spending the stifling evening in a pool they’d filled for the long, hot summer we were suffering through. The heat of August continued to smother us all, which was weird. July was usually the unbearable month, which it had been. But the heatwave had carried on and the forecast didn't seem to predict an end.

  We still had a watering ban, something the neighbors disregarded. They kept filling that pool, and I kept watching them splash in it, plotting my sneak attack on their cold water. I decided a night swim—float—was in order. If they were going to flaunt the damned cold water, then us neighbors who listened to them enjoying the darned thing should all get to enjoy it too.

  I turned the page and focused back to Persuasion, my favorite of Austen’s novels. I’d never appreciated the subtlety of it before, but my junior year English teacher had made us do a study on it. Captain Wentworth became my one true hero, beating out Mr. Darcy easily from that moment on.

  He was steadfast and reliable and kind, but he was also the best friend a man could have. His loyalty had no equal. And his undying devotion to—

  “Did you hear?” a guy’s voice interrupted my silent worship.

  Turning to the voice, a smile crept across my lips, involuntarily, of course. He was no Captain Wentworth. He wasn’t even a Darcy. Most days he was a sexier version of Mrs. Jennings.

  “Did you hear or did you spend the last week holed up in that damned tree house pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist?” Owen, my best friend, sounded feisty, not unusual for him although it was too hot to bother. I never understood how he got so worked up in heat like this. It had to be almost a hundred, though the sun was about to set. Our high today had reached a hundred and two, setting a record across Virginia.

  My Coke can was evidence enough. It was sweating more than I was and pooling on the rain-washed floorboards of the tree house.

  Owen crossed my brown crunchy lawn, appearing like a daydream in the fading light. He was so fresh from football camp, he probably still smelled like testosterone, gear, and cut grass
.

  The air was hot enough that he could have been an oasis. With him it would be something from mythology involving luring young women in some twisted lotus-eaters’ fate. And he would be the bait. He had always been my kryptonite. My secret kryptonite.

  “It’s crazy, don’t ya think?” he continued shouting as though I knew what he meant, hollering about something random. “About the old folks?” It was easily the weirdest thing he’d ever said to me.

  “What old folks?” Had I come into a conversation halfway?

  “On the news, dummy.” He climbed up the ladder into my tree house and sat too close, smelling amazing and nudging me.

  Owen was a nudger.

  I wasn’t sure if “nudger” was a word, but it described him perfectly. He was nothing if not a nudger. Well, a nudger and a mocker. And for whatever reason, I inspired him to do both regularly, usually simultaneously.

  “Dude.” He nudged again, getting closer. “Are you being serious? You didn't see it? Or are you doing that thing where you pretend you didn’t to mess with me?”

  “What?” Was this a trap? Lotus-eaters? “I didn’t see anything.” Trying to get away from the warmth, I leaned back against the purple plywood wall that we had painted a decade ago at his behest. When we were seven, he told everyone it was my favorite color, but even then, I loved black, gray, and white. Shades were my thing. Purple was his. Purple and secrets and breaking my heart.