fml (28 page)

First, I want to thank my family for being so patient and amazingly awesome. Rachel Melcher for being honest when I needed it most. Margie Gelbwasser for spending countless hours reading and rehashing plot points with me. Pamela Deron for telling me when I needed to suck it up and get back to work. All the Tenners for their constant support.

All the wonderful folks at Simon Pulse deserve a huge thanks. I may not get to name you all, but you are all awesome and deserve raises . . . and by raises, I mean cupcakes. But this book wouldn't have existed without Emilia Rhodes, who came to me with a cool idea and then let me run with it; Anica Mrose Rissi, who gave me the support I needed and the space to make it work; and my copy editor, Stephanie Evans Biggins, whose heroic efforts saved me from looking like a dummy.

I also want to thank Chris Richman and the whole team at Upstart Crow. You guys are the best.

Lastly, I'd like to thank Matt Ramsay for always being there at the end of the day when I've run out of words.

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ANOTHER CRAZY NIGHT IN

WTF

JIMMY

October 17, 9:07
P.M.

The eyes were beautiful.

They were mad huge, anime-hero huge, staring out of the darkness.

Something brushed his cheek too, rhythmically. Like kisses.

Jimmy smiled.

Kisses happened all the time to guys like Cam, who expected them. Never to Jimmy.

So he would always remember that moment, how weirdly tender and exciting it was on that deserted road on that rainy October evening, before he blinked and realized his world had gone to shit.

9:08 p.m.

It wasn't the taste of blood that brought him to reality. Or the rain pelting his face through the jagged shark-jaw where the windshield had been. Or the car engine, screaming like a vacuum cleaner on steroids. Or the glass in his teeth.

It was the sight of Cam's feet.

They were thick, forceful feet, Sasquatch feet whose size you knew because Cam bragged about it all the time (14EE), feet that seemed to be their own form of animal life. But right now, in a pool of dim light just below the passenger seat, they looked weightless and demure, curved like a ballerina's. One flip-flop had fallen off, but both legs were moving listlessly with the rhythm of the black mass that lay across the top half of Cam's body—the mass that was attached to the eyes that were staring up at Jimmy.

“Shit!”

Jimmy lurched away. The animal was twitching, smacking its nose against his right arm now, flinging something foamy and warm all over the car. It was half in and half out, its hindquarters resting on the frame of the busted windshield, its haunches reaching out over the hood. The broken remains of a mounted handheld GPS device hung from the dash like an incompletely yanked tooth.

For a moment he imagined he was home, head down on his desk, his mom nudging him awake with a cup of hot cocoa. It was Friday night. He was always home on Friday night. But this was real, and he remembered now—the deer springing out of the darkness, running across the road, legs pumping, neck strained. . . .

“CAAAAAM! BYRON!”

His voice sounded dull, muffled by the rain's ratatatting on the roof. No one answered. Not Byron in the backseat.

Not Cam.

Cam.

Was he alive? He wasn't crying out. Wasn't saying a thing.

Jimmy fumbled for the door handle. His fingers were cold and numb. With each movement the engine screamed, and he realized his right foot was stuck against the accelerator, trapped between it and a collapsed dashboard. He tried to pull it out and squeeze the door handle, but both were stuck. He gave up on his foot and looked for the lock.

There.

The door fell open with a metallic
grrrrrock.
Jimmy hung on to the armrest, swinging out with the door, as a red pickup sped by. It swerved to avoid him, and Jimmy tried to shout for help. His foot still stuck, he spilled out headfirst, twisting so his shoulders hit the pavement. As his teeth snapped shut, blood oozed over his bottom lip. He spat tiny glass particles.

The pickup was racing away, past a distant streetlight, which cast everything in a dim, smoky glow. From the car's windshield, the deer's hind legs kicked desperately in silhouette, like the arms of a skinny cheerleader pumping a victory gesture.

As Jimmy yanked his own leg, not caring if the fucking thing came off at the ankle, he felt the rain washing away the blood. Through the downpour he could see the long, furry face on the seat—nodding, nodding, as if in sympathy.
That's it, pal. Go. Go. Go.

His ankle pulled loose, and he tumbled backward onto the road, legs arcing over his head. As he lay still, catching his breath, he heard someone laugh, a desperate, high-pitched sound piercing the rain's din.

It took a moment before he realized it was his own voice.

9:09 p.m.

“Jesus, it's still alive!”

Byron's voice. From the backseat.

Byron was okay.

Jimmy jumped up from the road. He struggled to keep upright, his leg numb. He spat his mouth clean as he made his way around the car. Through the side window he could see Byron's silhouette, peering over the front seat. Jimmy looked through the driver's side window. The deer's back was enormous, matted with blood and flecks of windshield. Under it he could make out only the right side of Cam's body from the shoulder down, but not his face.

Cam was completely smothered.

“Oh God, Jimmy, what did you do?” Byron said.

“I—I don't know. . . . It just, like,
appeared
!” Jimmy had to
grip the side of the car to keep from falling, or flying away, or completely disintegrating. He blinked, trying desperately to find the right angle, hoping to see a sign that Cam was alive. “Push it, Byron—push it off!”

“It's a monster—how the fuck am I supposed to push it?
Shit, Jimmy, how could you have not seen it?
”

“I did!”
Jimmy screamed. “I braked. I tried to get out of the way—”

“Dickwad! You tried to outmaneuver a
deer
? You don't
brake
! That makes the grill drop lower—lifts the animal right up into the car, like a fucking spoon! You just
drive
. That way you smack it right back into the woods.”

“If you know so much, why weren't you driving?”

“With what license?”

“I don't have one either!”

“You told me you did!”

“I never told you that! I just said I knew how to drive. I never took the test—”

“Oh, great—the only person in Manhattan our age who knows how to drive,
and you don't bother to get a license
.” Byron leaned closer, suddenly looking concerned. “Jesus Christ, what happened to your mouth?”

“It's what I get for applying lipstick without a mirror—”

“Awwww,
shit!
” Byron was looking at something in his hand. “My BlackBerry's totaled.”

“How can you think about your BlackBerry while Cam is under the deer?”

Byron looked up with a start, then immediately leaped out of the car. “Oh fuck, Cam. Is he dead?”

“ ‘
Oh fuck, Cam
'? You just noticed him? You're yelling at me, and you just thought of Cam?” Jimmy's hands trembled as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I'm calling 911.”

“No, don't!” Byron said, snatching the phone from Jimmy's hand.

“Are you crazy?”
Jimmy said. “What's wrong with you?”

“We're in East Dogshit and the GPS is busted—do you even know what road we're on? What are you going to tell the cops?
Um, there's this tree? And, like, a ditch? And a road
? And then what, we wait? We don't have time, Jimmy!”

“But—”

“Think it through, Einstein. What's your story? One, you wrecked a car that's not yours. Two, you don't have a license. Three, you killed a deer. And four, look at Cam. You planning to go to Princeton and room with Rhodes scholars? How about a guy with three teeth who can't wait for you to bend over? Because if we don't stop talking, dude, you're facing murder charges.”

“He's not dead, Byron—”

“Just put the fucking phone away and let's get Bambi off Cam.” Byron threw Jimmy the phone and raced to the back of the car. “Throw me the keys. I'll get a rope out of the trunk. When I give you back the keys, get in the car.”

Jimmy reached into the car, tossing the phone onto the dashboard. Quickly removing the keys from the steering column,
he threw them to Byron. He eyed the driver's seat. The deer was still moving, still trying to get away.
No way
was he going back in there.

But he couldn't abandon Cam.

If only he could think straight. His brain was useless. In that moment, he was picturing a cloud of small, hungry ticks hovering over the front seat. He tried to shake it off, but it was like some weird psychological hijacking brought on by his mother's lifelong vigil over the mortal threat posed by proximity to deer, which turned every suburban outing into a preparation for war.

“What are you fucking worried about, Lyme's disease?” Byron shouted. “Get in there!”

Jimmy cringed. “It's
Lyme
,” he muttered, grabbing the door handle. “Not
Lyme's
.”

“What?” Byron shouted.

“Nothing. What am I supposed to do—in the car?”

“What the fuck do you think you're supposed to do?”

As if in response, the deer gave a sudden shudder. Jimmy jumped back, stifling a scream. “I—I'm not sure . . .”

“When I give the word, put it in reverse, Jimmy. And gun it.”

Byron yanked open the trunk and threw the keys to Jimmy, who kept a wary eye on the deer as he opened the door. It was motionless now, its snout resting just below the gear shift.

As Jimmy climbed inside, the car rocked with Byron's efforts to shove stuff under the rear tires for traction.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Jimmy tried to stop himself from hyperventilating. He eyed Cam's feet, blinking back tears. He had never liked Cam, or any of the smart-ass jocks who treated the Speech Team kids like they were some kind of lower life-form. Since freshman year he had devoted a lot of time conjuring horrible fates for most of them, fates not unlike this.

In . . . Out . . .

Jimmy hadn't wanted to go on this drive. It was Byron who'd pushed the idea.
Cam
wants us to go,
Cam
says suburban parties are the best ever,
Cam
says Westchester chicks are hot for NYC guys.
Cam
wants to be friends. It would be stupid to miss a chance at détente between the worlds of sports and geekdom.

In . . .

Until this time, Jimmy couldn't imagine that Byron would be friends with a guy like Cam. Byron the potty-mouthed genius, Cam the football guy. Was this some kind of crush? Was
that
the reason for—

“Wake up, douche bag!” Byron shouted. “Now!
Go!
”

With his foot on the brake, Jimmy threw the car in reverse. The accelerator was touching the bottom of the caved-in dashboard. Carefully, he wedged his foot in and floored it.

The engine roared to life, the tires gripping the debris. As
the car lurched backward, the deer's head rose slowly off the seat with the force of the rope. Something warm spattered against the side of Jimmy's face.

“AAAGHH!” he screamed, yanking his foot away from the accelerator.

“WHAT?”
Byron cried, running around the side of the car. “Why'd you stop? We almost had it!”

“It puked on me!”

Byron shone a flashlight into the front seat. “It's not puke. It's blood.”

“Oh, great . . .” Jimmy's stomach flipped.
This couldn't be happening!

“Here. This'll protect you.” Byron was throwing something over the animal's head—a rag, a blanket, it was impossible to see. “Don't think about it, Jimmy. Just step on it! And put on your seat belt.”

Jimmy felt a lightness in his head. His eyes were crossing.
Focus.

He buckled his belt and put the car in reverse again, slipping his foot under the wreckage of the dashboard. As he floored it, the car began to move, the engine roaring. The animal's hulk rose up beside him, away from him—scraping across the bottom of the windshield, slowly receding out of the car and onto the hood.

The blanket fell off the deer's head, as the carcass finally slipped off, the car jerked backward.

SMMMMACK!

Jimmy's head whipped against the headrest. He bounced back, his chest catching the seat belt and knocking the wind out of him.

“Are you okay?” Byron cried.

“Fah—fah—” Everything was white. Jimmy struggled to breathe, his eyes slowly focusing on the image in the rearview mirror, the twisted metal of a guardrail reflecting against the taillights.

Byron was leaning in the open passenger window, training a flashlight on the dim silhouette of Cam's lifeless body, now freed from the deer. “This does not look good. . . .” he said.

“Is his chest moving?”

“I don't know! I don't think so, but I can't—” In the distance a muffled siren burst through the rain's din. Byron drew back, shutting the flashlight. “Shit! Did you call them?”

“No!” Jimmy said.

“Then how do they know?”

Jimmy thought about the red pickup. “Someone drove past us, just after the accident. Maybe they called.”

“Someone saw us?”

“This is a New York suburb. Occasionally people drive on the roads.”