This Is Where the World Ends (8 page)

T
HE
J
OURNAL
O
F
J
ANIE
V
IVIAN

Once upon a time, there were twelve princesses. No, wait. There was only one princess, and one prince. They snuck out of the house at night and danced in the moonlight. They climbed pebble mountains. They put masks over their faces and punished the wicked.

They loved each other. They loved and loved and loved, and the whole point wasn't the dancing, really, or the climbing, or the punishing.

The point was each other. They knew each other in their atoms, and the point was that they were together. They never talked about it, but they both knew what they feared. More than anything, they feared that they wouldn't have each other someday.

And without each other, there wouldn't be much of a point at all, would there?

Regionals! Thank you, universe, because I didn't have a non-regionals backup plan. We're at the two-week mark, and everything is perfectly on schedule. We'll take the bus to regionals and we will win, and on the way back, I'll get one of the wrestlers to take the fan bus so I can sneak on to theirs. Ander and I will curl up in a ripped bus seat that smells like snotty kindergarteners and cuddle all the way home.

Piper and I squish into a seat and she takes out her iPod and hands me an earbud. There's another thing I like about Piper: she has great music. I trust people with great music.

“Hey, Pipes!” someone calls from the back of the bus. “Do you know that Wes has one of your bras in his backpack?”

A lot of girls hate Piper, probably because she leaves her bras lying around in backpacks. There was something about her going out with a senior during our freshman
year, and then she cheated on him with another senior, and by the end of the year she'd had sex with half the senior class, which wasn't true. Piper's hymen is more intact than mine is, probably. But Piper is very pretty and she's also very aware of it, and people just don't seem to like her very much.

But I like her.

And people like me.

The boys start using her bra as a slingshot, and I think about telling them that bras are freaking expensive, but Piper just keeps playing a game on her phone, and I figure that if she doesn't care, I don't need to worry, either. Under Piper's amazing playlist, the game plinks away.

“Hey, Pipes,” I say a few miles later. “How's Wes?”

“Stupid,” she says. “Like usual. We went camping last week, though. Having sex in a tent? Not fun.”

Okay, so maybe not quite as intact as mine.

She sighs and takes out her earbud and twists it around her finger. “And then he told me that he just wants to be friends with benefits. Who even says that? ‘Friends with benefits'? He can't just say ‘hook up' like a normal person? He's a tool. And now my mom wants to get me on the pill, but her gyno is such a freak, you know? And she doesn't want me to go anywhere else.”

I didn't, really, because my parents would never have let me go camping with
Micah
, let alone Ander.

“Not fun?” I asked. “Not at all?”

“Well, more fun than this is going to be.”

I elbow her, harder than I probably need to. “Stop stomping on my dreams,” I say. “This is going to be fabulous. Ander in a skintight uniform all over another hot guy? Um,
yes
.”

She puts the earbud back in. “Just wait.”

Oh.

Okay, I see.

Wrestling is really gross. And . . . a little terrifying? All I can really see is a tangle of arms and butting heads, and Piper is laughing at my expression as I lean back as far as I can. The sweat is
flying
. My body is practically between the legs of the guy behind me, but he doesn't really seem to mind.

Ander is on top, on the bottom, on the ground, on his knees, back on his feet, slammed on the ground again, clawing back up. Ander is
strong
, muscles, clenched arms flashing in a way that I thought would be hot but actually makes me wonder if I want to cuddle with him at all, if it's totally completely one hundred percent safe. He's brutal, hands around sweat-slicked shoulders, arms around neck—
is he supposed to do that?
Do people die at these things? Are there ever any audience casualties?

“Oh my god oh my god
ohmygod
,” I say, as the other guy rams his shoulder into Ander's chest and they go flying, literally flying, and hit the floor so hard I feel it in the risers. Piper looks bored.

“I told you,” she said. “I said we should go to Starbucks, but nope.”

The ref does the whole floor-slapping thing and then everyone (not us) is cheering, so I guess that means it's over. I catch sight of Ander's face when he finally peels it off the ground, and I know it's over.

He's not going to state. He's not getting his scholarship.

He stumbles toward the risers like he barely remembers he has feet. He rips off his helmet and his blond angel hair is plastered tight to his scalp. I'm moving before I know why, running down the rickety stairs and calling his name.

He stumbles right into my arms, and he clutches the back of my (favorite, now sweaty) dress and his hot, hot tears bleed through the fabric and right into my heart. He smells rancid, but I hug him tight around his perfectly narrow hips and tell him that it'll be all right, all right, all right. All right?

“All right,” he answers. All right.

And then he kisses me.

I am drowning in saltwater, burning tears and hotter sweat, and the crowd—which had been so terribly quiet
after he lost, all three fan buses of people gone dead silent—erupts,
howls
.

We are the center of the universe.

Then he breaks off and rests his head on my shoulder for a moment before he pulls his soaked shirt over his head and walks off to the locker room. I am wet where his saturated skin brushed me, but I don't care. My fingers are still on my lips, my lips on fire, and the crowd is still cheering for us, and Piper laughs from the sidelines and squirts me with a water bottle. I watch Ander go and imagine him in charcoal: bone and muscle and salt and sweat. I memorize him walking away, head bent and shoulders curved and vulnerability radiating like angel wings.

“I love you, Ander Cameron,” I whisper, trying them on my tongue.

They taste like ice. They melt in my mouth and disappear. Stomach butterflies and air.

I thought they would taste more like peppers and chocolate and pop rocks, like putting a Mento in your mouth and washing it down with Diet Coke. I thought it would be bubbles and breath and heat and spinning.

But they're words, little moments, and they pass.

That's okay. That's what moments do. And I want to remember moments, bright and perfect, because you're allowed to do that. You're allowed to Photoshop. You're
allowed to crop things like the way Ander held me too tightly, how he held my wrists instead of my hands, how it never occurred to him that I didn't want our first kiss to be like that.

Besides, kissing a sweaty Ander in front of a crowd trumps phase ten ice cream kisses on the swing set anyway, right?

I'm pushing myself toward yes when I see Dewey in the stands, and I do a double take when I see Micah with him. Oh, right, I told him he should come. I didn't really think he would. His eyes are on mine and they're wide, wide, wide.

Oh, god.

He mutters something to Dewey and then he's coming down the bleachers, and I'm all frowny and awkward trying to figure out what to say to him. What? Yes, I know that Micah is in love with me. Of course I know. I will be in love with him someday too. That's obvious. We're predestined. But can't that wait? Can't I just kiss my sweaty scary angel boy in the meantime?

Oh. He wasn't even coming for me. He's leaving the gym.

I look around to make sure no one's watching, and then I follow. “Micah,” I call, and I finally catch him a few hallways down, grabbing on to his shirttail and pulling him to a stop. He doesn't turn around.

“I can't believe you actually came,” I say to his back.

He shrugs. “Dewey wanted to. Same reason you did, probably. Find some stupid wrestler to hook up with.”

I swell. “I'm not
hooking up
with Ander. I have a plan! We're perfect.”

He laughs. It's not a nice laugh. “Not the word I'd use.”

“Yeah? What word would you use? Awkward? Oh, wait. That's you.”

Too far? Too far.

“Oh, I don't know.” He totally does. “How about shitty, like everyone you've ever gone out with? Conceited? Shallow?”

My mouth falls open. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you really going to pull that shit? You want to talk about shallow, Micah? Why are you here with Dewey? It's not like you actually like him. It's not like you two are even decent people to each other most of the time. You came with Dewey because you know he's in love with you, and you need that, don't you? You're so desperate to feel wanted that—”

My throat closes. I blink, rapidly, but what's the point? Micah probably felt my tears before I did.

He walks away, and I let him go.

It was Dewey that found me. He came over to use my Xbox and I wasn't there. I guess he took me to the hospital, where they said things like nervous breakdown on top of selective retrograde amnesia. They ask me over and over again what I was doing, and I don't know. I don't, I don't know.

Dad took me out of school and put me in therapy. I was supposed to go to therapy anyway, but I told him I could manage. I didn't need to. We couldn't afford it. We still can't, really, but Dad is insistent, which he rarely is.

I don't know how many times I tell him that I wasn't trying to kill myself. I don't know what I was doing. It doesn't matter. I went to piss yesterday and caught my dad counting my pills.

I don't get it. Why me?

Why the fuck is this happening to me?

It's Tuesday, so we're going to therapy again. Whatever is playing on the radio is shit, but I don't change it. My dad drives with his shoulders up to his ears, but he doesn't change it either. I guess it's better than driving in silence. We don't really remember how to talk to each other.

“How's the online school going?” he tries at one point.

“Shitty,” I say. “Not that that's any different than ever.”

On the first day, Dewey skipped school with me. We ordered pizza and played Metatron for fifteen hours straight. I woke up with a piece of pizza on my chest and a penis drawn on my upper lip. I picked up my controller again and died another sixty-seven times. I started jumping off bridges around level seventeen. There were too many bridges.

Dad gives a strained laugh. “That bad, huh?”

I shrug, and count the trees as they go by.

I get to ten, but that can't be right.

“You started over a few times,” my dad says.

I guess I must have.

Dad walks me into the building and past the receptionist and hands me over to Dr. Taser, whose name is actually Taaser and pronounced something like “tosser.” I pretend not to remember when she tries to remind me.

“Micah!” she says as I walk in. She looks like antiseptic
and smells like too much perfume. My dad stands in the doorway and they talk in low voices about me, and I sit on the couch.

“He's struggling today,” I hear my dad say. “It's been a hard week.”

They notice me watching. My dad leaves, and Dr. Taser closes the door.

“Do you need anything, Micah?” she asks. Her teeth are too white. “Water? Coffee?”

“I'm fine,” I say.

“All right, then,” she says. She's still smiling. I don't think I've ever seen her without a smile. “So tell me about—”

“My week was fine,” I say. I count the ceiling tiles while I talk. Twenty down, thirteen across. I think. “I like my new online classes. Yes, I think it helps me relax to not be in public education eight hours a day. Yes, I know that my dad wants to be there for me more but can't. Yes, I know you think Dewey is a great friend. Yes, I know where I am. Yes, I know I will be okay.”

She flounders. That was supposed to take the entire hour. This is my third session, but she's predictable as hell. How do you feel today? How do you feel right now? How do you fucking feel?

She clears her throat and taps something into her iPad. “I'm glad to hear that, Micah. Do you think you might
want to talk more about Janie today?”

Janie? Janie is sprawled on the couch, pushing me into the armrest. Her head is in my lap and her hair spills everywhere. I am careful not to touch it. Her eyes are almost colorless and they bore into mine.

“No,” I say.

“Maybe we can start with something easy? A happy memory. You must have so many of those.”

“So many,” Janie echoes. Her hand traces slow circles on my kneecap. “Us. You and me, Micah. You and me.”

I swallow. “Stop,” I whisper. “Stop.”

I know she isn't here. I know she isn't real.

And yet her fingertip on my knee, shifting and feather light, is the only thing that keeps me grounded.

“A happy memory, Micah,” Dr. Taser prompts.

“The old mental hospital,” Janie whispers. She sits up and places her lips by my ear. Her breath is warm in my hair. “Veet in Carson Eber's shampoo. Condom balloons in Stephen Mackelry's locker. Counting rocks at the Metaphor. Come on, Micah. You can choose anything.”

Rocks at the Metaphor.

Janie counting the rocks at the Metaphor because she was sure they were disappearing. Counting, counting. Ten, over and over again. Rows of ten.

I remember the rest.

Four weeks and two days before our birthday. It was September 10. We went on a Wednesday that week—I don't remember why. Her parents kept texting her to go home, and she couldn't wait until she was eighteen and didn't have to listen. Four weeks and two days.

“I think the Metaphor is getting smaller,” she said, and sat up. Her hair brushed my wrist. “I'm sure, Micah. We have to count the rocks. And again next week. And if there's less next week, we'll know.”

She walked to the Metaphor and sat at its base. She looked up and her face looked like prayer for a moment before she began to count.

“One,” she said, putting one aside. “The number of balls Hitler had.”

“Ball,” I corrected. “And I don't think that's actually true.”

“It doesn't matter if it's true,” she said. “People believe it. That's all that matters. Two. The number of times you've actually let me drive you somewhere. I can't believe you're walking back. Just let me drive you.”

“Um, no,” I said. “I'm not getting into your car.”

“Why? I have candy!”

“I don't want to die, that's why. Janie, you were supposed to be driving slow and you still almost killed a fourth
grader just now. I'm not getting in your car.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Your loss. Are you going to help me count or what?”

I kind of just wanted to lie there, but then she threw a pebble at my forehead and said, “Count!” So I rubbed my forehead and sat up, and picked up a rock.

“Three,” I said. “Um. Uh. Three. The number of, um, wishes in a lamp?”

“God, Micah, you're so lame,” she said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

She started to reach for a rock, but she stopped when I said that. Her head tilted to the left, just a bit. She stared at me for a long moment, and then she sucked half of her lip into her mouth and chewed on it before she said, “You're not really, you know.”

“Jeez, Janie, I was just kidding—”

“You're not lame. You're—you're, just, like, a decent human being, you know?”

“Wow,” I say. “High praise right there.”

“No, I mean . . .” She huffed out a breath. “Like most people aren't, you know? Not really. They just pretend when they're at school and in public, but they're not actually good. They just want people to think they are. But you—you just are. You actually are.”

I scratched my head so she couldn't see that I was
blushing. “Okay, so are you going to count the rocks or what?”

And the moment passed. But I kept thinking about it.

She threw another rock at me. “Six. The number of pieces of pizza I ate the first time we ordered here,” she said.

“You skipped four and five.”

“I threw two at you.” She threw another one. It bounced off the rim of my glasses. “There. Now you have to start at eight.”

“Okay,” I said. “Eight. The number of pieces I ate before I threw up.”

“Oh, god, don't talk about it. Don't don't don't.”

“Nine,” I said, “the number of seagulls that showed up to eat it.”

“Micah, stop.
I'm
going to throw up.”

She stopped asking me to help after that. She put them in rows of ten, squares of a hundred. She got to six hundred before she gave up. We stretched out and she fell asleep and her hair smelled of lemons and the sun burned us bright, and I thought about what she said. That I was a good person. That she was not.

“Micah? Micah, just breathe for me, okay? It's all right.”

Fingers on my knee, circling. Hands on my back, patting. Here, now. I take a deep breath and blink. Dr. Taser
stands over me, and she is no longer smiling.

“Sorry,” I say. “I'm sorry. I'm fine. I know where I am. I'm in your office, and I'm fine.”

Janie traces letters on my knee.

LIAR

T
HE
J
OURNAL
O
F
J
ANIE
V
IVIAN

Once upon a time, there was a princess, and she had a plan. She was going to a ball. She planned for weeks and weeks—she made a dress and borrowed a carriage and found a back door that no one looked after. Sometimes things went wrong, but there were always miracles, trees that gave her golden dresses and fairy godmothers who gave her glass shoes.

On the night of the ball, the princess sneaked out of the house and went to the castle, where there were beautiful ladies and stacks of cakes and lots and lots of vodka. There was also a prince made of angel parts and perfect, perfect teeth.

The prince took her hand and they danced the night away. Everyone cheered for them.

There was only one part of her plan that could not be fixed by fairy godmothers or
magic trees. She had to leave by midnight, or things would start going wrong. She watched the clock all night and counted the minutes, but when the clock struck twelve, the prince spun her in a circle and kissed her hard.

She let him. She ignored whatever timeline she had in mind because he was a prince made of angel parts, and things couldn't go too wrong around him.

Right?