How It Ends (5 page)

“The plan she's proposing seems perfectly reasonable to me,” he goes on. “No one is forcing you to use old materials that don't meet your needs, but it's only logical that you should at least look through what we have to see if there's anything worth saving . . .”

“Fine,” I say, knowing I won't find anything useful.

“And I want to see you put a genuine effort into reusing anything that might work,” Madge lectures, unable to hold back. “In fact, I plan to compare your shopping list to what's down there to make sure you're keeping up your end of the bargain.”

I glare at her before turning to my dad. “Are we done here? I'd like to be excused.”

Dad looks to Madge for approval, making my blood boil.

“She hasn't finished her dinner,” Madge says disapprovingly, “but I suppose if she clears her space and agrees to make more of an effort . . .”

I stand up before she can finish her sentence and gather my dishes with a clatter.
Make more of an effort.
What a bitch. Madge hardly even
talks
to me, except to order me around and remind me that she's in charge. She slobbers all over Sophie, giving her every little thing she asks for, and then ignores me ninety percent of the time.

Back in my room, I flop onto my bed and fumble with my headphones, pushing them into my ears and cranking up the volume on my iPod until the music is punishingly loud. Three Days Grace's “I Hate Everything About You” slams into my brain, obliterating the image of my dad letting Madge crap all over everything important to me.

I burrow under my covers and let the music wash over me until there's no more Madge or Dad or Sophie or me. Until my heart stops pounding and my brain stops screaming.
Goddamn
that art class, making me feel all inspired. I know better than to get my hopes up like that.
Stupid stupid stupid.

A Nine Inch Nails song is pulsing to an end when I finally crawl out from under the covers. I turn the music down to a less earsplitting level and switch from my angry playlist (“Madge Sucks”) to my relaxing playlist (“A World Without Madge”). Paramore's “The Only Exception” washes over me as I reach for my secret sketchbook and flip through the series I've been working on, detailing the many and varied ways Madge might meet an untimely end
.
Right after #41,
Abducted by sadistic aliens with a penchant for medical experimentation,
I start in on sketch #42:
Buried alive beneath an avalanche of second-rate art supplies.

“I know!” Annie shouted, shattering my concentration for the millionth time. “A werewolf who secretly does good deeds . . . like fighting crime. A werewolf superhero.”

“You mean, when he's not morphing into a cold-blooded killer?”

“Exactly. To make amends for his sins.” Annie pecked away at her laptop and then frowned at the screen. “That's cheesy, isn't it? I can't do cheesy.”

“A werewolf with a heart of gold? Definite cheese potential.”

Annie groaned and pushed her laptop away. “What have
you
got?”

I held up my brainstorming page for her to see. So far, all it contained was the word
Brainstorming
underlined twice.

Our assignment was to write a short story that turned an idea on its head. “Give me the unexpected,” Miss Donaghue had enthused. “Make me see the world in a whole new way.”

It had sounded exciting in English class. But trapped here in my room on a Saturday afternoon, it was becoming a nightmare.

I pulled out my laptop and opened my documents folder, scanning its contents for inspiration. I've started dozens of stories in the last year.
Started
being the operative word. I can't seem to finish any.

I stared hard at the long list of half-written documents lined up accusingly on my screen. I can't figure it out. Every teacher I've ever had has raved about my writing. I can
start
stories all day long, and they all begin with such promise. I get high off the potential of it all. There always comes a point, though, where everything falls apart and I'm powerless to put it back together.

Basically, I suck at endings.

No. That's not quite right. I'm
incapable
of endings.

“You know what we need?” Annie asked, pulling me away from my gloomy thoughts. “Retail therapy.”

I snorted and turned back to my laptop. “Yeah, right.”

“I'm serious. We need to get out of this room and clear our heads.”

I felt my shoulders tensing up. “I can't go anywhere,” I said. “This assignment is due
Monday.
That's the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you for the days-of-the-week lesson, Einstein. We still have tonight and all day tomorrow to finish. And you have to admit, we're just wasting time in here. We've been working for two hours, and all we have to show for it is a shitty werewolf idea and a blank brainstorming page.”

Annie grabbed her bag off the floor. “C'mon. Live a little! Come out of your room and step into the real world. Inspiration might be waiting for us at the mall.”

“The mall is the least inspiring place in the world,” I squeaked out unconvincingly. “And I planned to have this finished by tonight.”

“It's not due till Monday, freakshow. You need to calm your shit down. There are no bonus points for finishing a day early.”

My stomach started to churn. I don't do last-minute. I always have my assignments finished, printed, and stapled together in the front pocket of my binder at least the day before they're due.

I looked at the clock and did some quick calculations. It was two o'clock. If we left right away and made it back by four, I could still put in at least a few hours of work before bed. “You're really not worried about this at all?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “I'll pull an all-nighter if I have to. I do my best work under pressure.”

“An all-nighter?”

“You're kidding me, right? Are you telling me you've never stayed up all night to finish an assignment?”

I blinked at her, feeling the full weight of my uncoolness.

“You haven't! My God. Okay. This will be your challenge . . .”

I started shaking my head before she could even finish her sentence.

Annie put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “Breathe,” she told me. “You're starting to wig out, and I haven't even given you your mission yet.”

“I don't want a mission.”

“Oh yes you do. It's my duty as your best friend to introduce you to the joys of the slacker lifestyle. It's not like I'm making you hand in the assignment
late
or anything.”

I could feel my eyes bugging out of my head, and Annie burst out laughing. “This'll be good for you,” she said, handing me my bag. “We're going to go buy makeup we don't need, eat fried food on a stick, and then, if you're really lucky, we'll hit the bookstore.”

That perked me up. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” she said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “But the catch is, no homework for the rest of the day. I don't care if you start your assignment at the buttcrack of dawn tomorrow, but you have to promise me you won't type a single word today.”

“I will not type a single word,” I promised, smiling brightly.

“Correction. You will not
write
a single word.”

“
Ugh.
Fine. You win. But I'm calling you tomorrow when I'm in tears because I've left it till too late.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She propelled me toward the door.

“And you'll explain it to my mom if I get an incomplete because I don't finish on time.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“And—”

“Shut it, Jess.”

“Right.”

Two hours later we were at a sticky food-court table, polishing off a disgustingly fantastic bowl of cheese fries and taking quizzes from the magazines Annie bought at the pharmacy. So far, we'd learned that Annie's ideal boyfriend is a rebel, she was born to be an artist, and she's destined to live in New York City. I, on the other hand, have a geek as an ideal man, was born to be a writer, and am destined to live out my days in my hometown. I can't believe they paid someone to come up with that stuff. Although . . . it might make a good fallback plan if I flunk out of school for not finishing my homework.

I held up a limp fry coated in fluorescent-orange cheese sauce. “You know, this is the first time I've ever eaten these.”

“Shut up!”

“No, really. My mom is convinced that artificial cheese will kill brain cells or something.”

“That explains my science mark, then. I practically live on these things.”

“Let the record show that
you
are the one who brought up school on slacker day,” I pointed out.

Annie rolled her eyes. “You are a true inspiration to slackers everywhere. Clearly, the cheese sauce is doing its job.”

She picked up our tray and headed for the garbage cans. “C'mon, rebel. Let's go hit the bookstore.”

I jumped up and skipped along after her. “This is the best day
ever.
”

Or it
was
. Until we rounded the corner and I saw Courtney and Larissa sitting on a bench outside the bookstore.

I stopped in my tracks and pulled on the strap of Annie's bag. “Never mind. I . . . Let's just go.”

“Go where? What's wrong?” She followed my gaze to the benches and sighed. “Come on,” she said. “We're
going
to the bookstore.”

I put my head down and followed Annie, my heart thundering in my chest.
Please please please don't notice us.

“Hey,” Courtney called out as we passed.

“Hey,” Annie answered, slowing to a stop and smiling at Courtney. My anxiety reared up like a frightened animal, clawing away at my insides.

“You're in my science class,” Courtney said, getting up and walking slowly toward us. “The infamous Annie Miller. Tough girl from the city, right?”

Annie crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin up in the air. “And you're the infamous Courtney Williams. Queen Bee of suburbia. Right?”

My heart liquefied and my brain screamed at me to
run.
Courtney would blame me for the Queen Bee comment, I just knew it. Who else would have planted that idea in Annie's head?

Before I could make a break for the bookstore, though, Courtney
laughed.
And not a mean, mocking laugh. It was a real, genuine, appreciative laugh. “I like you,” she told Annie before turning around and heading back to the bench.

“Lucky me,” Annie muttered, looping her arm through mine and steering us into the bookstore.

I made it to the middle of the store before the dizziness hit. “Hang on,” I said, trying to sound casual. I leaned against the closest shelf and took slow, even breaths.

“What's wrong?” Annie asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “Are you freaking out?”

“No,” I scoffed, grabbing a random book off the shelf. “I just wanted to check out this book.”

“I see,” Annie said in a mock-serious voice, one side of her mouth twisting into a smile. She plucked the book from my hands and turned the cover to face me. “We're reading erotica now, are we?”

I could feel the heat radiating off my face. “I just . . . those girls don't . . . we don't get along.”

“They're just girls, Jess. You don't have to be scared of them.”

I nodded, blinking back tears. “I know.”

“But you were going to miss out on book shopping just to avoid them.”

I shrugged, willing her to stop talking about it.

“Don't do that, okay?” she said gently. “Please don't do that. You're amazing. Don't let anyone make you feel like you're not.”

I forced a smile onto my face. “I won't,” I said, wanting to believe it.

I love how Annie didn't back away from Courtney. I'd give anything to be that kind of girl, but I'm not. Whatever protective shielding girls like Annie and Courtney have, I was born without it.

I stop halfway down the stairs and hold my breath, listening hard. Nothing. The house is that kind of intense quiet that almost seems loud.

I creep down the rest of the stairs and ease into the dining room. It's two thirty in the morning and I should be asleep. That's not why I'm sneaking around the house like a criminal, though. I'm on a mission, and I don't feel like explaining myself to anyone.

I sit cross-legged on the floor and pop open the bottom door of the china cabinet. I know it's in here. A big black memory box all about me. My dad stores everything in there—school photos, report cards, drawings, and souvenirs.

My fingers close around it, and I pull it onto my lap. It's so heavy. The weight of my fifteen years.

I hear footsteps upstairs, and then the click of the bathroom door closing. I'd like to stay down here and spread everything out on the floor, but I don't want to get busted studying pictures of myself in the dead of night. I'm pretty sure that trips some kind of weirdness alarm.